No. It was foolish.
No one had ever suggested he might be in danger. Darcy had cared only about keepinghersafe. The Prince himself had hardly seemed to think the matter worth his concern.
Still.
She could not write to him. He had word from “her” already, did he not? She would only cause confusion, and Darcy… oh, that Darcy fellow’s head would spin like a dervish if he heard of it.
But perhaps…
Charlotte?
Yes.
Charlotte was expecting her to be away. It would not be strange for her to receive a letter. It would not raise suspicion. And it might just ease a bit of her homesickness.
Thenumbersblurred.
Darcy blinked hard, rubbing his fingers against his temples. He could not afford fatigue. Not now.
A candle guttered beside him, wax pooling at its base. The night had stretched thin, creeping toward morning, but still, he pored over the ledgers.Somethinghad to be here.
A connection. A misstep. A name.
Instead, all he saw were numbers—cleverly shifted, redirected, passed through so many hands that they left no discernible trail. But this was not impossible. He had uncovered fraud before, traced careful deceptions to their origin.
This time, however, it felt as if the ground was shifting beneath him faster than he could gain his footing. Darcy exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had not eaten since—when? Yesterday morning? The thought made his stomach turn.
He was tired. Too tired.
That, at least, explained why his mind kept betraying him, why distractions crept in where they had no business being.
Georgiana. He should have sent word to her by now. She was still safely ensconced at Matlock House under his aunt’s watchful eye, but for how much longer? How much longer could he leave her in the hands of others—dependent, unsettled, waiting for a home that no longer existed? His sister should have had a future filled with security, with certainty, with a home of her own at Pemberley. But Pemberley—
He rubbed his jaw.
Pemberley.
His mouth twisted. He had not stepped foot on its land in ten years, had not laid eyes on its sweeping hills or walked its halls since the Crown had deemed his father’s line unfit to inherit. But itwashis. Itoughtto be still his. If the Prince would only—
Darcy’s teeth clenched.If.
He was a fool to think Prince George could be made to exert himself on his behalf. This was not the first time he had been offered a “consideration” only to be brushed off. To find the rug pulled out, the finish line moved. The Prince liked to say one thing and mean another.
This time, however, Darcy was rather certain of the expectation… of what Prince Georgereallywanted of him. It was more than what he said, that much was sure. And it would absolutely cost more than he was willing to pay.
And that led him to—
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Now, why the devil hadshecome to mind when he thought of impossible obstacles?
Elizabeth Montclair.
Blast her.
Darcy scowled, pressing his fingers to his temple. Of all the irritations of the past week, none had proven more insidious than Lady Elizabeth Montclair, smugly ensconced in Hertfordshire under the ridiculous name of “Miss Bennet”—as if that flimsy alias could somehow temper her relentless obstinacy.
She was a distraction, a dangerous distraction. Not because she was incapable—no, that would have been far easier to manage—but because she got under his skin. From the moment he first met her, his reactions to her…
He closed his eyes, willing the vision of her upturned face out of his mind. The real problem was that she was reckless. A woman with no understanding of caution, who would almost certainly be discovered not by ill luck but by her own doing. If something was going to betray her, it would not be some slip of fate, but her. Her own imprudence. Her temper. Her inability to sit quietly and let matters run their course.
