And now, with night descending over the city, he was on his way to his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Richard would be at his flat by now, and Richard would tell him the truth. If there was anything more to this affair—if there was something beneath the surface that only those in military and intelligence circles knew—his cousin would have heard of it.
He turned onto Jermyn Street, the familiar route toward St. James’s Square. Fitzwilliam kept rooms in a respectable townhouse, neither extravagant nor meager. The kind of place a well-bred soldier might live, comfortable but practical.
The sound of hooves hammering the street reached him first. Then—the movement. Dark shapes shifting ahead, closing in.
Darcy stopped just in time.
Out of nowhere, a dozen men surrounded him—horsemen in the street. Foot guards flanking him on either side.
The King’s Guard.
A sharp rush of irritation spiked through him. He did not move, his jaw tightening as the soldiers boxed him in, their polished boots and gleaming scabbards forming an impenetrable wall.
Good heavens, this was unnecessary.
He was no fugitive, no man on the run. If the Prince had wanted to see him, a simple message would have sufficed. Still, he kept his expression cool, detached.
“What,” he said, voice edged with irritation, “is the meaning of this?”
The commanding officer—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing the expression of a man who had no interest in explaining himself—reined in his horse and looked down at him.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said. “You are commanded to appear before His Royal Highness at once.”
He exhaled slowly. So. It was to be now.
“Am I to assume,” he said dryly, glancing at the armed men surrounding him, “that His Highness will not permit me to complete my business first?”
“You assume correctly.”
The rumble of wheels on stone approached from behind. Darcy turned just as an unmarked black carriage rolled into view, its windows heavily curtained, its meaning unmistakable.
He sighed. “Very well.”
He turned on his heel, ascended the carriage steps without hesitation, and pulled the door closed behind him. The moment the latch clicked, the carriage lurched forward into the London night.
Chapter Four
“Youhavebeenquiettoday, my lady.”
Alice’s voice was soft but pointed as she tugged the laces at the back of Elizabeth’s best dinner gown.
Elizabeth forced a small, absent smile, though she knew her maid was too astute to be fooled by it. “I imagine I am permitted to be thoughtful on occasion,” she said lightly.
Alice huffed, adjusting the gown’s shoulders, so they sat just right at her collarbone. “Thoughtful, yes. But you’ve the air of a lady waiting for something unpleasant.”
Elizabeth’s throat worked, shifting the pearls faintly in the mirror.Hadshe been waiting?
She had spent the afternoon reeling from her audience with the Queen, trying to content herself with the knowledge that the matter had been placed in the Prince Regent’s hands. She had been assured that her duty was done. There was nothing more to worry about.
And yet—here she was, standing still as Alice shook out the layers of her skirts, the fine silk of her gown cool against her skin, the weight of pearls settling at her throat. She was expected to descend the stairs in half an hour, to dine with her father as if this were any other evening, as if the events of the day had not unsettled the very ground beneath her.
But her hands refused to stop trembling.
It was not fear—not exactly. It was anticipation, curling in her stomach like the first threads of a storm. A hundred possible explanations had turned over in her mind since she had stepped out of Buckingham House that afternoon, each one attempting to rationalize what had happened.
The Queen had been unmoved, cool and indifferent, as if Elizabeth had brought her nothing more than some idle bit of court gossip. And yet, before the hour was out, she had already acted upon it.
Elizabeth knew what that meant.
