Darcy’s voice was quiet. “I know.”
Another beat of silence passed.
Then Bingley muttered, “Still, I rather wish I had struck the man. Just once. For sport.”
That earned the faintest twitch of a smile from Darcy. “You are not alone in that.”
“Drink your brandy,” Bingley added, “before it evaporates just to spite you.”
Darcy lifted the glass. It did not steady his pulse. But it helped. Slightly.
May 26, 1812
Themorningsuncastlong shadows across the manicured lawns of Netherfield as Darcy stood near the window, a letter trembling slightly in his grasp. The elegant script on the envelope was unfamiliar, but the contents within were unmistakably urgent.
“Mr. Darcy,”it began,“I trust this letter finds you well. I have come across information regarding the payments to Bellingham that you inquired about. It is imperative that we discuss this matter in person. Please meet me at the Red Lion Inn in Meryton at your earliest convenience. Discretion is advised.”
The letter was signed simply,“A Concerned Friend.”
Bold. Terribly bold. Or desperate.
Darcy’s brow furrowed. He had spent years delving into the murky depths of corruption, but this was the first time someone had reached out to him so directly—and so mysteriously. The timing was suspect, especially given recent events.
He folded the letter meticulously and slipped it into his coat pocket. Turning from the window, he found Bingley observing him with a mix of curiosity and concern.
“Another anonymous missive?” Bingley inquired, his tone laced with forced levity. He was seated at the small breakfast table, a half-eaten piece of toast forgotten on his plate, his eyes flicking between Darcy and the sealed letter in his hand.
“Something of the sort.” He did not bother to sit, merely stood at the window, scanning the words again with narrowed eyes. “A potential lead on the Bellingham matter.”
Bingley’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he set it down, his expression hardening. “The Bellingham matter,” he echoed. “Do you mean the fellow who shot Perceval? Darcy, is that what you’ve been chasing all this time?”
“Among other things. I shall be going for a ride later, alone.”
Bingley exhaled sharply. “Well, that explains a good deal.” He leaned back in his chair, frowning. “You are not working on a typical tea smuggling inquiry, are you? This is not merely corruption or bookkeeping trickery.”
Darcy turned to face him fully. “It was never about smuggling. Not truly.”
Bingley stood. “Then what, Darcy? Political assassination? Treason?”
Darcy gave him a long look.
Bingley ran a hand through his hair. “And you’re going to meet this anonymous source alone?”
“I must,” Darcy said. “If there’s a trail, it’s gone cold in London. But this—” he tapped his coat pocket lightly, “—this may be something.”
Bingley looked stricken. “You cannot go unarmed into this. If they knew where…” He stopped and cleared his throat. “A certain… person… was—”
“I am not bringing her into it,” Darcy snapped, then instantly regretted the sharpness.
Bingley blinked, startled not by the words, but by the tone.
“Apologies,” Darcy muttered. “This must be handled delicately. Quietly. Any attention could ruin the lead.”
Bingley gave a low whistle. “Darcy, if you are right… you are hunting something far more dangerous than stolen banknotes.”
Darcy nodded once, grimly. “Which is why I cannot afford to miss this meeting.”
“And which is why you bloody well should not go alone,” Bingley said. “At least take a weapon. Or someone you trust. Do not be a martyr.”
