No. She knew better.
He had gone out of his way for her too many times. The key, the letter, the election, even something as simple as watching over her at a ball. It had not all been politics. Some of it had been something else.
And she—
She had been blind to it. Or perhaps she had not wanted to see.
Because, somewhere in the past few weeks, she had forgot to pretend. She had let her guard slip. Somewhere in the midst of all the careful lies, she had fallen hopelessly, foolishly in love with him.
And how absurd was that?
Even if she survived this, even if she saw him again, nothing could come of it. He was Fitzwilliam Darcy, heir to Pemberley, nephew of an earl, future MP. She was a gentleman’s daughter, but just barely—with no fortune, no position, no family connections to speak of, and now, a black mark on her name that had nothing to do with decency. Their attachment—if he even felt one—had always been an illusion, a necessary performance for the benefit of the public.
But how she wished she could have told him.
Even once. Even in jest. Even as a foolish, whispered confession in the safety of his arms while they danced.
Her fingers loosened. Her head dipped slightly to the side, her body sagging against the cold wood.
She would just rest.
Just for a moment.
Her breathing slowed. The pounding in her skull dulled, slipping into the background like the fading echoes of the sea.
And then—nothing.
The wind howled offthe river as they approached the warehouse district. The buildings loomed like great hulking beasts, their skeletal frames draped in mist. The lantern Richard carried swung slightly, casting shifting shadows against the damp stone.
“We cannot go in blind,” Richard murmured.
Darcy clenched his jaw. “We do not have time to be cautious.”
“We do not have time to be reckless either.”
Gardiner, who had been silent for much of the journey, suddenly spoke. “There is an entrance on the south side. Smugglers always have a back way—everyone knows but no one dares go there. That is where we should start.”
They made their way carefully through the darkened alleyways, their footfalls muffled by the damp ground. As they neared the warehouse, Richard motioned for them to stop. A rusted chain and padlock secured the front, but Richard raised his pistol and motioned to Darcy.
“I suppose this is where that key of yours comes in handy.”
Darcy reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the key Elizabeth had first shown him. He had turned it over in his hands a dozen times, tracing the worn edges, wondering what it might unlock. And now, standing before this door, a sense of grim certainty settled over him. He slid the key into the lock. A faint click echoed in the stillness.
Darcy exhaled sharply. “We are in.”
Richard nodded and made a cupping motion to his ear, then shook his head. Darcy strained his ears. Silence.
Too much silence.
He exchanged a look with Richard, who reached for the pistol holstered at his side. “Something is wrong. There should be dockworkers around, even at this hour. Something spooked them.”
“Well, your father hired half the Bow Street Runners in London, and your militia friends are out in force, as well,” Darcy murmured.
“Gardiner raised a hand to point. "Movement. There.”
Darcy did not need to be told twice. He moved swiftly, pressing his back against the wooden slats of the warehouse wall. Richard nodded to Gardiner, who held up a lantern just enough to illuminate the edge of a second doorway. It was slightly ajar.
“Not locked?” Gardiner whispered.
