Raising the Stakes (First Impressions)

23. Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

Elizabeth reclined in the Gardiners’ sitting room with a cup of tea cooling beside her and a book open in her lap, though she had read the same passage three times without absorbing a word. She was not usually one for reflection, at least not in the excessive, sentimental way that novels liked to depict. And yet, here she was, staring at a page without comprehension, her mind circling back—again and again—to the previous evening.

The ball had been… disarmingly ordinary. Not in its grandeur or importance, but in the way she had moved through it with ease, as though she belonged. For one evening, she had not been a woman walking an invisible line between scandal and respectability. She had laughed, danced, sparred with Darcy in a way that left her breathless for reasons she refused to examine too closely.

And for one evening, she had forgot to be afraid for herself.

A foolish indulgence.

She was not na?ve enough to believe her troubles had vanished, nor was she foolish enough to think that this precarious balance—this careful performance of appearances—could last indefinitely. It never did. Something would shift. It was inevitable.

The only question was when .

A sharp chime echoed from the front hall as someone rang the bell. Elizabeth barely stirred, absently running her finger along the rim of her teacup as she stared at the delicate floral pattern. The household received letters frequently—her uncle’s business dealings, invitations for the family, silk and lace orders for her aunt or Miss Fletcher. Nothing that required her immediate attention.

She let her thoughts drift back to the evening before, to the glittering chandeliers and polished marble floors, to the almost scorching heat of Darcy’s gaze when he watched her from across the room. How strange it would be when all of this—London, the intrigue, the politics—was behind her. When she returned to Longbourn, to the familiar paths of Hertfordshire, to a world where no one cared whether she danced with Mr. Darcy or what her presence at a supper table might signify.

Would she miss it?

Not the danger, certainly—if there really was danger. But the rest? The quickness and depth of real conversation with a mind at least as sharp—nay, probably sharper than her own—the knowledge that she was playing a role in something larger than herself?

And, most inconvenient of all, she could not deny that something in her had shifted. Not so long ago, she had thought herself quite content with the sort of men she had always known—kind, respectable, unassuming. Now… she was not so sure.

How was she to return to men who barely challenged her thoughts, who did not provoke her wit, who never looked at her with the particular intensity Darcy so often did?

The scrape of footsteps drew her from her musings. She glanced up just as the manservant entered, a silver tray in hand, a single letter resting atop it. “This has arrived for you, Miss Bennet.”

She blinked, straightening. “Oh?” She was not expecting any correspondence, and certainly not one that had arrived with such urgency. Perhaps Mr. Darcy…

Her fingers hesitated before plucking the envelope from the tray. The paper was thick and fine—expensive. Elizabeth turned the folded letter over in her hands. The wax seal remained unbroken, but before she could move to open it, something gave her pause. Her gaze flicked to the front, scanning the bold script of her name, scrawled across the outside. Probably something from the earl. Frowning, she broke the seal.

Mr. Gardiner,

A discrepancy has been noted in the cargo of the Eleanor, docked at the South Wharf. The manifests require confirmation before clearance can proceed. Please review the attached records and confirm at your earliest convenience.

— J. Temple, Clerk of Gardiner & Co .

Her brow furrowed. This was not her correspondence. Mr. Gardiner’s name was written inside—but on the outside, the direction had been unmistakable. It had been meant for her.

Her fingers curled around the edges of the paper as she flipped it over—indeed, that was her name on the outside. A shipping error? Why was it addressed to her?

She had nothing to do with her uncle’s shipping business. She had never seen one of his manifests, had never even stepped foot on the docks in her life. If this were a simple clerical mistake, why had the messenger instructed the footman to give it to her?

Unless… it was no mistake at all.

A quiet cough drew her attention, and she lifted her gaze to find Wilson still waiting. “Miss?”

Elizabeth swallowed, pressing the letter lightly against her skirts to steady her grip. “Who delivered this?”

“One of Mr. Gardiner’s clerks, miss. A Mr. Temple.”

Mr. Temple? The name meant nothing to her. She knew most of her uncle’s clerks, had seen them in passing at his warehouse or overheard them speaking at the house. Temple was not one of them.

That alone sent a sliver of unease through her. If someone had sent this to her deliberately, then it was not a mistake. It was a message.

And if the messenger was waiting, then they expected an answer.

Her first instinct was to take the letter straight to her uncle. But then she hesitated. If this was a mistake—a simple mix-up of names—then why had the messenger insisted on delivering it to her? Why had her name, and not her uncle’s, been written on the outside?

Elizabeth read the note again, hoping some new meaning might emerge from the careful script, but the words remained as inscrutable as before. A shipping error. A misfiled manifest. It sounded like a mundane business concern, something her uncle would handle without a second thought. But it had been addressed to her.

Surely… Might this be connected to the letter and the key?

The earl had said they had been watching for something… Perhaps Darcy knew, or the colonel, but the earl had not seen fit to say more to her. All she knew was what Darcy had told her, and his information seemed rather vague. Smuggling, perhaps? Her hands trembled slightly as she folded the note .

What if someone had deliberately used her uncle’s name, his reputation, his very business, to smuggle something—or someone—under false pretenses? Under his very nose? Surely… he could not be involved himself… could he?

The thought turned her stomach. She had never questioned her uncle’s honesty. Not once. But how well did she truly understand his work? Was there some corner of it, some tangled business dealing, that he had kept even from his own family?

Elizabeth shook her head sharply. No. That was impossible. Mr. Gardiner was an honest man. He would never involve himself in something unlawful.

Would he?

She had no way of knowing. She believed he was honest, but even then, did she dare show him this? Surely, if she did, he would do what any decent man would do—he would investigate. He would march down to the docks, demand answers, and if there was something amiss… if there was danger…

Her breath came quicker. No! She could not risk it.

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut. What could she do?

Darcy —his sharp mind, his careful way of sifting through problems, of weighing every consequence. He had the resources to comprehend this sort of thing better than she did. And his cousin, a colonel in His Majesty’s Army, might have the connections to uncover what was really happening.

But going to them again meant… It meant trusting a man she hardly knew, one who escorted her about merely for the sake of appearances… over her own family. Involving them in something that was growing ever deeper.

She exhaled slowly and straightened her shoulders.

Turning to the manservant, she forced her voice into careful control. “Tell Mr. Temple that I will attend the matter.”

Wilson dipped his head and withdrew, his quiet footsteps fading down the hall. Only when she was alone, did she let out a shaky breath. She would not go to Uncle Gardiner. Not yet. What if he was innocent?

What if he was not?

Either way, she needed to know what this was before she let him walk blindly into it.

And for that, she needed Darcy.

“Ah, the conquering hero arrives,” Richard drawled the moment Darcy stepped into the study. He leaned back in his chair, one boot resting on the opposite knee, his smirk firmly in place. “I trust you have recovered from last night’s triumph?”

Darcy cast him a dry look as he handed his coat to a waiting footman. “If by triumph you mean an evening of relentless conversation and measured performances, then yes, I have endured it.”

Lord Matlock, seated behind his desk, chuckled as he swirled his brandy. “Endured? My boy, you exceeded expectations. I daresay I have not been this pleased with you since your Cambridge days.”

Darcy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Stacks of correspondence, lists of names, and letters from Derbyshire landowners were spread across the desk in neat piles, as though the entire election might be decided here and now with the right set of calculations.

“Well?” Matlock gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit. We have much to discuss.”

Darcy stiffened but said nothing, lowering himself into the chair across from his uncle.

Matlock tapped a finger against the open ledger before him. “I had word this morning from Linton and Harcourt—both are secured. Harcourt was already leaning our way, but after last night, he all but pledged his undying loyalty to you as well as your heirs to the third generation—provided you ever get any. As for Linton, he was skeptical at first, but he seemed rather taken with your ability to hold a conversation outside of hunting and estate taxes.”

Richard snorted. “Imagine that. My cousin, socially adept.”

Darcy ignored him. His mind turned back to last night—the long string of conversations, the careful maneuvering, the way Elizabeth had charmed men who might otherwise have dismissed him.

“Sir William Osbourne’s wife also seemed particularly warm toward Miss Bennet,” Matlock continued. “Given how much influence Lady Osbourne wields in certain circles, that was an excellent turn of events. And we need not speak of the impact on the younger generation. I heard three separate debutantes whispering about how terrifying you have always appeared to them—until now.”

Darcy frowned. “You seem remarkably pleased that my private affairs have been reduced to gossip fodder.”

Matlock waved a hand dismissively. “Gossip wins elections, Fitzwilliam. It is not just about policy—it is about image. And your image has changed in the span of a fortnight. You are no longer the distant, brooding heir to Pemberley who avoids social engagements. You are a man of independent thought, a man willing to speak to everyone and forge his own path. And Miss Bennet—” he smiled wolfishly, “—has been invaluable in making that possible. And of course,” Matlock continued, “she will be well compensated when all of this is over.”

Darcy’s breath stilled for a fraction of a second before he forced himself to exhale. “Compensated?”

Matlock leaned back in his chair, sipping his brandy. “Naturally. I said that at the first, if you recall. A handsome settlement. I know of a promising young barrister—Ambrose Whitby, you may have heard of him—who has ambitions to enter politics one day. A clever man, from good stock. She would make him an excellent wife.”

A slow, consuming heat unfurled in Darcy’s chest and spread across his face until his very ears burned. He stared at his uncle, not trusting himself to speak immediately.

Richard sat forward, brow raised. “You are matchmaking now, Father?”

“Hardly. But we have a duty to see the girl settled. She has been of service to us, whether she fully comprehends it or not. She is young, attractive enough, and—most importantly—has gained a great deal of attention in the right circles. There will be speculation about her future, and it is in her best interest that we guide that speculation toward something advantageous.”

Darcy’s fingers clenched. He forced his voice to remain even. “And if I had an interest in continuing my association with her?”

Matlock’s brows lifted in faint amusement. “And what possible reason would you have for doing a foolish thing like that?”

Darcy inhaled sharply. “If she has proven valuable, if she has helped to gain the trust of men who otherwise would not support me—why discard that connection so quickly?”

Matlock scoffed. “She may be useful now, but she will be no credit to you in the long run. Darcy, I thought you understood the game we are playing. The election is only the beginning. Your political career will be shaped by whom you surround yourself with. You need allies in the House, men with long-standing influence. And when the time comes, you will need a wife with the right connections.”

Darcy’s jaw locked. His uncle’s words scraped against something raw inside him. He swallowed back his immediate response, fighting the wave of frustration rising in his chest. “Then why ,“ he said finally, voice taut with restraint, “did you push her toward me in the first place? ”

Matlock gave a short, mirthless chuckle. “Come, this is a pretty thing. Forgot already? Because you needed softening, my boy! You needed to appear relatable. And Miss Bennet—well, she is the very image of a fresh-faced, clever, unpretentious young woman. The kind of woman who makes you seem less… cold.”

Richard let out a bark of laughter. “Less like an insufferable prig, you mean.”

Darcy shot him a glare, but Matlock simply continued, “She has served her purpose. And besides, she is useful to me as well.”

That made Darcy pause. He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Matlock exhaled, swirling his brandy again. “The night you arrived at my house unexpectedly, I had been waiting for a particular event to occur. You interrupted it. Or, rather, you both did, in your own ways.”

Darcy shot a glance at his cousin, who leaned forward now as well, folding his hands with a quizzical look on his face. “Waiting for what?” Darcy demanded.

The earl lit a cigar, then proceeded to ignore it as it smoldered in his fingers. “I was expecting one of Gardiner’s connections to make contact with the French. I did not know who it was, and I still do not. Could be a courier, a footman, someone who can slip in and out of places unnoticed.”

Darcy’s spine stiffened. “Then, why did you single out Miss Bennet?”

Matlock sighed. “She was convenient. She caused a spectacle. She was a guest of Gardiner, and moreover, she is a lady—she has her reputation and her sisters to consider, so that made her cooperative. It made sense to use her to see if anything would slip. But I never actually believed she was involved. A lady? No, no. That would be far too conspicuous.”

Darcy glanced at Richard again. Did he know of this, too? But Richard’s face was blank, and he shook his head faintly at Darcy’s glare. “You watched her,” he accused his uncle.

Matlock raised his cigar to his lips with an unapologetic snort. “Of course, I did. And in doing so, I found something much more interesting—there is smuggling happening through Gardiner’s shipping company.”

Darcy felt his pulse thrum at his temple. “Smuggling what?”

Matlock spread his hands. “Prisoners, most likely. Or messages. Something valuable enough that someone has gone through a great deal of trouble to ensure it remains hidden.”

Darcy inhaled sharply. “Gardiner has only owned his shipping company for a short while. A year… perhaps a little more. He told me that in one of our first conversations of his recent expansions. You are implying he is complicit? A man who hardly knows the bow of a ship from the stern?”

Matlock shrugged. “Or he is a victim. Either way, this cannot be ignored. And Miss Bennet’s continued presence in our sphere ensures I can keep an eye on both him and her.”

Darcy shot to his feet, his chair scraping sharply against the floor. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the quiet crackle of the fire in the hearth. His uncle’s voice, sensible and worth heeding only moments ago, now seemed distant, irrelevant.

Not because he was surprised—he had always known Matlock played this game. He had seen the deft maneuvering, the quiet conversations in drawing rooms and clubs, the way favors were traded and alliances built. His uncle was a loyal subject of the Crown, a man who believed his work necessary, even honorable.

But this—this was different.

Elizabeth had been swept into it, unaware, unprotected. She had been left ignorant while they all watched, waiting to see if she would prove guilty or useful. And he—he had been left in the dark as well. Forced into the role of her safeguard without even knowing why.

A cold fury settled beneath his skin. He turned sharply toward the door, barely restraining the urge to slam his fist against the desk before him.

“Where are you going?” Matlock called after him.

Darcy did not stop. “To Gracechurch Street.”