That was saying something, considering he had once voluntarily set foot in Whitechapel on a rumor and spent a full night in an alley pretending to be unconscious just to hear the right conversation.
But this—this was worse.
This was playing nursemaid to a nobleman’s daughter—a woman who had no useful information—while unraveling a conspiracy—again, with no useful information, while actively resisting the urge to strangle everyone in sight.
Including his own cousin.
“So let me see if I comprehend this,” Fitzwilliam said, stretching his legs out beneath the small, rough-hewn table in the dim alcove where they had found some measure of privacy. “The Prince has sent you to unravel a potential conspiracy—on nothing but a whisper—because a young lady claims she saw a second shooter?”
“Shedidsee a second shooter.”
Fitzwilliam arched a brow. “Did she? And you know this for certain?”
Darcy made a face. “To the best of my discernment. She was hiding, out of sight. No one else had the vantage point she did,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “She saw something that does not align with what everyone else believes.”
Fitzwilliam rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, nodding. “Well. If the Prince believes it, it must be true.”
Darcy shot him a scathing look.
Fitzwilliam grinned. “I do have some news, cousin,” he said, leaning back. “Bellingham was convicted not two hours ago.”
Darcy had expected that, but his stomach still sank. “I see.”
Fitzwilliam looked grim now. “It was quick. Too quick. The evidence was presented, the witnesses all aligned, and the jury did not even leave the box before delivering their verdict. He will hang within the week. A pity, the poor soul.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, if your… lady… whatever she is… is to be believed, Bellingham is not the murderer.”
“No, he was guilty,” Darcy muttered. “She saw him fire. Everyone saw him fire. His may not have been the fatal shot, but he is not an innocent man.”
“Yes, but was he guilty alone?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“That is the very thing the Prince has asked me to determine.”
Fitzwilliam took another sip of ale, then eyed him over the rim of his glass. “And what in blazes do you mean to do withher?”
“She cannot stay in London,” Darcy said shortly. “And I cannot keep her.”
Fitzwilliam’s lips twitched. “Oh? You mean to say you do not wish to install an heiress in your Albany flat? What a waste.”
Darcy leveled him with a dark glare.
Fitzwilliam grinned wider. “You could always bring her home to Matlock. I am sure my mother would adore—”
“I would rather put my head through that wall.”
Fitzwilliam laughed, but Darcy ignored him, muttering half to himself as he mentally eliminated the few, terrible options before him.
“I cannot take her to Netherfield. No plausible reason for her to be there. Bingley has his sisters with him, and they would talk.”
Fitzwilliam hummed in amusement. “I would pay to see Caroline Bingley’s face.”
Darcy did not dignify that with a response.
“She cannot go to Matlock. Or to Pem—” He cut himself off. Pemberley was not his to take her to. He exhaled. “Well. She cannot remain in London.”
“Yes, you have said that twice now,” Fitzwilliam pointed out helpfully.
