“You wrote to a woman who believes herself superior to every soul in England and thinks nothing of making lives miserable when her pride is bruised.” Bingley stood. “And you may have placed others in danger for no reason beyond your own wounded vanity.”
“My—! Danger? Sir, I—!”
“I think,” Bingley said, voice shaking with fury, “that we have had enough entertainment for one day.”
He strode to the door to the hallway and yanked it open. Cool air flooded the room.
Elizabeth rose too. She had to leave. Had to think. Besides, Darcy had sent Bingley to watchher. If he left—
But Jane caught her wrist gently. “Lizzy,” she whispered. “Please.”
Elizabeth looked down. Jane’s fingers were slender, steady. There was no anger in her expression—only hurt. And perhaps a trace of betrayal.
“Jane,” she said quickly, “will you walk with me?”
Jane blinked. “Now?”
“Yes. Please. Just for a moment.” Her voice was quiet, urgent. “I will explain.”
Jane hesitated only a second before nodding. She rose and joined her without a word.
Elizabeth cast one last look behind her. Collins was sputtering, Lydia had begun whispering furiously to Kitty, and Mrs. Bennet looked torn between rage and triumph. Mr. Bennet, wisely, had disappeared.
Elizabeth turned and followed Bingley out into the sunlight, Jane at her side, and let the door close on whatever fresh outrage Mr. Collins was now shouting behind them.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Darcywasusheredthroughthe wrought-iron gates of Carlton House, the Prince Regent’s London residence, its neoclassical façade exuding opulence and authority.
Inside, the entrance hall unfolded in a spectacle of extravagance. Walls adorned with intricate gilded moldings rose to meet a ceiling frescoed with scenes of classical mythology. Rich crimson draperies framed towering windows, their heavy tassels swaying gently in the draft. Marble statues stood sentinel in alcoves, their cold gazes indifferent to the human dramas playing out before them.
A liveried footman led Darcy through a series of lavishly appointed rooms, each more ostentatious than the last. They passed through the Gothic Dining Room, its dark wood paneling and vaulted ceilings evoking the solemnity of a cathedral. Sunlight filtered through stained glass, casting kaleidoscopic patterns upon the gleaming floor.
Finally, they arrived at the Blue Drawing Room, a space where the Prince often held informal audiences. The footman announced Darcy’s presence with a crisp bow before retreating silently, leaving him to face the Regent alone.
The Prince lounged upon an ornate chaise longue, swathed in a silk dressing gown of deep sapphire, embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis. His ample form was partially concealed beneath the folds of the luxurious fabric, but there was no mistaking the corpulence that had become his hallmark. In one hand, he cradled a delicate porcelain cup of steaming coffee; in the other, a snuffbox encrusted with jewels that caught the light with every lazy movement.
His gaze lifted as Darcy entered, a slow smile spreading across his florid face. “Ah, Mr. Darcy,” he drawled, his voice a rich blend of amusement and condescension. “Come to regale me with tales of your derring-do, have you? Pray, do sit. I find the sight of a man standing so tediously formal.”
Darcy inclined his head, suppressing the irritation that threatened to surface. He took the proffered seat, the upholstery yielding beneath him with a sigh.
The Prince regarded him over the rim of his cup, eyes gleaming with something between mischief and malice. “So, tell me, what progress have you made in this sordid affair of Perceval’s demise? I do hope you have brought me something more than excuses.”
Darcy met the regal gaze evenly. “Your Royal Highness, my investigation has uncovered several leads of significance. The matter is intricate, with threads that extend further than initially anticipated. I respectfully request additional time… and monies… to pursue these avenues thoroughly.”
The Prince’s smile faded, replaced by a theatrical sigh of boredom. He set down his porcelain cup with a careless clatter and leaned forward, his gown parting to reveal a waistcoat groaning in desperate protest against its fastenings. “Time, Mr. Darcy? Time is what you request? It has been a fortnight since I entrusted you with this task. A Prime Minister is dead, and I have no names, no confessions, no justice to soothe my poor mother’s cares about the safety of her family. What, pray, have you been doing with yourself in the countryside? Gardening?”
Darcy’s jaw tensed. “Your Highness, I have reason to believe Sir William Cunningham is involved.”
That gave the Prince pause. His expression tightened, just slightly, before he masked it with a scoff. “Cunningham? A boor, certainly, but a traitor?”
“And I believe he may be employing a man long presumed dead. Hugh Maddox.”
Now the Prince blinked. “Maddox?”
Darcy reached into his coat and produced Elizabeth’s drawing. “This likeness was sketched by Lady Elizabeth Montclair.”
The Prince’s brow creased, and he frowned. “Who?”
