Darcy exhaled, his jaw tightening. “No…Iam. If I were stronger, more prudent, I would have found a way. But I am not. And—”
“The prince did not give you a choice,” she finished.
“No,” he said. “But even if he had…” His voice faltered.
“Mr. Darcy, you make no sense. First, you act as if I am some leper forced upon you, and now you say it was because of some misplaced sense of fault of your own. I insist—”
“Iwilltell you everything,” he said quietly. “Just not now.”
That sounded rather final. And for once, Elizabeth said nothing at all. What could she say to the man who had risked everything to come back here? To protect her. To see her. Even if he never said it aloud.
Especiallybecause he never said it aloud.
Her voice was very soft. “I suppose we are both guarding some secret.”
A faint twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth. “A matched set… Elizabeth.”
Her lips parted—to say what, she did not know. Correct him on his omission of her proper title? Dig a bit more into the morass of his private thoughts? But before the moment could fracture, before she could say something ruinous, Darcy turned back toward the window.
“I must go. There are people I need to speak with. Someone is trying to erase their trail, and they have killed to do it. But now… we have something to start with.”
“The ring,” she said.
“And the lady who noticed it,” he added.
She smiled faintly. “That makes me dangerous, I suppose.”
“Yes. It does. I will return tomorrow and we will work up that letter I spoke to you of yesterday.”
And then he was gone, slipping through the window the same way he came—like a ghost. Like a shadow.
Leaving Elizabeth alone with her sketch, her thoughts, and a heart that beat a little too fast for comfort.
May 27, 1812
Theproblemwithbaitwas that it tended to attract more than one kind of predator.
Darcy stood beside the writing desk in Mr. Bennets’ study, watching Elizabeth pace. Her arms were folded tight, her brow drawn in contemplation—or resistance. Possibly both.
“I am not fond of the idea,” she said finally.
He had not expected her to be. “Nor am I.”
Her pacing stopped. “Then why suggest it? What if it brings harm to the Bennets?”
“Because whoever returned your letter intended a threat, not silence,” he said. “They already know you understood it as such. What they do not know is how much we learned from it—or what we intend to do next.”
Elizabeth gave him a long look. “So this is not to fool them.”
“Partly,” Darcy said. “But mostly, it is to provoke them into tipping their hand.”
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “And if it works?”
“Then they will act—and we will be watching when they do.”
She set her fist on her hip.
The stance was pure defiance—shoulders squared, chin lifted, the curve of her waist drawn in silhouette by the afternoon light. There was a flicker in her eyes, something bright and amused and entirely too knowing, as if she was daring him to object. Darcy exhaled slowly and looked away.
