“Deena.” Colonel Fitzwilliam repeated the name slowly, and for just a fraction of a second, something flickered in his eyes—sharp, knowing, grim. Then it was gone, replaced by an expression of idle curiosity.
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “Do you recognize the name?”
“No,” the colonel said quickly. “No, I do not believe so. I have been stationed here and there these past few years, and when in London, I rarely spend time on that side of town.”
He leaned forward slightly, eyes on Benjamin again. “Still, it is possible the child has family somewhere. One hears stories, after all—lost heirs, long-lost children identified by a mole or scar…”
Elizabeth stiffened. “Yes, there is a birthmark. However, I do not see how that is any of your concern, Colonel Fitzwilliam—unless you intend to claim him as your own? In that case, you would know its shape and location, would you not?”
The words hung in the room like ice.
Fitzwilliam’s eyebrows shot up. “My dear Miss Bennet, that is not… I mean…”
“Forgive me,” she said coolly, “but you’ve taken rather a keen interest in a child you’ve only just met.”
The colonel stood and moved toward the window. “Only admiring the view,” he said over his shoulder. “The hills here are quite different from the southern coast.”
Elizabeth frowned.He is too interested in Benjamin. Just like Smithson was. I do not trust him.She turned to Darcy and gave him a severe glare.
“Do not be afraid, Miss Elizabeth.” Darcy’s voice was intense. “This is my cousin; I have known him all my life. He is completely honorable.”
She turned her face away. “So was Smithson, once, I imagine. He wore a gentleman’s coat and used a gentleman’s voice. That did not stop him from breaking into my uncle’s home and trying to enter the nursery.” Her voice dropped. “I tried to save his life, Mr. Darcy. I held his blood in my hands. I screamed myself hoarse for help.”
Darcy’s expression folded with grief. “I know.”
“I am not sure I know anything anymore,” she whispered. “And as for you—how long have I known you, truly? A month? Less? Why should I trust your judgment any more than my own?”
That struck something in him. She saw it in the twitch of his brow, the subtle pull of pain at the corner of his mouth.
She looked away, ashamed. “I am sorry. That was unfair.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It was honest.”
“I do not know what your cousin is hiding,” Elizabeth said. “But until I do, I think it is best he does not visit again. And that Benjamin not be present if he does.”
She rose slowly, her back straight, her arms curled tightly around the boy in her lap. Benjamin whimpered and buried his face against her shoulder.
“I am taking him upstairs.” Her voice was final.
Darcy stood as she passed, but he did not speak. The tension hung between them like fog, thick and heavy, clouding all certainty.
And for the first time since the fire, Elizabeth wondered whether anyone could truly be trusted with what—and whom—she had to protect.
Chapter 18
As the door closed behind Elizabeth, Darcy ran a hand over his face and slowly crossed to the window where Colonel Fitzwilliam stood.
The view beyond was unremarkable—just a haze of winter-dulled fields and hedgerows—but Darcy did not even stop to spare it a first glance.
Instead, he hissed in a low voice, “What the devil was that?”
The colonel’s arms were crossed as he leaned against the windowsill, eyes still watching the horizon. “Not quite the outcome I was aiming for,” he murmured.
“I warned you,” Darcy said, barely restraining himself. “Miss Elizabeth is no empty-headed debutante, eager to be flattered by a red coat and vague assurances. She sees through more than most.”
The colonel turned, brow raised. “That much is clear. She’s sharp as a tack—and fiercely protective. I can see why you admire her.”
Darcy glared at him. “Then you also see that you will not be able to learn anything or make any progress into your investigation unless you tell her the truth.”
