Jane ducked her head, trying not to smile. “Mama is… dramatic sometimes.”
“Your mother may be dramatic, Jane, but she cares about you. Desperately.”
The smile faded into something gentler. “She does.”
“I envy you that,” Elizabeth whispered.
They fell to staring at the fire in silence.
A few minutes later, as Elizabeth stood to take the bundle to the hallway, Mr. Bennet stepped in through the side door—book in one hand, slippers scuffing quietly on the rug.
“Ladies,” he said with a mild nod.
“Papa.” Jane rose, brushing a thread from her sleeve.
“Mr. Bennet.” Elizabeth bobbed a slight curtsy, linen still in her arms.
He eyed the pile with a touch of mock suspicion. “You have not taken to housemaid duties, I hope. I shall be forced to speak to Hill about exploitation.”
Elizabeth offered a crooked smile. “I suspect Hill would say it is I who require the supervision.”
“She would not be wrong.” He approached the hearth and tapped a finger against the mantel, as if checking for dust. Then his eyes flicked back to Elizabeth. “You are well?” he asked quietly.
“I am,” she said, surprised by how much she meant it.
He nodded once. “Good. Then I shall not worry until I must.” A glance at Jane. “Which I am sure will be sometime tomorrow.”
“Papa.”
He patted Jane’s hand, turned back toward the door, and ambled out without another word.
Elizabeth stood still for a moment, listening to the familiar sound of his uneven gait retreating down the hall.
The home was not hers. The name was not hers. Nothing about this life was meant to last.
And yet—when the door closed behind him—she felt, for the first time in her life, as though she belonged.
May 29, 1812
Darcyhadbuiltthenetwork years ago, brick by brick, favor by favor, until it stretched like a silent lattice beneath the polished surface of respectable England. It had begun during a quiet inquiry into the forgery ring that nearly unseated a viscount—and grown in complexity with every mission the Crown had entrusted to him since. He had learned early that success in this work depended not only on discretion in action, but in the company one chose to trust.
So, he had trusted almost no one.
His informants were as disparate as they were discreet—post riders, ostlers, taproom boys, stable hands, innkeepers who kept two ledgers, and messengers who asked no questions. None of them knew more than a sliver. None knew they were part of a whole. Each had been paid in coin, favor, or silence, and each was instructed to pass their information only to a courier bearing a false name, at a false hour, their faces concealed.
This was not a web—it was a maze. And only Darcy knew the shape of it.
By Friday morning, the pieces began to arrive.
One report from a stable east of St. Albans: a red coach, lacquered but not new, had changed horses under cover of rain. The ostler noted its trim—black piping, nothing else—and said the driver had looked wrong for a gentleman’s servant. Shifty. Too thin. A southern accent.
More curious still, the driver had asked for directions to the road west—not toward London, but Oxfordshire.
Two towns over, one of Fitzwilliam’s men, posing as a common traveler with a toothache and an urgent parcel, had seen the same coach again before dusk. Still no passengers. Still silent.
The bait had worked.
They were chasing a ghost, and now, Fitzwilliam had tails on them.
