He pressed a hand to the desk, as though he might steady the room by anchoring himself to it. The words were out there, and someone had given them life. If not her—then who had listened closely enough to steal her?
And if itwasher—how much more had she written? Had she spoken of him? Had she let slip something he could not afford the world to know?
Or was it all just coincidence—sharp, uncanny, and cruelly timed?
Chapter Twenty-Three
December 12
“Captain Marlowe, you mustadmit, the statue’s posture is rather... suggestive,” Elizabeth said, lifting her chin toward the marble figure in question. “He looks less like a Roman general and more like a man auditioning for a romantic tragedy.”
“Or recovering from one,” the captain replied quickly. Then, with a glance at her expression: “That is—if you think so. I meant only—yes, rather like a man in mourning. Or, perhaps—too much?”
“Do you think the raised hand means he’s surrendering, or reaching for his brandy?”
Captain Marlowe chuckled, visibly relieved. “Reaching for his brandy, certainly. Unless—you would not rather say he wasreaching for something nobler? His commission, perhaps? Or is that too dull?”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “That depends. Did his fiancée just elope with a footman?”
“Or with the sculptor, perhaps.” He laughed again, then hesitated. “Though—perhaps that makes him a fool, rather than a figure of pathos.”
She laughed, a short, bright sound that drew a glance from the lady beside them—Lady Ravenshaw, if Elizabeth remembered correctly—who raised one brow before drifting back toward the tea urn.
She had met Captain Marlowe ten minutes earlier, introduced by Mr. Darcy under the guise of “a mutual fondness for Greco-Roman curiosities.” Darcy knew well enough that Elizabeth cared for nothing of the kind, and she doubted Marlowe had thought of Roman art until this morning, but the man had a pleasant voice, an easy way with a joke, and remarkably fine shoulders. Which, for this afternoon, was more than enough.
At least, it should have been.
His next remark—an insult regarding some man for whom another woman had spurned him—landed poorly. “She said he was a rake, but I suspect she meant the garden variety. Unless, of course, that is unfair. You would know better.”
Elizabeth offered a polite laugh. Her eyes, however, had wandered. Not far. Just across the room, toward a cluster near the refreshments. A tall figure stood half-turned in profile, one hand at his cuff.
She did not need to see the face. The posture was enough.
Darcy.
Still here.
Still watching. With a vast cloud on his brow that promised a thunderclap if one looked at him cross-eyed.
Captain Marlowe gestured toward the next plinth. “This one seems less afflicted by heartbreak,” he said, and then, catching himself, added, “Although that may not be the correct interpretation. I would not presume.”
Elizabeth pulled her attention back. “Or perhaps he simply hides it better. That is the British way, is it not?”
The captain grinned. “Then I am no patriot. Or—” he cleared his throat, “—not when it comes to concealment.”
She smiled again, carefully… so lightly. She had promised herself she would do better this time. Smooth, sociable, not too sharp. She could make this work. Marlowe was charming. He liked her laugh. That was a good beginning.
But the back of her neck itched.
She risked another glance across the room.
Darcy was no longer alone.
Lady Matlock stood at his elbow, head inclined toward his. Elizabeth could not hear the words, but the timing felt precise—as if Lady Matlock had seen her laughing and pulled Darcy aside deliberately.
Captain Marlowe was saying something about sailing ships and figures on prows. Elizabeth nodded, though she missed the start of the sentence.
“I imagine you have seen enough figureheads to know better than to take them seriously,” she offered, hoping it sounded like wit and not an apology.
