Darcy allowed a thoughtful grunt. “Then it must have been my imagination when I saw you loitering at the edges of the conversation.”
Elizabeth shot him a sideways glare. “It must have been.”
“Curious, though,” he mused, as if speaking to himself. “That my imagination should coincide so neatly with your unwavering attention whenever his name arose in conversation.”
Elizabeth made a noise of indignation. “Unwavering attention! That is ridiculous.”
“Of course.”
She huffed. “Very well. If you must know—I find Mr. Audley agreeable.”
Darcy arched a brow. “Agreeable?”
Elizabeth waved a hand. “You know. In a sort of… respectable, idealistic, utterly noble sort of way.”
“And what exactly are his superior qualifications?”
She sniffed. “He is a gentleman.”
“So am I.”
She made a scoffing sound. “He is a gentleman with money.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes. “Now, see here—”
“Oh, do not look at me like that, sir,” she interrupted breezily. “You asked for an honest answer.”
He clenched his jaw. “I suppose I did.”
Elizabeth clasped her hands in front of her, looking ever so pleased with herself. “And now you have it.”
Darcy resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You are insufferable.”
“Yes, I know,” she said sweetly. “But I am also a key witness in a murder investigation. Which, I believe, is more than some people can say.”
Darcy inhaled deeply, forcing himself to return his focus to the path ahead. This woman would drive him to madness.
But at least, now, he had an answer.
Elizabethlayinthedark, staring at the ceiling. The house was silent around her, save for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant sound of a clock ticking in the hallway.
She turned onto her side. Then her other side. Then onto her back again.
Sleep would not come.
Her mind wandered where she did not want it to go—London, her father, Charlotte. The Queen’s cool gaze. The Prince’s indolent smirk. And most of all—the shot. The acrid burn of the air in that terrible moment. The chaos. The truth she had tried to tell. The details taunting her, just at the edge of memory.
She exhaled sharply and sat up.
Her fingers fumbled for the small writing desk near her bed. A moment later, her hands found what they sought—her sketchbook, the charcoals Mr. Bennet had procured for her at Jane’s request. She flipped it open, the paper smooth beneath her fingertips.
For a while, she let her hand move freely, copying down the things that anchored her to the present—to this life she was living for a little while. Anything to help her think of something cheerful and pleasant rather thanthatmoment.
Jane, bent over her embroidery, brow furrowed in concentration, needle poised midair.
Mr. Bennet at his desk, pen hovering as though caught between thoughts.
A vague outline of Longbourn’s garden, the gentle slope leading toward the fields.
