Darcy’s gaze flickered up.
“I have heard whispers,” the prince said, leaning forward slightly, “that this little affair is not as simple as it seems.”
Darcy blinked.
“Oh, do not look at me like that.” The prince took a lazy sip of brandy. “I care not for your delicate sense of discretion. I have been told there is more afoot. And while I am perfectly content to allow our dear ministers to pat themselves on the back for swift and decisive action, I would be remiss—would I not?—if I allowed my own safety to be so thoughtlessly assumed.”
He set the glass down with a sharp clink. “Because, you see, my dear fellow, when prime ministers start dropping dead, it does tend to make one wonder—who might be next?”
Darcy said nothing. He had spent too many years in the shadows of government affairs to entertain rumors. The assassination had been brutal, certainly—but it was not unusual for men to seek vengeance for perceived injustices. Bellingham had a motive. An old grievance. He would be swiftly tried and condemned.
The matter was settled.
“Your Highness,” Darcy said at last, his tone deliberate and just skirting on the edge of patronizing, “it is highly unlikely that there is any truth to these whispers.”
The prince scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, well, that is a relief! Darcy has decided, so we may all rest easy.” He gestured wildly toward the door. “Shall I call for a scribe? Shall we have it written into law?”
Darcy did not flinch.
The prince sighed with his usual theatrical flair. “Come, come, man. I care not for your reputation in the Home Office. I care not for your distinguished sense of principle. I care only that a man has been shot dead and someone has whispered in my ear that perhaps—perhaps!—there is more to it.” He fixed Darcy with a shrewd look. “And that, my dear fellow, is where you come in.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, weighing his options. He had no desire to involve himself in a fruitless hunt for phantoms. But neither did he think the prince was going to allow him a choice.
So—he might as well gain something for the trouble.
He leaned back slightly, his tone carefully deliberate. “Perhaps Your Highness might also reconsider my petition.”
The prince stilled. Then, with exaggerated casualness, he reached for his brandy. “My dear fellow,” he said airily, “I have no earthly idea what you are talking about.”
Darcy’s mouth twitched. “Your Highness is mistaken. You know precisely what I am talking about.”
The prince sighed heavily, tilting his head back against the chair. “Must we discuss such dreary matters? The lands were transferred by royal grant, quite aboveboard, quite proper. Would you have me undo the will of a reigning monarch?”
Darcy raised a brow.
The prince rolled his eyes again, then sat forward, dropping the act. “You are insufferable.”
Darcy inclined his head. “And yet, Your Highness summoned me.”
The Prince groaned. “Very well! I shall take your tedious little matter under consideration.”
“A most gracious concession,” Darcy said dryly.
The prince waved him away. “Yes, yes, I am a beacon of mercy. Off with you. Do whatever it is you do.”
Darcy rose, inclining his head. “Then I, too, shall take your matter under consideration.”
“You are most tiresome, Darcy.”
Darcy smiled thinly. “Your Highness may consider it a mutual affliction.”
Chapter Three
London, May 14, 1812
Elizabethwasnotexpectinga summons from the Duchess of Wrexham.
When the footman arrived with the note, she had been in the morning room, feigning interest in a book of poetry while half-listening to the voices drifting in from the study. Her father was at home today, which meant the house had a faintly altered air—not quite busy, but attentive, as if the very walls knew they ought to behave in the presence of their master.
