Elizabeth stumbled as he all but lifted her into the carriage, her thoughts sluggish, her body moving without her mind’s permission. The door slammed shut behind her, sealing her inside with the most infuriating man in all of England, but all she could do was sit there, staring numbly out the window.
The carriage lurched forward. The crowd blurred behind them.
She barely felt the movement.
Her hands were trembling in her lap, the fabric of her borrowed skirts twisting between her fingers. She could still hear the gossip of the onlookers, still smell the acrid smoke.
Her bedroom was gone.
And if she had been there last night, she would have been gone, too.
Thecarriagerattledoverthe uneven road, the sound of hooves and wheels blending into a dull, ceaseless rhythm. Darcy sat stiffly, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the scenery beyond the window. He wasnotstaring at her.
Except he was.
Lady Elizabeth Montclair sat across from him, unnaturally still. She had been rigid as stone when they left Mayfair, jaw tight, hands clenched in her lap. But now, as the city faded behind them and the open countryside stretched ahead, her posture had softened.
She was not weeping. Not in any grand, dramatic display. No heaving sobs, no shaking shoulders. But a single tear tracked slowly down her cheek.
Darcy exhaled and dug into his coat pocket. He extended the handkerchief across the small space between them.
She glanced at it, blinked once, then hesitated before taking it. And then she blew her nose. Loudly.
Darcy cringed. His fingers twitched slightly where they rested on his knee. He could not decide if she was testing him or if she was truly that done in. And he could not decide which possibility unsettled him more.
A moment passed before she finally spoke.
“I hope my maid does not take the blame for this.”
Darcy blinked, surprised.
Not a demand. Not an accusation. Not another ill-conceived plan for fixing things herself.
She was thinking of a servant. How… peculiar.
He watched her carefully, but she was not speaking for effect. Her gaze was fixed on the countryside, lost in thought.
“She was only supposed to tend my dressing room,” Elizabeth continued quietly. “But she often tidied my chamber as well. If they think she left something near the fire…” Her brow furrowed. “I have never seen her careless, but I doubt that would matter.”
Darcy folded his arms, studying her a moment longer before replying. “They will not need a scapegoat if they believe it was an accident.”
She sniffed, dabbing at her nose with the handkerchief. “And how do you think it truly started?”
He took a slow breath. “Likely something incendiary thrown through the window.”
Her head snapped toward him. “You say that so easily.”
Darcy shrugged. “It would not have been difficult. A man could have climbed the tree that leans over from the street, slipped the latch, and shut the window again. The room would have smoldered before the flames caught. By the time anyone noticed, all evidence of how the fire started would have been destroyed.”
Elizabeth sat back, staring out the window once more.
Darcy waited for another question, another argument, but instead, her expression shifted—her gaze turned inward, as if something else was occupying her mind. A crease formed between her brows.
Then, without looking at him, she murmured, “Georgiana. Georgiana Darcy.”
It was as if a bolt of lightning shot through his spine. He stiffened, sitting straighter. “I beg your pardon?”
She turned her head, watching him with open curiosity. “That is your sister’s name, is it not?”
