The sketches were rough but familiar. Easy.
Her mind drifted, her strokes fluid, effortless. The repetition of it was calming, the gentle scratching against the page soothing.
Until, without thinking, her hand started sketching something else.
A face.
Her hand stilled when she realized what it was.
The lines were sharper than before, the shape of them forming too quickly, as if her memory had taken over her fingertips.
The jaw, angular and unshaven.
A shadowed cheekbone, gaunt in the dim light.
The thick brows, the narrow lips.
She hadseenhim.
Elizabeth’s breath caught.
She had not let herself recall this—not in full. She had spoken of him in vague terms, had told herself she had only glimpsed him for an instant. But her fingers knew better. The memory had been waiting. Lurking.
She had been steps away from him. Had felt his presence in that alcove, had seen his head turn toward her, the recognition flicker in his eyes.
Her stomach twisted.
He had seen her.
And now, here he was again, staring up at her from the page, his outline unmistakable, the sharp intensity of that gaze, piercing straight through her like a needle through silk.
Her pulse thudded loudly in her ears.
What if Darcy could use this?
She stared at the sketch, a prickle of unease running down her spine. But she did not allow herself to hesitate. Carefully, deliberately, she tore the page free and smoothed out the edges.
She folded it once, then again, tucking it beneath her pillow.
Tomorrow, she would give it to him.
Chapter Twelve
May 19, 1812
Darcy’sroomatNetherfieldwas suffocating.
He had spent the better part of the morning pacing, hands clasped behind his back, staring out of the window, then back at the desk, then at the neatly folded correspondence he had prepared for London. The Prince’s deadline loomed ever closer, and he had done nothing.
No new leads. No progress. No evidence beyond the word of a woman he had assumed saw nothing of consequence.
He would leave for London within the hour. He had convinced Bingley that he had business with the Home Office, though that had only prompted a string of questions about when he would return. Darcy had not answered. The truth was, he did not know.
Nor did he know what he expected to find.
He exhaled sharply and pressed his palms against the desk, bowing his head for a brief moment, forcing himself to think. A week had passed since Perceval fell, since the country was thrown into disarray, since Darcy had become entangled in this wretched affair. A week.
And now, the man convicted for the crime was dead. Executed yesterday.
