Darcy ignored the way his pulse reacted to those words. He turned sharply toward the door. “It cannot be too soon.”
Elizabeth pressed her earto the door, straining to hear anything beyond the thick wood. Silence. No footsteps, no voices. She was not sure if that was good or bad.
She turned back to the window. It was small, but the latch was old, and with a sharp twist and a push, the frame gave way with a reluctant creak. Cold air drifted in, carrying the faint scent of the Thames.
Leaning out, she took in the alley below. A narrow space between buildings, cluttered with crates and barrels, the ground uneven with patches of damp stone. The drop was high—not impossible, but risky. If she lowered herself carefully, she might manage without injury. Or she might break her neck.
Elizabeth pulled herself onto the sill, gripping the edge. Her skirts caught against the frame, and she struggled to free them without losing balance. She was shifting her weight to bring her feet around when the door burst open.
She had just enough time to twist toward the sound before a strong hand seized the back of her gown. Elizabeth gasped as she was yanked backward, her feet slipping from the sill as her gown made a ripping sound. She tumbled ungracefully onto the wooden floor, barely catching herself before her head struck the boards.
“Little fool,” a rough voice muttered above her.
She scrambled upright, shoving her skirts down to cover her legs just as the tall man with the scar loomed over her. He glared down, his mouth curled into something that was neither a smirk nor a sneer, but something in between.
“Thought you’d climb out, did you?” he said.
Elizabeth straightened her shoulders, ignoring the sting in her palms from her fall. “Can you blame me?”
His eyes flickered with something—amusement, perhaps—but it was gone in an instant. “You ought to be grateful we found you before you did something you would regret.”
Elizabeth scoffed. “Oh, I am positively overwhelmed with gratitude.”
Before he could respond, the door creaked again. A new figure stepped inside.
Elizabeth barely had to glance at him to know he was the one truly in charge. His clothes were finer, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested control. He did not look at the scarred man, nor did he acknowledge him. His attention was solely on Elizabeth.
She lifted her chin.
“You must forgive my associates,” he said. “They lack the refinement required for more… civilized conversations.”
Elizabeth folded her arms. “A pity you felt the need for their company, then.”
Something flickered in his eyes—interest, perhaps. He took a step closer, studying her as though weighing his approach. “You are an interesting creature, Miss Bennet.”
“Am I?” she asked dryly. “Well, that is a relief. I should hate to be a dull hostage.”
He chuckled. “Clever.”
Elizabeth did not respond.
He did not speak again immediately, but instead moved toward a small writing desk against the far wall. With an air of casual ownership, he picked up a stray quill and twirledit between his fingers. “I will admit,” he said after a moment, “this is not how I anticipated our introduction.”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “Do forgive me. Had I known we had an appointment, I would have dressed accordingly.”
His lips quirked slightly. “Tell me, Miss Bennet,” he said, setting the quill down. “Are you aware of what your presence here signifies?”
“I assume you mean to tell me.”
His gaze sharpened slightly. “You are either very foolish or very good at pretending.”
“Why not both?”
He chuckled again, though there was little humor in it.
Elizabeth held his stare, refusing to flinch. “What do you want from me?”
There was a long silence before he answered. “I want to know,” he murmured, “what you have told Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
