Elizabeth stood quickly. “Your Grace—”
The duchess turned, and for the first time, her expression softened.
“Do not worry, Elizabeth. The Prince has a rather long arm.”
White’s, London—May 13, 1812
FitzwilliamDarcyhadalwaysknown his place in the world.
He had been raised to understand the nuances of power—who wielded it, who sought it, and who would destroy themselves in its pursuit. He had been taught the art of caution, the value of discretion, and the wisdom of never reaching too high.
Yet here he was. Being shown back into the most private of rooms of White’s, about to speak with one of those men of power.
He had arrived in London scarcely an hour ago, having risen at dawn to bid farewell to Netherfield after only one day. The express had been cryptic, but Darcy was not a man to ignore such messages—especially when they directed him to White’s.
And he was not a man to walk into such a meeting blind. He had collected a broadsheet at the coaching inn, skimming the headlines over a quick meal.
The Prime Minister had been shot.
That, at least, he understood.
But the summons had offered nothing further. No details, no explanation—only a time, a place, and an unspoken command to appear. It had come with no official insignia, no government seal—yet upon his arrival, he had been taken up the back stairs, shown into a private room, and told to wait.
And Darcy had waited. He had no illusions about why he had been called.
He was useful.
He was discreet.
And—perhaps most importantly—he owed no man anything.
That last part made him valuable. Because it meant he could not be bought.
When the door finally opened, it was not some minister or private secretary who waited on him, but the Prince Regent himself.
Darcy, much to his own satisfaction, did not visibly react, though it was rather a long pause before he entered the room fully.
The prince was a large man, lavishly dressed in a blue coat embroidered with gold, a jeweled snuffbox in one hand, a half-drained glass of brandy in the other. He carried himself with the casual arrogance of a man who had never been denied anything of importance.
“Ah, there you are, Darcy.” The prince waved vaguely in his direction as he crossed the room. “I wondered if you would make me wait. But no, here you are, like a good little soldier. Most commendable.”
Darcy inclined his head politely, but said nothing.
The prince sighed and lowered himself into a chair with great theatrical effort, as though the very act of sitting were a burden upon his person.
“You are aware, of course,” he drawled, reaching for the decanter with a watery sniff, “that our dear Mr. Perceval is now quite dead.”
Darcy nodded once. “I saw the broadsheets.”
“Ah, good! Good, good.” The prince poured himself another glass, swirling it absently. “Then you are also aware that the trial proceeds even as we speak. A fine, efficient bit of justice, is it not? Shoot a prime minister on Monday, be sentenced to death by Friday. We shall see it done.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “’Twill set a most delightful precedent.”
Darcy remained silent.
The prince sighed again, studying him over the rim of his glass. “Tell me, my dear fellow—what do you make of it?”
Darcy hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “It seems… remarkably swift. Efficient. Tidy, Your Highness.”
“Oh, quite. Which is why I am concerned.”
