“You have kept her safe, I assume? Her personandher reputation?”
The mildly affronted look Darcy leveled at him was answer enough.
Nodding once, Fitzwilliam looked satisfied. “Then I shall not ask again. But when you return, I want a full account of what you find.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Agreed.”
Sinking into a chair, Fitzwilliam scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “This means I will be stuck in London, a soldier pretending to be a bureaucrat—poring over ledgers, talking to slippery men, and trying to find a money trail that does not want to be found. In short, trying to do your job, but without your… shall I say ‘duller’ personality traits to help me in the quest.”
“I prefer ‘careful’.”
Fitzwilliam exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “I hate you.”
“You will live.”
A smirk twitched at Fitzwilliam’s lips. “Well, at least this confirms one thing.”
Darcy arched a brow.
“You are thoroughly, irretrievably entangled with that woman.”
Darcy’s jaw locked.
The smirk turned into a grin. “Mother will be delighted to hear of this. I recall her going on about—”
Without missing a beat, Darcy turned on his heel. “Go hang yourself.”
His cousin laughed. “Enjoy your little country retreat.”
Darcy did not dignify that with a response.
May 24, 1812
Thefirstmorningofsharing a room with Jane had proved surprisingly tolerable. Elizabeth had expected some measure of awkwardness, but Jane, good and decent soul that she was, had made the transition easy.
What wasnottolerable, however, was Mr. Collins.
Elizabeth had suspected, upon first seeing the man lumber out of his carriage with all the grace of a collapsing wardrobe, that he would be a source of considerable amusement. And in that, she had been correct. He was a fool of the highest order, with a voice like a pompous old toad and the confidence of a man wholly unaware of his own absurdity.
He was also, she suspected, a problem.
Jane had barely said a word all through breakfast, her face carefully schooled into abashed neutrality, but Elizabeth knew her well enough now to recognize the signs of distress. A few rapid blinks. A stiffness in her posture. A deep breath taken and released too slowly, as if to calm herself.
Elizabeth had seen Jane like this at the garden party when she had looked upon Mr. Bingley and his sisters. And now, here she was again, quiet and inwardly troubled.
Collins, of course, noticed none of it. He had spent the better part of breakfast explaining, at great and unnecessary length, the supreme honor of serving under his patroness, one Lady Catherine de Bourgh—a woman apparently so lofty the stars themselves could not aspire to her brilliance, but whose name Elizabeth had never heard. Now, he had turned his attentions to Elizabeth.
“I must admit, Cousin,” he said, swallowing a large mouthful of ham before dabbing primly at his lips with a napkin, “I was rather surprised to learn of your connection to the family. My late father, Mr. Bennet’s third cousin, spoke often of our extended relations. I was under the impression that Daniel Bennet of Shropshire had no children.”
Elizabeth froze. Her hand, poised over her plate, remained motionless as she forced her expression into polite curiosity. She did not dare glance at Mr. Bennet.
“Oh,” she murmured, reaching for her teacup to steady herself, “how interesting.”
Collins nodded, chewing his next bite with great relish. “Indeed, quite interesting! I had always thought myself well acquainted with our family’s lineage. It is most intriguing, is it not, how one can be mistaken about such things?”
There was a pause—too long, too weighted.
Elizabeth swallowed. If he pressed further, what was she to say? She had constructed no backstory, no details beyond what had been hastily thrown together on the day of her arrival.
