Her lungs seized.
He was looking at her. Not at the dying man. Not at the guards descending upon the one they called Bellingham.
Ather.
Something dark flickered in his expression. Recognition. Calculation. A decision made.
A step backward. Another. Then he was gone, swallowed into the confusion, into the throng of bodies rushing toward the wrong man.
Elizabeth’s fingers dug into the stone. The prime minister was dead. Shot, his life’s blood even now spilling all over the pavers.
And she—Lady Elizabeth Montclair—had just witnessed the assassination of the most powerful man in England… but from a vantage that no one else had.
And worse… someone knew she had seen it.
Hertfordshire, May 11 1812
FitzwilliamDarcyhadspentthe last six months balancing duty and discretion, maneuvering through the quiet battles fought in drawing rooms rather than on fields. The work demanded precision, patience, and a stomach for deception—a thing he abhorred above all others.
He had earned this respite.
Netherfield Park was, by any estimation, a ridiculous house. It was too modern, too ostentatious, and entirely too pleased with itself—as if it had been built not for comfort, but for the express purpose of announcing to the world that a very rich man lived there.
But it was also a mere three miles from Meryton, only twelve from London, yet a world away from the filth of Westminster intrigue. A place where he was known, but not watched. A place where he could, for a time, be simply Mr. Darcy of Nowhere.
Which was why, when Bingley’s most recent, obscenely cheerful letter had arrived, brimming with tales of garden parties, trout fishing, and the unparalleled delight of “the freshest air in England,” Darcy had written back with a single sentence:
“I am coming.”
And so, here he was—riding up the long, tree-lined drive of Netherfield for the second time in his life, the house already familiar, the bright green fields and golden May sunlight welcoming him like a warm embrace.
For the first time in six months, he let the poisonous air out of his lungs.
Yes. This would do.
“Darcy!”
The moment his horse reached the front steps, the door flung open and Bingley all but bounded down the drive, grinning like a man without a single care in the world. Darcy barely had time to dismount before his hand was seized and shaken with great enthusiasm.
“I knew you would return! You did not say how long you are staying, of course, but you never do, so I took the liberty of assuming indefinitely.”
“Then you have set yourself up for disappointment.”
“Nonsense. You have nowhere better to be. London is horrid this time of year, and you must be utterly exhausted from whatever it is you do when you disappear for months at a time.”
Darcy handed the reins of his horse to the waiting groom. “You make it sound far more intriguing than it is.”
“Yes, well, that is because you refuse to tell me anything, so I am forced to assume espionage or highway robbery—and between the two, espionage seems slightly more in keeping with your usual sensibilities.”
Darcy snorted. “I will let you wonder a little longer.”
“Wonderful. I shall entertain myself with theories. You are, of course, just in time—we are invited to dine at Longbourn tomorrow.”
Darcy sighed deeply. “Bingley.”
“Oh, do not look at me like that. You like Mr. Bennet, and you tolerate the rest of them well enough.”
“You mean I tolerate them better than you tolerate your own sisters.”
