“The same.”
There was a murmur of interest.
“Audley has been pushing hard for an inquiry,” Sir William went on. “He claims the case was closed too quickly.”
Mr. Long scoffed. “Nonsense. What else is there to say?”
“Bellingham fired the shot,” agreed another gentleman. “Everyone saw it. It is all quite cut and dry.”
Sir William looked less convinced. “And yet Audley insists it was too simple. That the investigation was rushed, no due process.”
Darcy kept his expression carefully neutral.Rushed, indeed.
He reached for his glass, taking a slow sip as he turned the thought over in his mind. Henry Audley was no radical, but he was a man of reform. He had made a name for himself in Parliament as an idealist—a man who spoke of justice and progress in a way that either inspired or infuriated his peers.
He was also, by all accounts, scrupulously honest.
Darcy had not yet spoken with him, but if Audley was insisting that Bellingham had not acted alone…
A small movement caught his eye.
Elizabeth.
She was standing just beyond the group, not so close as to be part of the conversation, but near enough that she could hear.
She had been disinterested a moment ago, laughing with three or four other young ladies. But now?
Now, her entire focus was fixed on the conversation. A conversation she could hardly afford to look interested in. She was trying to be subtle about it.
She was failing.
Her hands were clasped tightly before her, her posture rigid, her expression carefully neutral—but her eyes were sharp, her lips slightly parted.
She knew something.
Darcy was certain of it. And blast him, he had hardly asked her a single question since the Prince passed her off into his keeping. He had been too convinced she saw nothing useful, and too concerned with keeping her alive to stop long enough to inquisite her again. Perhaps he ought to reconsider.
He forced himself to take another sip of his drink, glancing away as though he had not noticed her reaction.
But he had.
And he was going to find out why.
Elizabethhadnotexpectedto enjoy herself.
She had thought—perhaps foolishly—that this garden party would be another ordeal to endure. That she would drift about the hedgerows, making polite conversation with perfect strangers, ever on guard, hoping desperately to avoid missteps and suspicion.
And yet, here she was—walking through a sun-dappled garden, perfectly at ease beside Jane Bennet.
She rather liked Jane.
The eldest Bennet daughter was quiet but warm, her words chosen with care, her presence easy and uncomplicated. Unlike her younger sisters, Jane did not chatter endlessly or demand attention. She simply existed beside Elizabeth, a companion rather than a burden.
A pleasant surprise.
It was in this unhurried state that Elizabeth’s attention was caught by a young girl sitting on a stone bench near a garden wall, a sketchbook open across her lap. It was Maria Lucas, Sir William’s daughter.
Elizabeth had met her earlier that afternoon, but even in those brief moments, she had learned much of her. For one, she was excellent friends with the younger Bennet sisters. The girl had sharp, bright eyes, a lively way of speaking, and the unmistakable look of someone trying her very hardest to appear more serious than she was. She reminded Elizabeth a little of Charlotte Wrexham in that way.
