Darcy scowled. Blasted, bloody nonsense, all this! Had he not answered that summons, he could have been comfortably settled by a roaring fire with Bingley last night. Might be out after the hounds this morning, possibly with a stimulating game of chess to look forward to with Bennet. But no, he had gone to White’s, like a blighted fool, and been dragged into the thick of it.
He sighed. “She needs to be hidden somewhere no one would think to look.”
“That much is obvious,” Richard replied.
Darcy plucked at his chin as his eyes glazed over in thought. Somewhere discreet. Somewhere no one would question an unknown “relation” suddenly appearing in the household. Somewhere—
His thoughts stuttered.
Hertfordshire.
Netherfield.
Longbourn.
Darcy’s thoughts lurched, catching on a thread of something—something that might actually make sense. His spine stiffened.
Mr. Bennet.
It was preposterous.
It wasperfect.
The Bennets had a cousin no one had ever met. A connection already whispered about among the neighbors, an expectation of someone appearing someday to claim the estate. No one would think twice ifanotherrelative—distant, forgotten, unimportant—also surfaced from obscurity.
The Bennets were loud, chaotic, impossible to ignore, yet utterly unremarkable to those in high society. Who would suspect them? Who would believe them capable of harboring a fugitive?
No one.
No one would ever look for a missing heiress there.
Darcy rubbed a hand over his mouth, mind racing.
Would Bennet agree?
Darcy huffed. Of course, he would. He would find it amusing. A lark. A secret to keep from his wife, a joke to play with himself as the only audience.
But there would need to be compensation.
That, too, could be arranged. The Prince owed him. And Bennet was practical—he would not turn down a financial incentive, not when it meant an easy favor.
Darcy’s fingers twitched at his side, tapping his thigh as he ticked off the ideas.
If he took residence at Netherfield again, he could keep watch. He would be close. He could—
It couldwork.
God help him, itcouldactually work.
His thoughts spun, momentum building, one possibility tumbling into the next, barely aware that Fitzwilliam was staring at him with increasing alarm.
“What the devil are you doing?” Fitzwilliam asked, voice slow with suspicion.
Darcy did not respond.
“You’re doing it again,” Fitzwilliam muttered. “That thing where you start speaking in half-sentences and your eyes dart around like you’re reading invisible reports in the air.”
“I need to write to Mr. Bennet,” Darcy muttered. Then, before the thought even finished forming, he shook his head. “No. I need to speak with him.”
