The Prince arched a brow, looking almost bored. “I expectyouto glean that information,“ he said, flicking his fingers. “That isyourduty, after all.”
Darcy set the quill down, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “With all due respect, Your Highness,” he said, keeping his tone painfully even, “how am I to glean such information if I have never spoken with the witness?”
The Prince waved airily. “No bother. You will have your answers momentarily.”
Oh. So he had been summoned here with no briefing, no details—nothing but a royal whim and the expectation that he would, somehow, pluck answers from thin air. It took several measured breaths to keep his irritation in check.
A noise from the hall broke the charged silence. The thud of boots on marble echoed down the corridor, steady and deliberate. Too many footsteps for a single visitor. A sharp command was issued—low, authoritative. A rustle of fabric followed, the whisper of skirts brushing against the floor.
Servants darted out of the way, moving with the quick, trained efficiency of those who knew better than to impede royal business. One footman hesitated before scurrying to adjust a candelabrum, as if suddenly aware that the lighting should be just so.
Darcy straightened slightly, instinct sharpening.
Two guards arrived first, their gold-trimmed coats pristine, each positioning himself at either side of the door. One reached for the handle, but instead of opening it immediately, he hesitated—listening, waiting for some unseen signal.
Darcy glanced toward the Prince.
The man was grinning.
Not in amusement, but in pleasure—the look of a man who had orchestrated some great revelation and was now delighting in the moment before the curtain lifted.
With great theatricality, he adjusted his cuffs, took a slow sip of brandy, and exhaled in satisfaction.
“Ah,” he said smoothly, his voice silken with amusement, “here she is.”
Elizabethexpectedtobetaken to the Queen’s private chambers.
That was where she had been before, when she had been summoned that afternoon with the Duchess. The corridors of Buckingham House were labyrinthine, but she had taken note of her surroundings as she walked, cataloging the turns, the rooms, the adornments, the lighting, the rugs… all of it.
Now, however—they were going in the opposite direction.
She hesitated slightly, her silk skirts almost tangling around her ankles as she tried to conceal a glance at her surroundings.
Perhaps the Queen simply spent the evening in a different part of the house? That would make sense. Yes. That would—
Her thoughts cut short as she realized the guards escorting her had suddenly… multiplied. Two had walked with her from the carriage, but now more men closed in behind them, moving with the crisp efficiency of soldiers accustomed to forming a perimeter.
Elizabeth glanced at them sharply. They did not meet her gaze.
She swallowed. Was this still a royal summons, or was she being taken into custody? Had she inadvertently confessed to some crime? Surely, it was not against the law for a lady to be in the House of Commons. So, what…?
She forced herself to breathe evenly, to keep her head high, though her pulse had begun to pound in her throat. She had no choice but to keep walking.
The doors ahead swung open, and she was ushered inside. Elizabeth stepped forward—and stopped short.
The Queen was not here.
Instead, leaning against a gilded chair, dressed in far too much embroidery, a brandy glass in one hand and a jeweled snuffbox near the other, was—
The Prince Regent.
Elizabeth’s pulse skipped. She immediately dropped into a curtsy, so abruptly that her feet might have been knocked from under her.
She had never been formally presented to the Prince Regent—she had seen him at court, certainly, but this was… intimate.
Uncomfortably so.
The Prince made no immediate acknowledgment of her bow. He simply exhaled lazily, adjusting the cuffs of his too-elaborate coat before gesturing vaguely in her direction. Then, to her continued astonishment, he turned—not to a lord or a minister, but to a man seated at a writing desk. A man with a questioning look on his face.
