Elizabeth could not see much of him, only the sharp set of his shoulders, the marked widening of his eyes, the faint gasp he emitted before he turned back to the Prince with studied patience.
The Prince waved his hand vaguely in her direction. “This is the lady, Darcy.” He leaned forward, as if trying to recall something. “Lady Elizabeth Mont…” He trailed off, then turned to her with a flick of his fingers. “Go on, pronounce it for me, if you please.”
Elizabeth’s throat refused to work.
Something in the stiffness of the man at the desk—this Mr. Darcy, apparently—made her think he was annoyed by the delay.
She kept her gaze low, fixing her eyes on the marble just near the Prince’s feet. “Lady Elizabeth Montclair, Your Royal Highness.”
The Prince smirked in satisfaction and repeated her name as if tasting a rare delicacy. Then he waved a lazy hand. “Ask her your questions, Darcy.”
There was a brief, charged silence. Then—a chair scraped against the floor as Mr. Darcy rose. Elizabeth had barely composed herself before he stepped forward, standing fully within view for the first time.
He was younger than she had expected. Notyoung,exactly, but certainly not some stuffy royal secretary, either. His dark hair was severe, neatly styled, his black coat cut with precision, entirely free of the garish embellishments that adorned the Prince.
His expression was controlled, his features marked by sharp angles and sharper intelligence. He studied her for a moment, then motioned for her to come closer as he returned to his desk and reached for a sheet of paper.
Elizabeth swallowed and did as he invited.
“Lady Elizabeth,” he said, his voice deliberate and slow, the kind of tone one used when trying to extract the most accurate response possible.
She nodded slightly, gripping her hands tightly together.
“You saw a second man in the lobby,” Darcy stated. “Describe him.”
Elizabeth inhaled slowly. “He was… he was tall, I think.”
Darcy’s quill hovered over the paper. “You think?” he echoed.
She flushed slightly. “I was standing at a distance.”
“Then describe his shape.”
Elizabeth frowned slightly. “Broad-shouldered, I believe. But not as large as the guards. He was well-dressed, though not ostentatiously so.”
Darcy nodded slightly, jotting something down. “What color was his coat?”
Elizabeth paused. “It was dark,” she said, then hesitated. “I… I think it was brown?”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You are uncertain?”
“There was a great deal of commotion at the time, Mr. Darcy.”
“Indeed.” He turned the paper slightly. “And what of his hair?”
Elizabeth blinked. “His hair?”
“Yes,” Darcy said, voice cool. “What color was it?”
Elizabeth felt heat creeping up her neck. “I… I do not know. He was wearing a hat that looked like every other man’s hat.”
Darcy tilted his head slightly but said nothing.
The Prince, meanwhile, popped open his snuffbox and inhaled a pinch, looking thoroughly unconcerned.
“What sort of pistol did he carry?”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “A small one.”
