A satisfying crunch.
The shorter of the two men reeled back, a sharp grunt of pain tearing from his throat as he stumbled, clutching his jaw.
The taller man turned, blinking blearily, as if his ale-soaked mind was struggling to process what had just occurred. Darcy had no intention of waiting for him to catch up.
Behind him, Fitzwilliam had reached the scene. He was already moving, his hand clamping onto the second man’s shoulder with a casual sort of strength that belied its iron grip.
“You might leave now,” Fitzwilliam said, voice dangerously light, as though offering a pleasant suggestion rather than a command.
The man, still sluggish, frowned. “We meant no harm—”
Darcy turned fully toward him, deliberately stepping closer.
The drunken man finally registered the look on Darcy’s face. And turned pale.
“Out.“ Darcy’s voice was low, controlled, but there was murder in it.
The two men hesitated for the briefest moment, as if debating whether the appeal of the lady before them was worth risking a broken jaw—but with one final glance at Darcy and Fitzwilliam, their resolve crumbled.
The shorter man muttered something under his breath, rubbing his jaw as he stumbled toward the door. The second man followed, shoulders hunched, eyes avoiding theirs.
Silence.
Darcy turned. Elizabeth was still standing in the doorway where she had been, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her lips pressed into a thin line of defiance.
She looked him straight in the eye.
And he could see it—
The stubborn tilt of her chin. The fury still simmering beneath the surface. The refusal to look even slightly shaken.
She was furious. And she was not backing down.
“You opened the door?” he barked. “After I explicitly told you not to? To keep it locked? What the devil were youthinking?”
She arched her brows, utterly unrepentant. “I wasthinkingthat you two cads were talking over what to do with me while I sat up here like some porcelain doll. I wasthinkingI would much rather have a hand in my own fate, thank you very much.”
Darcy dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Only daughters,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Too often indulged, thinking the world operates according to their whims.”
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “We do notthinkthat, Mr. Darcy. Weknowit.”
Darcy growled something incoherent, pushed both of them back inside the room, and bolted the door.
Chapter Seven
Darcyhadenduredmanyunpleasant things in the past few days.
Being summoned by the Prince Regent. Being saddled with an impossible woman. Navigating London’s underbelly with no clear plan, no solid leads, and the distinct possibility of failure.
He had faced them all with steadfast resignation—irritation, certainly, but nothing he could not bear. But this— this particular moment— was the first time in days that he felt truly unprepared.
He stepped into the small, dim room of the coaching inn, his grip tightening around the modest bundle in his hands. Lady Elizabeth Montclair stood by the window, her back rigid, hands braced at her hips, her fingers drumming impatiently against the fabric of her rumpled silk gown. The sharp frown etched between her brows made it clear that she had spent the time alone thinking, no doubt concocting a fresh barrage of arguments against their situation.
At the sound of the door, she turned. Her eyes flickered toward him, then lower, landing on the parcel in his hands.
She did not look relieved.
Darcy was not sure what reaction he had expected—resignation, perhaps, or some shred of reluctant understanding—but it certainly was not this.
