Darcy spread the notes across the writing desk in his room at Netherfield, eyes flicking from one detail to the next. The paper was cheap, the ink smudged, but the pattern was unmistakable. Someone had taken the hint embedded in Elizabeth’s letter—had seen the name “St. Albans” and moved in haste.
He could not know for certain if it was Maddox. But it could not be coincidence. No one else would have the means or the motive to react so quickly. Perhaps a proxy. Perhaps Maddox himself. Either way, it meant the game had changed.
He reached for a fresh sheet and composed his reply to Fitzwilliam in a hand so tight and controlled it barely resembled his own.
New directives: any further sightings of the red coach are to be recorded, not intercepted. Let them run. Let them believe they are gaining ground. Let them think the quarry just ahead.
Darcy sealed the letter with wax, pressed no signet, and handed it off to the groom with careful instructions.
Only then did he let himself sit back in the chair and close his eyes, just for a moment. They were chasing a ghost. But it was better than being hunted by one.
HedidnotleaveNetherfield that day. The storm clouds that threatened the horizon had not yet broken, but he could feel them gathering at his back, every hour wasted a provocation to fate. Still, he stayed.
He wrote letters and burned half of them.
Missives to his associates at the Home Office—he had his regular duties to pay heed to as well—inquiries to lesser informants…
…A half-started note to Elizabeth he should never have considered writing… He crumpled that one and then, not satisfied, threw it in the fire and waited until it was ash.
At one point, he found himself composing a dry, formal warning to the innkeeper in St. Albans who had reported the red coach—only to ball it up, too, and hurl it into the grate before it reached its third line. There was no reason to warn the man. No one knew the trail had been laid but those he trusted. And yet he could not shake the feeling that they were all standing atop a cracked floor, waiting for it to give.
He stood long at the window, watching the road to Longbourn, arms folded tight across his chest.
Caroline Bingley discovered him there just after noon, sweeping into the study without so much as a knock. She wore a muslin dress that fluttered as she walked—carefully chosen, no doubt, to draw the eye—and carried a deck of cards in one hand.
“I declare, Mr. Darcy, if you remain posted at that window much longer, you shall be mistaken for a governess waiting on the post,” she said with a lyrical laugh. “Come, do let me distract you. I am positively dying of tedium, and Charles has been no help at all—off chasing pheasants with the steward or some such thing.”
“I am occupied,” Darcy said without turning.
“Then let me be occupied with you. Whist? A stroll in the orangery? I have heard the roses are nearly in bloom.” She came to his side and peered out the window. “You know, I have often thought roses are quite vulgar when left to their own devices. Rather like some people, do you not agree?”
“Caroline,” came Bingley’s voice from the hall, all affable warning and just enough steel. “There you are.”
“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I thought you were out, Charles.”
“Not all day. You are needed in the drawing room. Louisa is searching for you to advise on the new pianoforte arrangement.”
Caroline blinked. “The pianoforte—? But she—”
“Now, if you please.” His tone did not shift, but it was final.
She hesitated, casting a glance between them—then turned on her heel and swept out, muttering something about the tyranny of being useful.
Bingley stepped in behind her, his expression apologetic and faintly amused. He gave Darcy a conspiratorial smile and crossed to the door, speaking low to a waiting footman.
“See that Mr. Darcy is not disturbed again,” he said. “By anyone.”
The footman bowed, and Bingley clapped his friend once on the shoulder before departing, whistling.
Darcy exhaled heavily and returned to the window.
Longbourn remained out of sight, hidden behind the sweep of trees and the rolling hedge. But he could see the path that led there. See the cart that trundled by at midday. The dust kicked by an afternoon rider. The slow progress of a shepherd’s flock across the distant pasture.
He asked himself, more than once, what the devil he thought he was doing.
This was not Pemberley. These were not his affairs. Elizabeth Bennet—no,Lady Elizabeth Montclair—was nottrulyhis to guard… certainly not indefinitely. She was the daughter of a marquess, destined for some viscount or duke or, God help her, a political attaché with a gift for boredom. What right had he to pace like a sentry, to chase rumors and rearrange the chessboard of his life for the sake of a woman whose trust he had not even earned?
But he stayed.
