He stepped into the hall, breaking the seal as he walked.
The message was brief, unsigned, and direct:
You are expected tomorrow at White’s at two o’clock.
Nothing more.
But that was enough. Darcy’s pulse quickened.
White’s was not merely a gentlemen’s club—it was where the most powerful men in England met in private. The very place where ministers, military officers, and men of influence conducted business the public would never hear of.
Whoever had sent this message had authority.
Something had happened. He had missed something.
Darcy folded the letter, tucked it into his coat, and strode toward the waiting messenger.
Chapter Two
London, May 12, 1812
LadyElizabethMontclairhadnever known what it was like to be needed.
She waswanted, certainly—coveted, admired, endlessly discussed in drawing rooms and gentlemen’s clubs—but never needed.
And now, when it truly mattered, when she alone knew the truth of what had happened yesterday, she could not get a single soul to listen.
Not even her father.
The Ashwick townhouse was a grand, elegant building just off St. James’s Square, with tall windows that looked out onto the streets of London and a staff that operated with quiet efficiency, whether its master was present or not.
Which was fortunate, as he rarely was.
The Marquess of Ashwick spent most of his time at White’s, Tattersall’s, or Parliament—depending on the time of day and whether the subject at hand was politics, horses, or the ongoing woes of the country.
Her mother, meanwhile, was nowhere near London.
She had long since removed herself to Devonshire, her family’s ancestral estate, content to play lady of the manor while pretending she had not been exiled there years ago when she and her husband mutually declared that more children were not to be, and consequently, they could not abide the sight of one another.
As for Elizabeth, she had the townhouse, the maids, the carriages, the silk gowns, the endless social engagements—everything but purpose.
Until now.
Until she had seen a man murdered in the halls of Parliament and realized—with chilling certainty—that she had seen what no one else had.
And her father, a man of considerable influence, rank, and power, would not even look up from his desk.
Thestudysmelledoftobacco and old books, the heavy scent of some sort of meat and brandy clinging to the air. Papers were stacked in neat piles upon the desk, and a single lamp burned low, casting a golden glow over her father’s disinterested expression.
Elizabeth stood before him, hands clenched at her sides. “You are not listening to me.”
“I am listening, petal,” the Marquess of Ashwick said, not looking up from the document in his hand.
“No, you arehearingme,“ Elizabeth corrected. “You are notlistening.”
Her father sighed deeply, set the paper down, and finally fixed her with a gaze that was both indulgent and distracted.
“Well, then, my dear,” he said. “Do tell me again what you saw. I promise to apply my full attention.”
