Elizabeth scowled.
Ofcourse, he would say something like that. He was careful to a fault, striding about as if the weight of England’s safety rested solely on his shoulders. She could almost see the way he would react if he knew she was considering this. The sharp narrowing of his eyes. The subtle flickering of those rather spectacular jaw muscles. The exasperated way he would exhale and rub his forehead before lecturing her about caution.
But even he had to see the necessity of it. Surely, there was no harm in writing to Charlotte.
Surely, one letter could do no damage.
Darcywasshowninwithout ceremony.
The Prince Regent lounged in an opulent chair near the fireplace, his usual snifter of brandy dangling between two fingers. His cravat was slightly loosened, and his waistcoat strained against a stomach that had known too many rich meals. A platter of untouched fruit sat on the table beside him, yet another indulgence he would let go to waste.
“Ah, Mr. Darcy,” he drawled, not looking up immediately. “How kind of you to heed my summons with such urgency.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Your Highness.”
The Prince swirled his brandy, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “I trust you have come bearing results?”
Darcy hesitated. The delay was brief, but it was enough.
The Prince’s gaze flicked upward, sharp as a blade. “Do not tell me,” he said, exhaling in exaggerated disappointment. “You have spent days scurrying about like an industrious little clerk, rifling through ledgers and listening at keyholes, and yet you have nothing to show for it.”
Darcy’s hands tightened behind his back.
“There are… irregularities in certain financial transactions,” he said carefully. “But they are buried beneath layers of false names and convoluted routes. If I had more time—”
“Time?” The Prince cut in, setting down his brandy with a deliberate clink. “Darcy, dear boy, I believe I was quite clear about your timeline.”
Darcy’s pulse ticked at his temple, but he kept his expression neutral. “Your Highness was explicit, yes. I have still six days, if Your Highness recalls.”
“But you have already had eight, and I ought to know something of you by now.”
Darcy drew a slow breath. “If I move too quickly, I may flush out our quarry before I have him cornered. I need him unaware that I am closing in.”
The Prince made a low sound in his throat, neither agreement nor dissent. He leaned back, tapping a lazy finger against his knee.
“And while you have been floundering about,” he mused, “I hear whispers in Parliament—nagging little suggestions that we might need a public inquiry. And if that happens, well—how fascinating it would be to see what else turns up. Such investigations have a way of unearthing all sorts of… complications.”
He tilted his head, smiling faintly. “Why, even your dear Pemberley might make for an interesting study, if anyone ever chose to look into it.”
A slow, deliberate threat.
Darcy’s stomach twisted, but he remained still. Pemberley—his Pemberley—had been caught in legal limbo since his father’s disgrace. A technicality, the Prince had once said with an airy wave of his hand. An unfortunate situation that might one day be resolved.
But only if it suited the Crown.
Darcy clenched his jaw. As he expected, the Prince was going to keep dangling this, keep needling him with false hope. But if there was even the slightest chance that he might reclaim it—
The Prince watched him, smug and knowing. “I imagine you understand my predicament,” he continued. “I am a patient man—so patient—but eventually, I shall require a resolution.”
Darcy forced his hands to unclench. “I will have something soon.”
The Prince smirked. “Yes, you will.”
A pause.
Then the Prince leaned forward slightly, the light from the fire catching his round face. “And the lady?” he asked, voice deceptively idle. “Lady Elizabeth Montclair. Where have you stashed her?”
Darcy’s pulse beat once, twice. He had anticipated this as well. He met the Prince’s gaze without flinching.
