Enclosed you will find the new sheet music I mentioned for Mary—I have marked the passages I think she will most enjoy. And a lace handkerchief for your mother, which I believe would suit her best with that lilac gown she wore the day I arrived.
As for me… London is as it has always been. Grand. Glittering. And yet entirely hollow. I walk through it as though through a dream, half-listening, half-seeing. The season is in full swing, but I confess, I feel no inclination to dance.
Jane… I have not heard from Mr. Darcy. Not since we were separated. He was terribly wounded when we parted, and I desperately hoped to find out if he is well. I do not even know where he resides, or whether he is in town. There is no address, no calling card, no plausible reason for me to inquire after him. But if you happen to see Mr. Bingley, perhaps you might mention his friend in passing. I would not ask you to be too forward. Only… if you should hear anything—anything at all—please write and tell me.
I miss him.
And I miss you. More than I have words for. I hope soon I might concoct some reason compelling enough to satisfy my father and return to Hertfordshire, if only for a visit.
Until then, write to me, Jane. Often. Tell me every dull, delightful, maddening detail of your days. I shall devour them like sugar.
With all my heart,
Elizabeth
June 21, 1812
Darcyadjustedhiscravatwith care, his fingers lingering on the folds longer than necessary. The familiar weight of the fabric against his throat was both a comfort and a reminder—he was returning to the world of the living, to duty, after weeks lost to fever and pain. His shoulder throbbed beneath the layers of his coat, a dull ache that still pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
As he stepped into the Home Office, the murmur of clerks and rustle of papers greeted him, a symphony of bureaucracy that had once been his daily score. He nodded to a passing colleague, the man’s eyes widening momentarily before he offered a hasty greeting. Darcy was accustomed to such reactions; his unexpected return from the brink had evidently sparked whispers.
Darcy sank stiffly into the chair at his desk, the leather unforgiving against the bruised edge of his spine. His shoulder ached—throbbed, really—and every reach across the blotter sent sharp warnings down his back. But he ignored them. He had come here to work. To reacquaint himself with order, with focus, with purpose.
Maddox was dead. Cunningham “sailed to Antigua” under odd circumstances. And there was a new prime minister, Lord Liverpool, who was both loyal to the monarchy and fairly capable—after all, Darcy had served under him when he was the Home Secretary. The world was coming back to order.
And now, for his little corner of it, it was time to do his bit. He pulled the first folder from the stack, squinting at the dull gray print of a coded report. “Nothing but grain tariffs,” he muttered, flipping the page. “Fascinating.”
A second folder yielded a half-written memorandum on port authority corruption. Another listed suspected tea smugglers along the Channel. Darcy skimmed them all with increasing impatience, stacking the irrelevant reports to one side and muttering under his breath about the state of filing systems at the Home Office.
Then something slipped from the pile.
He reached absently to catch it, grimacing as the motion tugged too hard on his bandaged shoulder. A folded broadsheet fanned across his desk, one of a dozen he had agreed to receive while recovering—meant to keep him informed, he reminded himself, though he had barely glanced at a single one.
“Must have delivered these yesterday,” he murmured, trying not to sound as disgruntled as he felt. He reached for it, intending to set it aside.
But a bold headline stopped his hand.
“The Marquess of Ashwick and his daughter, Lady Elizabeth Montclair, Attend the Theatre with Prince Nikolaos of Württemberg.”
The room tipped sideways. The engraving beneath the headline depicted a familiar scene: Elizabeth, radiant in an elegant gown, seated beside her father in a private box. Opposite them, a distinguished gentleman—presumably Prince Nikolaos—leaned in, his posture attentive, his gaze fixed upon her.
Darcy’s fingers tightened around the broadsheet, the sharp edges cutting into his skin. He scrutinized the illustration, searching for nuances, for truths hidden within the artist’s strokes. Elizabeth’s face was turned slightly away from the prince, her attention seemingly directed toward the stage. Was it mere coincidence, or had the artist captured a deliberate moment of detachment? The prince’s demeanor, however, was unmistakable—his body angled toward her, his expression one of admiration and intent.
He told himself it was only a drawing, a subjective interpretation, perhaps even an exaggeration meant to tantalize society’s gossipmongers. Yet, the knot in his stomach tightened.
He forced his gaze to the dateline: yesterday. The ink was barely dry on the news of her public appearance with another man. A prince, no less. The article elaborated on the prince’s visit to London, noting his rumored search for a suitable English bride to strengthen ties between Württemberg and Britain.
The room seemed to constrict around him, the ambient sounds fading into a distant hum. He became acutely aware of the rhythmic throb in his shoulder, each pulse echoing the turmoil within. The logical part of his mind chastised his reaction—Elizabeth was free to attend the theatre with whomever she pleased. It was not as ifhecould escort her, and he would not deny her the pleasure of social engagements. Yet, the image of her in the company of another man—a prince, of all things—gnawed at him with relentless ferocity.
His vision blurred as he stared unseeingly at the broadsheet, the words and images dissolving into meaningless smudges. A tremor coursed through his hand, and the paper slipped from his grasp, fluttering to the floor. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, as if to block out the tormenting thoughts that assailed him.
The walls of the office, once a sanctuary of order and purpose, now felt like the confines of a prison cell. The weight of solitude, of weeks spent in isolation with only the company of a doctor, his cousin, and his own despair, bore down upon him with crushing intensity. He had believed that immersing himself in work would provide an escape, a reprieve from the memories that haunted him. But reality had a cruel way of intruding upon such illusions.
A ragged breath escaped his lips, and before he could steel himself against it, a sob broke free—a raw, guttural sound that seemed to reverberate through the empty room. He doubled over, elbows braced against the desk, as the floodgates opened and the tears he had so steadfastly withheld streamed down his face.
The image of Elizabeth’s smile, the lilt of her laughter, the warmth of her touch—all surged forth with vivid clarity, each recollection a dagger to his heart. He had convinced himself that distance and time would dull the ache, that he could will himself to forget. But the heart was not so easily swayed by reason.
Minutes passed, or perhaps it was hours; time had lost its meaning. What was he to do? Whatcouldhe do? One day, she would marry. Some lucky bastard with more money and titles than comprehension that his real treasure was the woman taking his name. It would be in all the broadsheets, and there would be no avoiding it for him. The only way to escape it was not to know of it, and the only way to do that…
