“I trust you,” Darcy said after a pause. “But I need you here. And if anything happens to me, you must protect…her. Trust only Fitzwilliam.”
Bingley’s face sobered at that. He nodded once. “Then promise me you’ll return.”
Darcy hesitated at the door, just briefly, then gave a single nod.
“I always do.”
Laterthatafternoon,undera sky thick with the promise of a late spring thunderstorm, Darcy made his way toward the Red Lion Inn—a modest, half-timbered establishment nestled at the edge of Meryton. The sign swung slightly in the wind, its creaking hinges drowned out by the chatter from within.
Inside, the inn was dim and smoky, crowded with the usual mix of laborers, tradesmen, and travelers. The scent of some sort of hot pottage clung to the air, mingled with the bitterness of spilled ale and sweating men. Darcy paused in the entryway, letting his eyes adjust to the low light as he scanned the crowded room.
His gaze landed first on a man seated by the hearth, nursing a tankard and saying nothing. Broad-shouldered, with a deep scar trailing one side of his neck. His coat was travel-stained, but of good cut. He was out of place—too alert, too still. Darcy’s attention lingered for a breath too long.
Then the man beside him laughed, and the stranger turned to clap him on the shoulder. “Same fool stories, Tom? Thought you’d have grown out of ’em by now.”
The local—Tom, apparently—grinned and swore that his tale about a haunted mill was entirely factual. The tension in Darcy’s spine eased. A local, then. Or pretending very well.
His gaze shifted again, this time to a corner table near the hearth, where another man sat alone, fidgeting with a weathered hat in his lap. He was thinner, more anxious, and dressed with care that did not suit the surroundings. His eyes darted toward the door the moment Darcy entered, and for a fleeting second, their gazes met.
Darcy approached with deliberate calm, loosening the top button of his coat. “Is the sun shining in London?” he asked quietly, resting one gloved hand on the back of the chair opposite.
The man flinched slightly. “Not since nightfall.”
Darcy nodded. “Darcy, at your service.”
“Eddleton, at yours,” the fellow replied. “You’re late.”
“I am early,” Darcy corrected, “by four minutes. If you are who you claim to be, then we cannot afford to waste time.” He did not sit.
Eddleton hesitated, then reached into the inside of his coat and produced a small brass token—barely larger than a coin—stamped with a unique cipher known only to the Home Office.
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. He withdrew his own from his pocket and laid it flat on the table beside Eddleton’s. They matched. That was the final proof he needed.
Satisfied, he took the seat opposite, angling his body to keep the wall at his back and his view of the inn unbroken.
Eddleton leaned forward, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “I was told to come to you if I found anything more. Fellow in a red coat—said you’d know ‘im—said to use no names. So I didn’t. But I have something now. Something… real.”
Darcy’s eyes sharpened. “Speak.”
Eddleton produced a folded packet wrapped in oilskin, tattered and smudged at the corners. “I found references to Bellingham—indirect, buried in old ledgers from the Treasury Office’s auxiliary funds. Names I’ve seen before, from a previous inquiry. One I was warned to drop.”
Darcy took the packet and did not open it. Not here.
“These names—” Eddleton wet his lips. “They’re tied to shell accounts. Untraceable without deep authorization. But there are enough patterns, enough trails… They were paying him. Regular sums. Spread over months.”
“Are the accounts still active?” Darcy asked.
“I do not know,” Eddleton admitted. “But someone does. And they’re making it very clear that this trail is not meant to be followed. Threats, blackmail.”
Darcy’s expression hardened. “Haveyoubeen threatened?”
“No,” Eddleton said quickly. “But I was followed. My flat was broken into last week—nothing taken. Just… touched. I found my desk drawer open, and my ink bottle spilled.”
A warning, then. Whoever this was had enough on Bellingham to force him—or trick him—into a fool’s errand that could only end with a bullet or a noose. Surely, they were leaving nothing else to chance.
Darcy pocketed the oilskin. “Your identity will be protected.”
Eddleton offered a dry, humorless laugh. “It’s too late for that, I think.”
