Darcy looked down. He had no answer. And she knew it.
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “This is absurd.”
Darcy did not disagree. But it did not matter.
Because it was happening anyway.
Darcyhadaheadache.
Not a faint one. A real, pounding, behind-the-eyes sort of headache that he normally associated with weeks of little sleep, too much responsibility, and Home Office reports that ran in circles and told him nothing.
Except this headache had nothing to do with reports.
It had everything to do with the infuriating woman pacing a hole in the floor of their rented room.
Elizabeth Montclair had been fuming in silence since he had all but dragged her from the lodging house and bundled her into a hired carriage. Now that she had been fed, slightly rested, and was somewhat less horrified by her own reflection, she had apparently rediscovered the energy to be difficult.
Darcy had no time for it.
He had already sent a coded message to Fitzwilliam, arranged for a private room, and given explicit instructions that they were to receive no visitors save the one he was waiting for. Lady Elizabeth Montclair had not taken well to the arrangements.
“This is indecent!” she declared, for what had to be the twentieth time. She crossed her arms, turning to him with a scathing glare. “You mean to leave me here alone?”
Darcy did not look up from double-checking the locks on the window. “You will not be alone,” he said shortly. “The innkeeper and his wife are here.”
“Yes, and I am sure they will be absolutely heroic should anyone attempt to drag me out of here at gunpoint.”
He turned to her then, arms folded, expression unimpressed. “And who, precisely, do you imagine will be dragging you anywhere? They would have to find you first.”
She lifted her chin. “I do not know, Mr. Darcy. You have made it quite clear that someone might.”
Darcy exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge of it between his fingers. “I will not be long,” he said tightly. “And you will be safer here than anywhere else.”
She scoffed. “A coaching inn? Hardly. And why mustIstay behind whileyougo off unattended?”
“Becauseyourinput is not helpful at this present juncture. And becauseIam not the one being hunted.”
That stopped her. For just a moment, she seemed to process his words, but instead of accepting them, she sniffed and turned away, pretending to study the ragged curtain over the window.
“Icouldbe of use,“ she muttered. “You do not know that I would not be.”
Darcy huffed a laugh, rubbing his temple. “Oh yes,” he said dryly, “I cannot imagine a finer asset to a covert investigation than an heiress with a penchant for throwing chamber pots at her captor.”
She whirled back to him, eyes flashing. “Captor?”
He should have chosen a different word. But it was too late now.
Elizabeth Montclair, rightful heiress, only pride of the Montclair lineage, and notorious thorn in his side, pursed her lips in scandalized offense. She was about to unleash hell.
And that was when the coded knock came at the door—two short, one long, and two short.
Darcy opened the door without preamble, letting Fitzwilliam stride into the room with all the casual confidence of a man who was only half-surprised to be summoned to a questionable inn.
“You had better have a bloody good reason for this,” Fitzwilliam said, shaking his head as he stepped inside. “You know how I feel about unplanned excursions to Southw—oh.”
He froze in his tracks as he caught sight of Elizabeth.
She stared at him, arms still crossed in defiance, her expression the perfect mix of indignation, hauteur, and deep, unconcealed skepticism.
