Elizabeth pulled the coverlet higher over her shoulders. Sleep evaded her again tonight.
She missed London.
She missed the ease of familiarity—her father’s absentminded grumbles, Charlotte’s sharp wit, the routine of calling on friends, of reading by lamplight in a place where she belonged.
Here, she was an imposter.
A stranger playing a part in a house full of women who accepted her without question. They were kind—far kinder than they needed to be. Jane in particular. But that kindness only made her feel more like an interloper, a guest overstaying her welcome.
And yet… what choice did she have?
A soft sigh escaped her lips, barely audible beneath the sounds of the night.
She had wanted—needed—to get away from the stifling house, so she had offered to take Hill’s place in gathering the last of the linens from the line. The air had been crisp, the grass damp from the evening dew, and for a moment, it had been peaceful.
Until she noticed it.
A feeling. A prickle against the back of her neck, the unmistakable sense of being watched.
She had turned sharply, expecting to find a servant or one of the younger girls lingering behind her.
But the yard had been empty.
Nothing but moonlight on the damp grass, the flicker of candlelight from the windows, and the soft rustle of the trees.
Still, she had not lingered.
Now, she sat upright in bed, staring at the closed curtains.
It had been nothing. A flight of fancy. She was not used to country nights, to the sounds of the house settling or the unfamiliar emptiness of the fields beyond the garden. She was being foolish.
And yet—
Her fingers tightened in the coverlet.
Darcy had said she was safe. He hadpromisedshe was safe.
She forced a slow breath and willed herself to believe it.
But Darcy had left for London that very afternoon. And even Mr. Bennet, who was the only person in Hertfordshire who had any inkling she was not who she was supposed to be, had no idea of the truth of the matter.
As she lay back against the pillows, she could not shake the feeling that someone had been there. Watching. Waiting. Was it merely her imagination? The threads of a guilty conscience weaving together to torment her?
Or had she been recognized?
May 20, 1812
Darcyhadbeenatthis for hours.
His rented rooms at Albany were quiet, save for the faint crackle of the oil lamp and the steady scratch of his pen as he copied numbers from one ledger to another. Pages of figures, columns of names, payments listed under vague descriptions—it was all maddeningly opaque. The Home Office kept thorough records, but thorough did not mean transparent. Whoever had orchestrated this had been careful, using layers of intermediaries to obscure the movement of funds.
The ledgers stretched before him in neat, unbroken rows of ink, each name and figure meticulously recorded, each column an exercise in bureaucratic monotony. A web of numbers. Transactions. Financial trails that should have led somewhere. But instead, they looped endlessly into nothing.
Bellingham had been executed the day before yesterday, and his trial had done exactly what it was meant to do—close the case. The investigation had ceased the moment the noose tightened around the man’s neck. The authorities considered it over. Finished.
But someone had paid Bellingham. Provoked him, stoked his motives… likely blackmailed him, threatened his family, even, to make him kill the Prime Minister. That much, Darcy was certain of. And someone had gone to great lengths to cover it up.
A knock at the door pulled him from his work. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose before rising to answer.
