Inside, the great hall of Carlton House gleamed with marble and menace. Footmen moved like wraiths. The walls whispered power.
They were announced. Her name first, then his. He felt her fingers twitch at the sound of her title, as if it was now foreign to her. There would be no ceremony for her return to the life she had left dangling. There could be no celebration for her survival. Only this audience, and then she would be deposited back in the home whence she had come, just as if time had never stopped.
The Prince Regent received them in a tall chamber, its tall windows draped with heavy brocade that filtered the blaze of sunset into subdued amber tones. He lounged in a high-backed chair of crimson velvet, positioned beside a mahogany writing desk cluttered with sealed dispatches, half-eaten candied fruits, and an ornate snuffbox left ajar. A gleaming watch chain coiled like a golden serpent at his waist, catching the light with each of his languid movements.
He did not rise.
“Well,” the Prince drawled, swirling a glass of ratafia in one hand. “Look at you both.”
Elizabeth curtsied, and Darcy bowed deeply, trying not to wince. “Your Royal Highness.”
The prince’s gaze meandered over them, pausing to take in Darcy’s disheveled appearance. “You look like a sailor dragged off to the docks,” he remarked, his lips curling in a semblance of amusement. His eyes then flicked to Elizabeth, and he tsked softly, shaking his head. “And as for the lady... What have we here, Miss Montclair? Dressed like the undermaid of a provincial apothecary. And are those bandages? Good heavens, what an awful to-do.”
Elizabeth’s lips parted. Darcy saw the fire in her eyes before the words formed, and he stepped forward—not between them, but enough to remind her.
She caught herself. Barely. Her chin lifted.
The prince’s smile widened, as if privately entertained by the lady’s spark of defiance and Darcy’s obvious diversion. “You have come to report, I trust?” he said, reaching for a sugared grape and popping it into his mouth with deliberate leisure.
“I have. Colonel Fitzwilliam is en route to Northumberland to apprehend Cunningham on charges of conspiracy to commit murder. One of the assailants who attacked us survived long enough to provide a confession. He identified Bellingham and two others as accomplices, and we recovered the insignia of the Fellowship from Maddox’s body.”
The prince exhaled slowly, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “So,” he murmured, almost to himself, “the traitor was real. A good bit of luck there, Darcy.”
A brief silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the distant chiming of a clock and the popping sound of another grape in the Prince’s mouth.
“This presents a delicate situation,” the prince sighed, his fingers drumming idly on the armrest. “The public must remain ignorant of such... unsavory affairs. The monarchy’s image is, after all, a tapestry woven with threads of perception.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Discretion is paramount, Your Highness.”
“Indeed. Measures will be taken to ensure this remains within the confines of those who need to know.” He leaned forward slightly, the movement causing the golden chain at his waist to glint. “You understand, Mr. Darcy, that such loyalty and service do not go unnoticed.”
Darcy bowed. “I serve at the pleasure of Your Highness and the realm.”
“Quite.” The prince tilted his glass toward Elizabeth. “And the lady?”
Darcy’s jaw clenched. “Survived, thanks to her own bravery and quick thinking.”
“I dare say. A good bit of luck, indeed.” The prince turned to Elizabeth. “And how did you find your guardian, Lady Elizabeth? A steady hand in troubled waters? I trust he did nothing…untoward,while he had you in his sole keeping.”
Darcy held his breath.
Elizabeth flicked a glance to him…
Do not…he prayed silently.Do not say it!
But what if she did? What then? Was there any realm of fantasy in which he could make her his? Over her father’s certain objection, over the derision of theton…
Half of him longed for her to blurt the words in defiance… the whiff of salaciousness, the accusations of impropriety… She was just recalcitrant enough to do it.
Elizabeth swallowed and turned to meet the prince’s gaze evenly. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, “was ever the perfect gentleman. He protected me at great personal cost, and never once compromised either his honor or mine.”
There was a long silence.
The prince blinked. Once. Then leaned back in his chair, the glass forgotten in his hand.
“Well,” he murmured, “is that not a pity.”
Darcy felt the air shift. He looked to Elizabeth, who had gone pale beneath her cuts and bruises. Her mouth was set in a thin, defiant line.
