He said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“Well, I suppose there ends it. Back to Ashwick House, eh?” The prince rang a bell, and a steward entered.
“See to the lady,” the prince said with a dismissive wave. “She is to be dressed, supped, and returned to her father. Use the Windsor silks—nothing too fine, but I will not have her arriving like a washerwoman.”
Elizabeth looked back at Darcy—this time, with a hint of panic in her eyes.
He could not speak. He inclined his head instead, as formal as any stranger.
The steward guided her from the room… and the door closed off his view.
The moment she was gone, the prince turned back to him.
“You will go to the Home Office,” he said crisply. “There is still paperwork to be concluded. Bring me everything that links Cunningham to the Fellowship. If I am to see the man dispatched or transported, I must think of a way to do it quietly. We have already hanged a man for dear Perceval’s murder, God rest his wretched soul. I shan’t have anyone else thinking it worthwhile to attempt likewise.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The prince looked down at his desk. “And Darcy.”
Darcy paused. “Your Highness?”
“You may go.”
No word of Pemberley. No gesture toward restoration. No mention of justice.
Darcy bowed once more. The ache in his shoulder flared.
He turned and walked away, leaving the prince in his sunlight, and Elizabeth behind him.
Perhaps for the last time.
Chapter Thirty
Thechambertheybroughther to was larger than any she had entered in weeks, perhaps months—an opulent drawing room converted to a lady’s dressing suite, with high ceilings, gilt-trimmed paneling, and a row of mirrors framed in gold.
Two women in aprons stood waiting. One of them, older and silver-haired, curtsied. “Your ladyship,” she said, as though Elizabeth had not come in filthy boots and a bloody riding dress.
Elizabeth blinked. “You must be mistaken—”
“No mistake, Lady Elizabeth,” the younger maid said gently. “We were told you had been through an ordeal. We are here to assist.”
She wanted to protest—say something tart and proud—but her body sagged too heavily against the doorframe for pride. Her arms ached. Her ribs still felt every jolt of that cursed carriage. And she could hardly walk another step. She nodded once.
They stripped her carefully, murmuring apologies when they revealed the bruises on her legs and the cuts on her palms, shins, and feet. The elder woman gasped when she saw the angry gouge across Elizabeth’s back. “Musket ball,” she muttered. “Near miss.”
“Oh!” the younger one cried. “It must have pained you terribly!”
“Not until about six hours ago,” Elizabeth said with a shudder. “I did not even notice it at first.”
The maids surveyed her with round eyes, but made no further comments about her injuries. They brought a shallow copper tub and filled it with heated water. Steam rose like a balm, and Elizabeth sank into it with a soft groan, arms floating at her sides, eyes closed. It made her wounds sting and scream in agony, but it was a good sort of pain.
At some point, one of the women found a purpling bruise beneath her cheekbone. “Ah,” the younger one said, clucking softly. “I’ll fetch the powder. No one need know.”
Elizabeth opened one eye. “You are very good at this.”
“I had four sisters and one brother who boxed for coin,” the girl replied wryly. “I became a genius with rouge.”
Her hair was next—a solid half hour of dunking, scrubbing, yanking tangles—amidst muttered apologies—and more dunking and scrubbing. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth ignored it. Or she did not care enough toneedto ignore it. Whatever pain inflicted upon her scalp, it was nothing to the empty place in her heart.
