He watched as her gaze lowered to the page in her hands, scanning the seal, the rough folds, the telltale creases of a message that had been tampered with. The moment she understood it, a sharp breath escaped her lips. Her hands trembled—only slightly, but enough.
Darcy did not move.
He knew that look. He had seen it before in men who realized—too late—that their position on the battlefield was compromised. That the safe ground they had relied on was an illusion. Whoever had intercepted her letter had done so deliberately. And now, they had sent it back.
Not as a mistake.
As a warning. Someone wanted her shaken… wanted her to run.
His anger did not dissipate. It only coiled tighter, heavier. “You should get inside,” he said stiffly.
Elizabeth swallowed, then nodded once.
Darcy turned toward the house, his posture rigid, his thoughts already racing ahead.
Someone had her in their sights. Someone who had taken the time to intercept her correspondence, to ensure she understood she was not hidden. Not forgotten.
They knew exactly where she was.
ThedoortoMr.Bennet’s library closed with a gentle click, but the sound echoed in Elizabeth’s chest like a thunderclap.
She had always liked this room. It had reminded her of a more homey version of her father’s study—quiet, comfortably cluttered, filled with shelves that smelled of leather and paper and thought. But now, it felt entirely foreign. Mr. Bennet stood behind his desk, the letter she wrote to Charlotte held loosely in his hand. Darcy hovered nearby, arms folded, gaze simmering with wrath.
Elizabeth had never felt so small.
“I believe,” Mr. Bennet said slowly, “that I have just learned more about my summer guest in five minutes than in the entire length of her stay.”
His voice was deceptively mild, but the look in his eyes was not.
Elizabeth forced herself to meet it. “I am sorry.”
“Indeed?” he said, raising a brow. “And which part, precisely, are you sorry for? Writing a letter that placed us all at risk? Or failing to mention that you were present for the murder of the Prime Minister?”
She flinched.
Darcy remained silent. He had not said a word since they entered the room. But Elizabeth could feel his disapproval, sharp and hot like the tip of a sword against the back of her neck.
Mr. Bennet gave a short sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Let me see if I have this correct. You were present in the House of Commons the day of the assassination, you fled the city under royal protection—in the form of Mr. Darcy here, which I have yet to understand—your maid was likely abducted or worse, and someone has now intercepted your letter and sent it back to you as a warning.”
Elizabeth lowered her gaze. “Yes.”
“Splendid.” He gave a dry chuckle, devoid of humor. “And here I thought the greatest danger to Longbourn this summer would be Lydia’s penchant for impetuous officers.”
“I never meant—”
“I do not care what you meant.” The words landed like a blow. Mr. Bennet’s voice remained quiet, but each syllable was edged with something Elizabeth had not expected: real anger. “What matters is what you have done. Your own house was burned. Is mine next?”
She sniffed once, staring at the floor. There was nothing else to say.
“I let you into this house because I trusted my friend.” He looked toward Darcy. “And I trusted that you would not bring ruin to my daughters’ doorstep.”
Elizabeth’s throat burned. She had never felt shame like this before. Not even when her father scolded her. Not even when the Queen’s men first whisked her away under armed escort. This was different.
This mattered.
“I am sorry,” she said again, the words low and unsteady. “Truly.”
Mr. Bennet stared at her for a long moment, then turned to Darcy. “What now? Do you intend to take her elsewhere?”
