Not some unknown correspondent’s. Not the rounded, simple scrawl of a country girl writing home to family. This was an elegant, disciplined hand, one instructed by a master—every stroke deliberate, every curve precise. A handwriting he had seen before—on official documents, invitations, correspondence between the highest of society.
Lady Elizabeth Montclair’s handwriting.
A muscle tightened in his jaw, his grip unconsciously stiffening around the letter. He turned sharply to the courier. “Where did you get this?”
The man straightened slightly, boots scuffing the gravel as he answered. “Left at the Meryton post, sir. No sender. I was just told to bring it to Longbourn.”
No sender.
Darcy exhaled slowly, the weight of those two words pressing heavily against his ribs. It should not be here. No one in Hertfordshire was supposed to have any connection to Lady Elizabeth Montclair, and no one outside Hertfordshire knew anything about “Elizabeth Bennet.”
And yet, here the letter was.
Elizabeth took a step forward, frowning. “It is just a letter.”
Before Darcy could reply, Jane Bennet’s voice broke in, gentle but curious. “Is something the matter?”
Darcy turned sharply, schooling his expression into something impassive. “No, Miss Bennet.” His voice was steady, clipped. “Only a minor confusion.”
The lady still looked uncertain, but Bingley merely smiled. “Come, Miss Bennet,” he said lightly, offering his arm. “I believe I promised your father a rematch at chess before we depart. We ought not keep him waiting.”
She hesitated for only a moment before allowing herself to be led inside, her soft murmur of agreement fading as they stepped through the doorway.
Darcy turned back to Elizabeth the moment they were alone, his tone flat and precise. “No,Lady Elizabeth, it is not ‘just a letter.’”
She hesitated, her brow knitting together in confusion, but Darcy barely noticed. The slow churn of anger in his chest burned too hot, too immediate.
His fingers curled tightly around the letter, the paper crinkling under the force of his grip. “Apparently,” he said, his voice low and biting, “you wrote to someone, for the handwriting is yours.”
Elizabeth went very still.
He did not stop. Could not.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his tone cold and cutting. “Was I unclear when I told you that you could not—mustnot—draw attention to yourself?”
Her eyes flashed, her spine stiffening. “I hardly think a letter—”
“You hardly think at all!” The words snapped out before he could stop them, his fury overriding any sense of caution.
Elizabeth’s nostrils flared, her chin lifting in immediate defiance, but Darcy refused to back down. His grip tightened around the letter before he thrust it toward her, forcing her to take it.
“Who was it?” he ground out. “Towhomdid you write?”
Her lips parted, as if weighing whether to tell him at all, but his dark stare pinned her in place. Finally, she exhaled sharply, barely above a whisper. “Charlotte.”
Darcy nearly cursed aloud.
Of course. Lady Charlotte Wrexham. One of Elizabeth’s closest companions—and the fact that he knew this smote all that was left of his pride. Blast him that he even knew Lady Elizabeth’s inner circles, but the fact that she had written tothat particularfriend—a woman well-connected enough that letters to and from her would surely be noted!
He raked a hand through his hair, his pulse pounding in his temple. “And you thought that wise?”
Elizabeth squared her shoulders, her chin tilting just so—a telltale sign that she was about to say something insufferably flippant. “I… I was so homesick! And I did not write to my father or my mother—you told me I should not, so I did not. I thought it safe enough to write to Charlotte, especially if I sent it by way of a different—”
“Safe?” His voice dropped, rough with frustration. “This was intercepted, opened, and returned to you. How does that strike you as safe?”
The color drained slightly from her face.
At last.
