He was beginning to suspect she knew exactly what she was doing.
Then, to his surprise, she sat beside the desk, reached for the paper, and dipped her pen. “Very well. Let us set a trap.”
She wrote quickly, fluidly—nothing obvious, nothing alarming. A charming note to Lady Charlotte Wrexham, full of droll observations about village trivialities and the burdens of rustic leisure. Elizabeth made light mention of her “holiday,” carefully threading in a detail Darcy had offered—that Her Majesty had indeed retired to Frogmore, just outside Windsor, for the season. It would lend her lie a veneer of credibility for anyone curious enough to test it.
“Is it truly Frogmore?” she asked without looking up.
He leaned forward slightly, reading over her shoulder. “It is. I heard it confirmed while in London last week. Her Majesty prefers the gardens in early summer.”
“How quaint. Perhaps I shall mention the lilies.” Her tone was dry, but her eyes sparkled. “Would Her Majesty prefer white or yellow, do you think?”
“She prefers peace,” Darcy said, watching the fine movement of her hand as she wrote. “And does not care what color it comes in.”
Elizabeth hummed under her breath. “Pity. I should have liked to embroider some symbolism.”
“You areembroideringquite enough.”
“Cad that you are! You must have been hearing rumors from Jane, because I could not embroider a convincing flower if my life depended upon it. Though it is not for lack of diligence on her part to teach me.”
“I can hardly believe you let anyone teach you anything at all.”
“Now, see here, sir, I—” She turned slightly at that—just enough for him to realize how near they had become, her shoulder brushing his sleeve, her scent—clean linen and some pale trace of lavender—disruptivelyclose.
Darcy straightened too sharply and folded his arms behind his back. “The ‘cousin,’” he said, changing the subject. “Have you named him?”
“Mr. Redfield,” she replied at once, eyes still on the page. “From Hampshire. Very fond of trout fishing and political radicalism.”
Darcy arched a brow. “Inventive.”
“I thought so.” She dipped her pen again and read aloud as she wrote. “He has invited me to St. Albans next week. I think I shall decline. There is something suspect about his waistcoat. Then again, his breeches are rather fetching, so perhaps it might be worth a foray. What say you, dear Charlotte?”
“Breeches?“ Darcy scoffed. “Lord have mercy.”
“You think ladies do not notice how a man looks in his breeches? I assure you, we do. For instance…” She tossed a saucy glance over her shoulder, letting her eyes trail suggestively toward his waist and downward.
Darcy moved to stand behind her more completely—out of her field of view. “Finish writing, if you please. We shall be at this all day.”
“You are terribly dull sometimes. Very well.” She blew out a huff that feathered the hair falling over her face, and dipped her quill again.
Darcy watched her lace in the misleading cues they had agreed upon: a reference to “poppies in bloom”—a red herring suggesting surveillance nearby; the invented cousin, “Mr. Redfield”—a trigger word Fitzwilliam’s men would now be able to track in any intercepted intelligence; and the mention of a planned excursion to St. Albans, which they had no intention of making.
The message, though addressed to Lady Charlotte, was written for someone else entirely.
He watched her dot the final sentence and set down her quill with a small sigh of satisfaction. “There. I believe I have lied thoroughly enough for one day.”
“You did not lie,” he said. “You rearranged the truth into something more useful.”
Elizabeth glanced sideways, smiling faintly. “That sounds suspiciously like what the Home Office does.”
“It is.”
Something passed between them then—dry amusement, shared complicity, and something quieter beneath. It left the air thinner than before. Darcy turned away first.
“I am going to London to make my report to Prince George tomorrow. I shall send this from the posting inn at St. Albans,” he said. “With luck, they will believe the bait. Or chase a ghost to St. Albans. Either way, Richard’s men will start following it—see whose hands it passes through.”
Elizabeth stood and stretched slightly, arms over her head. “Poor Mr. Redfield,” she said. “Always embroiled in the wrong sort of company.”
“You are fortunate he is not real,” Darcy replied, reaching for the letter.
