It was not until they were back in the carriage, rolling away from Buckingham House, that Elizabeth allowed herself to breathe.
The duchess was silent, staring out the window, her expression thoughtful.
Elizabeth’s mind was a riot of panic and indecision. Had she curtsied deeply enough? Had she spoken out of turn? Oh, goodness, her shoes—there was a tiny fleck of dirt on the heel! Had the Queen noticed?
Finally, after they rolled past the gates, she sighed deeply and sagged against the squabs. “She knew.”
The duchess turned slightly, one brow lifting. “I am sorry?”
“She already knew everything I told her.”
The duchess studied her for a moment. Then she simply nodded.
Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. “What happens now?”
The duchess sighed. “Now?” She reached for the curtain, pulling it slightly aside to glance at the crowded London streets. “Now, the Crown will manage the affair.”
FitzwilliamDarcyhadspentthe morning trying to be a normal man.
It was proving tiresome.
His chambers at Albany were neat, orderly, and entirely impersonal—just as they had always been. A bachelor’s residence, suited to a man who required convenience rather than sentiment.
The sitting room was tastefully appointed, its furnishings modest but of excellent quality. The fire was always well-tended, the shelves lined with books, and the desk—a sturdy, well-worn piece of mahogany—was arranged with military precision.
Darcy had spent his first hour at that desk, sorting a stack of odd notes and sightings collected from his sources about London. Not one of them, as far as he could tell, had a thing to do with Perceval’s murder. He would have to search somewhat farther afield to make a beginning.
But before he did that, he paused. It was high time he penned a letter to his sister, Georgiana. She was in London at present, and perhaps when he had liberty, he would pay her a call.
Had he the means, he would have set her up in a house of her own, with a companion of her choosing and the freedom to pursue her education and interests as she pleased. Instead, she was living with their aunt and uncle—the Earl and Countess of Matlock—on the charity of their family.
Darcy had been told that his cousin, Lady Julia, treated Georgiana with kindness, and of course Richard and the Viscount doted on her. But that did not ease his discomfort. Georgiana deserved better than being the poor relation.
His pen pressed a little harder against the page.
My dearest Georgie,
I trust you are well and that your lessons remain engaging. You will, no doubt, be pleased to hear that I have left Hertfordshire and returned to town—though I regret to inform you that I have nothing of interest to report on the matter of my petition. No progress has been made, but neither has it been dismissed. We must continue as we are, for now, and hope that the tide turns in our favor.
I should like to hear from you soon. Let me know how you fare, and if there is anything you require. I shall always do what I can, and I intend to present myself at Matlock House when possible.
Yours,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
He sighed, sealing the letter before setting it out for his frequently absent manservant to find, whenever it suited him.
That was done.
Now—to make himself useful.
DarcywalkedtotheHome Office, rather than taking a carriage. It was not a long distance, and besides, he had always found that a man walking with purpose was less noticeable than one arriving in a fine conveyance.
The government offices were as he had left them—the same dark-paneled rooms, the same low murmur of conversation, the same suspicious glances exchanged in passing.
He was not a full agent—he was too much of a gentleman for that, but too penniless to be anything else—so he occupied a strange place in the hierarchy.
Not quite trusted.
