Hughes raised a brow. “Ah, of course. The Prince Regent. Odd timing, would you not say?”
Darcy’s quill froze, but he did not look up. “What can possibly be ‘odd’ in the timing of any request from the Prince?”
“Not from him, no. I should think nothing His Highness requests ought to come as a surprise by now. But you—why, you look like a spectre, and with all these comings and goings, I almost forgot you had a month’s leave.”
Darcy’s jaw flinched. “And I shall resume my leave as soon as I have answered a question or two. The matter concerns no one else.”
“Of course. How silly of me to assume you might be wasting your time on something trivial.”
Darcy did not flinch. “I do not waste my time.”
“Mm. Except on things you cannot—or will not—explain.” Hughes tapped a finger against the ledger before setting it down with a sigh. “Look, I care nothing for what game you are playing. But if you are digging for something that does not officially exist, be careful. Some people do not like to have their ledgers scrutinized.”
Darcy’s fingers tightened around his quill. “Noted.”
Hughes gave him a long, considering look before shaking his head and pushing back from the desk. “For mercy’s sake, get some sleep, Darcy. You are starting to look like one of those miserable romantics who waste away from consumption.”
With that, he strolled off.
Darcy exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. He did not have time to waste away.
He turned back to the ledger, forcing himself to focus. The numbers told a story—one that someone had gone to great lengths to bury.
And yet—something was shifting. He could feel it.
It came in pieces. A conversation here. A notation there. Nothing definitive, but enough to set his nerves on edge.
Fitzwilliam had mentioned it so offhandedly yesterday that it had barely registered at the time:Lord Cunningham of Northumberland has funded political endeavors before.
Not an accusation. Not even a new revelation. But confirmation of something Darcy had long suspected.
The problem was, they had no proof of Cunningham’s involvement in Perceval’s death. Or even a motive, really. They were rivals, but Perceval had many rivals.
Money was moving. That much was certain. But wherever it was going, the trail vanished too cleanly.
Someone had taken great care to ensure there were no loose ends.
Darcy’s fingers tightened on his quill until it bent between them. He hated being two steps behind.
And yet, that was precisely where he was.
Themorningwasmild,sunlight filtering through the thin clouds, painting the dusty road to Meryton in shades of gold. Elizabeth took a refreshing gulp of the crisp country air, adjusting the bonnet ribbons beneath her chin as she and Jane strolled into the bustling town.
She had been careful. Careful to suggest the errand casually, careful to ensure that it was Jane who accompanied her and not one of the younger girls, who were too excitable and too likely to pry.
Jane, predictably, had been happy to oblige.
It was only a letter.
A harmless letter.
But as they walked, Elizabeth could not shake the sensation that she was doing something reckless. Not dangerous, exactly—she had taken every precaution—but reckless in a way that pricked at her conscience and thrilled her in equal measure.
The plan was simple. She had slipped away, briefly, to pay a farmer who was driving toward London to post it at a different stop while Jane was distracted with some ribbons or lace. And now she was free of the letter and the gnawing feeling of homesickness that had driven her to write it in the first place.
Perhaps now, she would feel… settled.
As much as she could be.
