The news had spread like wildfire through the town. Meryton was buzzing with the details, the certainty of Bellingham’s guilt, the finality of justice being served. The people were content to close the matter.
Darcy, however, was not.
The true murderer remained free. The Prince had given him a task, and he had nothing—nothing but the sinking realization that time was slipping away, and the illusion of safety in Hertfordshire was precisely that.
An illusion.
He needed to return to London. He had wasted too many days already. His plan had been simple—take breakfast, settle his affairs with Bingley, and be on his way before noon.
He had not accounted for distractions.
Darcy reached for his coat, prepared to take his leave, when he heard the unmistakable music of female voices from downstairs. A rising and falling of pleasantries, the occasional exclamation—too distant to make out the words, but distinct enough to mark them as visitors.
His brow furrowed. It was morning, the customary hour for calls. But that should not concern him in any way. He planned to leave quietly—he had already made his intentions known.
A sharp rap on the door interrupted that plan.
Before Darcy could respond, the door cracked open and Bingley poked his head inside, beaming in that boyishly eager way that made it impossible to predict whether he was about to say something innocuous or entirely exasperating.
“Darcy! There you are—still here. You are in luck, man.”
“Am I?”
“Indeed! You see, the Bennets have come to call.” Bingley stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him with a casual flick of his hand. “I know you were planning to leave today,” he continued, “but I cannot in good conscience let you slip away like some fugitive before you have greeted them.” His grin widened. “Come, be sociable.”
Darcy crossed his arms. “I fail to see why my presence is required.”
Bingley waved a hand. “Oh, come now. It is only polite. Besides, you and Mr. Bennet get on famously—you can speak of all your dreadful books and strategy games while the ladies chatter about ribbons and bonnets.”
Darcy arched a brow.
Bingley laughed. “Very well, I take it back. Miss Elizabeth, at least, is rather sharp in conversation. You should quite enjoy yourself.”
Darcy schooled his features into neutrality, refusing to rise to whatever bait Bingley was dangling before him.
Bingley, naturally, noticed. His expression turned shrewd. “You must come, Darcy. Caroline will take it as a personal triumph if you hide in here all morning.”
That, at least, gave him pause.
Bingley was already seizing the moment, stepping aside and gesturing toward the hall. “Come along, man. It is only a few minutes of pleasantries. Then you can run off to London to your heart’s content.”
Darcy clenched his jaw. It was foolish to risk unnecessary attention by being seen speaking with Elizabeth. And yet—refusing outright would raise questions. And it was just a morning call.
A few minutes of pleasantries.
Nothing more.
He straightened his coat and strode past Bingley into the hall.
By the time Darcy entered the drawing room alongside Bingley, the Bennet women had already settled. The Bingley sisters were seated with stiff politeness, their smiles brittle as they exchanged the customary pleasantries with their guests.
Darcy barely registered any of it.
Because Elizabeth was there.
She was seated near Jane Bennet, gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture composed like she was sitting in her father’s drawing room. When she glanced up, her gaze brushed his—just briefly, just enough.
She rose with the others as decorum dictated, offering a graceful curtsy. “Mr. Darcy.” But there was something in the way she carried herself—too deliberate, too measured. A slight stiffness in her posture, as though she were bracing for something. That in itself was a message to him.
