Elizabeth stared at him. “Then the hunt begins.”
“Yes,” Bingley said softly. “And we will all be caught in it.”
DarcyfoundColonelFitzwilliamin his flat, coatless, cravat hanging loose, and sleeves rolled to the elbow as he bent over a sprawl of papers that would have given most clerks vertigo.
“You look entirely too cheerful for a man elbow-deep in Home Office filth,” Darcy said, closing the door behind him.
Fitzwilliam looked up and grinned. “Do not let the candlelight fool you. I am wallowing in moral decay.”
Darcy sank into the armchair opposite. “Any news of Alice?”
The grin slipped. Fitzwilliam set down his pen and folded his arms. “Some. Not enough. I have intelligence that she is alive—or was, as of three days past.”
“Three days ago? What does that mean?”
“There is rumor she escaped. Slipped her guards near Brighton. Possibly headed north, though it is difficult to track a girl with no friends, no money, and a name she probably dares not give.”
Darcy pressed his lips together. “So she is alone.”
“If she is the one these reports refer to,” Fitzwilliam said carefully. “There were no clear identifiers, but it matches what we know.”
“No ransom demand. No threats. No message of any kind,” Darcy said. “They did not want her alive, did they?”
Fitzwilliam gave a tight nod. “She was not the target. And either she knew nothing of value, or she already told them what she could. I expect they were taking her somewhere to make her disappear.”
Darcy exhaled slowly. “Let us hope she proves as elusive as her mistress.”
Fitzwilliam cracked his knuckles and leaned forward. “Now. Cunningham. Anything new there?”
“Perhaps.” Darcy pulled a folded paper from his inner coat and handed it across the desk. “That sketch again. Take another look.”
Fitzwilliam gave it a glance, then paused. “Am I supposed to recognize this devil? I already told you—”
“Do you recall that business with Hugh Maddox? Disappeared three years ago. Any chance this could be him?’
Richard turned the drawing in the light. Squinted. “Devil take it… thatmightbe him.”
“You think so?”
“The jawline is right. Hairline, too. I never met Maddox, but I once saw him riding out with Lord Beresford’s company near Portsmouth—couple of years before he disappeared.”
Darcy’s brow rose. “Do you recall the miniature?”
Fitzwilliam snorted. “Painted by some society wife’s cousin, if memory serves. She also painted pigs with cherubic faces. Not exactly known for anatomical fidelity.”
“That explains a great deal.”
Fitzwilliam studied the drawing once more. “If Maddox lives—and if he is with Cunningham—then we are not just dealing with a scandal. We are dealing with state treason at a level I have never seen before.”
Darcy nodded once. “And I have spoken with Eddleton.”
“The clerk who left breadcrumbs in the Treasury?”
“Shell accounts. Regular payments. From a fund tied to the Auxiliary Services, funneled through charities and printing houses—every one of them linked to Cunningham’s known associates.”
Fitzwilliam exhaled slowly, brows drawn together. “He gave you this himself?”
Darcy nodded. “Two days ago. We met at an inn—privately. He was nervous. Said someone had broken into his flat. Drawers opened. Ink spilled. Nothing taken. A warning.”
