Darcy sighed. His Highness couldnotbe so inebriated that he had already forgot about Elizabeth.
“The witness, Highness. The Marquess of Ashwick’s daughter.”
“Oh…” The Prince’s features cleared. “Yes, the lady. Cheeky thing. Might make a fetching diversion for… well, never mind. Egad, Darcy, you needn’t look so scandalized. I suppose she is still alive?”
“Quite. As I was saying—”
“You seem very assured of that, yet I do not see her with you. You must have seen her recently, then, my good fellow?”
Darcy fought to smother a sigh. “Rather, Your Highness. Yes, she sketched this from her memory of the second gunman. I say it is striking enough in detail to lend it credibility. Does the face look familiar to you?”
The Prince took it with two fingers, as if the paper might soil him. He studied it for a long moment, then frowned. “Never seen the blighter.”
Darcy did not move. “Your father gave me a quiet order to investigate Maddox’s death three years ago.”
The Prince handed the paper back without meeting his gaze. “My father gave orders to a great many people. Usually after supper, and rarely in his right mind.”
“His mind was clear that day. Maddox was once a Crown agent, was he not?”
The Prince flapped a hand at the air. “If he was, he is not now. You know how these things go. Men become inconvenient, or inconvenient truths become men.” He picked up his snuffbox and tapped it idly against his palm. “And if Maddox is alive, as you claim, why has he not been seen?”
“Because he knows how to vanish when it pleases him. And because those in power are protecting him. Or using him.”
“You mean Cunningham, I suppose.”
Darcy nodded once. “He and Maddox have history. And political motive. Perceval was tightening control over funding. He may have been getting too close. As for how they got Bellingham to stand in front of Perceval and fire the first shot—well, Your Highness, Bellingham did have his own motives, some of which came out during his trial. But I suspect we might find that Bellingham was threatened, as well. Perhaps his family.”
The Prince stood abruptly, robes billowing like a stage curtain. He crossed to the window and stared out, the light outlining the paunch of his figure and the restless tapping of his fingers against the sill. “I brought you into this because you were discreet, Darcy. Useful. Cold-blooded when necessary. Not to serve me riddles wrapped in shadows.”
“Then let me finish the work.”
The Prince turned, the light now showing a dangerous glint in his eye. “Finish what? It seems you have scarcely made a beginning. Perhaps I should give the task to someone else. Someone more decisive. More… obedient.”
Darcy took a single step forward. “And if that someone causes the truth to leak? If it becomes public that Bellingham was coerced? That another man, still free, orchestrated the death of a Prime Minister? What then? How secure is your position, Highness, if foreign papers begin to whisper that the Crown hanged a mere scapegoat?”
The Prince’s jaw ticked. He did not like that word—scapegoat. Nor the suggestion that his already fragile image could be further smeared.
“You brought me in because I do not blunder. I do not speak. And I do not fail. But I must be allowed to do the job.”
A long silence fell. The Prince returned to his seat with exaggerated languor, as if to show he had never truly been rattled. He plucked at a cushion, rearranged his robe, and finally gave a careless wave. “Very well. Another week. But if you do not bring me something—something with teeth, Darcy—I shall install someone else. And you may explain to your pretty witness why the fox is now guarding the henhouse.”
Darcy inclined his head, though every muscle in his body itched to bolt from the room. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
But as he turned to go, the Prince’s voice, suddenly sweet, halted him once more. “Oh, and about your little petition—your charming bid to reclaim that dusty estate of yours…”
Darcy turned back, wary. “Yes, Your Highness?”
The Prince smiled. “I gave it due consideration, of course. Quite touched by your devotion to ancestral rafters and carpets and all that. But alas, my hands are tied. My father’s order was very firm, as it always was in such… cases. I might have doubted the credibility of the charges if you yourself could prove unimpeachable, but given how little you have managed to achieve thus far…”
A cold flush washed over Darcy, but he schooled his features into an impassive mask. “Your Highness, the accusations against my father were disproven. Every witness recanted. Every document verified. I have provided ample evidence to that effect.”
The Prince chuckled, a low, mirthless sound. “Yes, well, evidence can be so dreadfully dull, don’t you think? It isactionthis world wants. Now, do be a splendid fellow and catch this murderer, won’t you?”
Darcy’s fists clenched at his sides, hidden by the folds of his coat. He bowed stiffly. “As you wish, Your Highness.”
Theywalkedinsilencefor some time, following the worn path behind Longbourn that led toward the brook. The breeze was mild, and the tall grasses whispered with every step. Elizabeth kept her arms folded, eyes on the ribbon of water ahead, aware of Bingley to her left, Jane quietly between them.
She owed them an explanation.
