“You are,” Fitzwilliam said, leaning back. “You would not be this defensive if you were not.”
“I am not some besotted idiot drooling over the first fine pair of eyes to look my way. She is reckless. Infuriating. Entirely unsuited to the role she has been forced to play. I am simply doing my duty to protect—”
Fitzwilliam waved a hand. “Yes, yes. Your sacred duty. Just admit she has you twisted round her little finger and save us both the agony.”
Darcy’s glare was eloquent.
“Very well,” Fitzwilliam said, unrepentant. “Deny it. But you are riding into the lion’s den with barely a sword, and you are doing it forher, not some vain hope—misguided, I am sorry to say—of restoring Pemberley.”
“I am doing it for England,” Darcy said coldly.
Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Of course. God save the King and all that. Do try not to get yourself shot.”
Darcy picked up his gloves. “That would be terribly inconvenient.”
He was nearly at the door when Fitzwilliam said quietly, “I will make inquiries in the regiments. If Maddox is out there, someone has seen his shadow.”
Darcy paused. “Thank you.”
“Send word the moment you reach Meryton,” Fitzwilliam said. “I will do the same the moment Alice surfaces. Or Cunningham slips.”
Darcy nodded and was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
DarcyarrivedatNetherfieldlong past twilight, his hired horse blown and his coat dusty from the road. He had traveled hard and fast, and every bone in his body felt it. The sun had already vanished beyond the trees as he dismounted, muscles aching with the stiffness of a long day’s ride. He passed his reins to a sleepy stableboy and strode into the house, bracing himself for the laconic cheer of a country drawing room.
Instead, he was greeted by the butler with a blink and a bow—and unexpected news.
“Mr. Darcy. We did not expect you until tomorrow. I am afraid Bingley has not yet returned, sir.”
Darcy paused on the threshold, one brow raised. “Not at all?”
“No, sir. He departed for Longbourn before breakfast and has not been seen since.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, lips pressed together in something dangerously close to a smile.
“Very good,” he said. “I shall wait for him in the study.”
He did not even bother removing his coat. He poured himself a glass of something brandied and stood before the hearth with it untouched in his hand, waiting. When Bingley finally did return, the clock in the hall had struck half-past ten.
His friend entered with the flush of wind and candlelight, his coat flung back, his hair askew from a ride taken at more than gentlemanly speed.
“You look half-murdered,” Bingley said cheerfully. “Have you eaten?”
“No,” Darcy said. “Nor, I presume, have you.”
Bingley grinned. “Not in any way Mrs. Bennet would consider adequate, no.”
“I take it our Miss Elizabeth did not attempt to give you the slip today?”
Bingley shook his head. “No, no, quite sedate and well-behaved, in that regard. I expect she is even now retiring to bed, so no gallivanting the countryside for your wayward miss.”
Darcy’s posture relaxed slightly, and he set down his untouched drink. “And? Did he do it?”
“Eh?”
“The parson. I assume he wrote to my aunt and is rather proud of himself for it.”
