Raising the Stakes (First Impressions)

24. Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

Elizabeth left a note for her aunt, a quick scrawl explaining that she was going to Hatchard’s to browse for books. It was plausible enough—she had made a habit of visiting the bookseller during her stay in London, and it would not raise suspicion. Even if her aunt were home, she doubted Mrs. Gardiner would question her errand.

Still, her fingers trembled slightly as she sealed the note.

A part of her wished she could simply tell her aunt the truth, confide in her as she once might have done before all of this began. But she could not risk drawing her uncle’s household deeper into this mire, not when she was still struggling to grasp the shape of it herself.

And what if… what if her uncle really was engaged in this… business?

She left the house quickly and hired a hackney, keeping her face averted from anyone on the street as she climbed inside. The streets of London bustled around her, the usual chaos of foot traffic, carriages, and vendors filling the air with the hum of daily life. But Elizabeth barely saw it.

Her thoughts were fixed on one destination—Darcy’s house in Mayfair.

When the carriage pulled up to his townhouse, Elizabeth hesitated before stepping out. She had only been here once before, and even then, it had not been by invitation. Now, for the second time, she was arriving unannounced, uncertain of her welcome—but with far more at stake than before.

The butler, a man she vaguely recognized from her past visit, opened the door with his usual impeccable composure. His brows lifted only slightly at the sight of her.

“Miss Bennet,” he said. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” she returned, clasping her hands in front of her to steady herself. “I have come to speak with Mr. Darcy. Rather urgently, I am afraid. Is he at home?”

The butler inclined his head slightly. “I am afraid not, miss. ”

She blinked. “You will think me fearfully impertinent, but do you mean he is ‘not at home to me ’ or… not at home at all?”

A tick appeared on the butler’s cheek. “Mr. Darcy left earlier and has not yet returned. He gave no indication of when we would expect him back.”

Elizabeth’s heart sank, though she had half-expected this answer. She had not sent word ahead, and Darcy was hardly a man to linger idly at home. He had people to meet, things to orchestrate. After all, he was a terribly important man, now.

She hesitated, glancing past the butler toward the empty hall beyond. She could ask to wait, perhaps. But what then?

It would be highly improper. Positively ruinous, and not only for herself. She was here alone, without a chaperone, without any plausible excuse for waiting in a gentleman’s home.

No, she could not risk that.

Besides, she reminded herself, she had no claim on Darcy.

Theirs was not a conventional connection based on attraction or mutual affinity, but one born of manipulation and need—he was to shield her, and she was permitting him to make use of her for his own political ambitions in a way that might also save her reputation. He had agreed. But she could not demand more than that.

He owed her nothing.

And she had already asked for too much.

Swallowing her disappointment, Elizabeth exhaled softly and gave the butler a small smile. “Thank you. There is no need to trouble him with a message. I will return another time.”

The butler inclined his head. “Very good, miss.”

She turned, stepping carefully down the stone steps back toward the waiting carriage. The street was still busy, the passing throng oblivious to her hesitation.

What now?

She had not thought beyond reaching Darcy. She could return to the Gardiners’ home, but the very idea of sitting in that familiar drawing room, pretending nothing was wrong, made her skin prickle with unease.

Her fingers curled in her lap as the driver turned to look at her expectantly. “Where to, miss?”

She considered writing to her father. What would he advise her to do? She could picture his letter already, full of wry amusement at her predicament, full of affection, but utterly useless in practical matters. If he knew all the details, he would tell her to come home.

Home.

The thought made her ache.

She wanted desperately to go back to Longbourn. To return to the quiet life she had known before all of this—before French spies and cryptic letters and political games. But if she left now, she would be abandoning Darcy before their agreement was fulfilled.

And worse…

She would be leaving her uncle exposed to whatever was happening beneath his very nose. Because she had to believe he was innocent, or… or, well, her whole life was a sham.

She swallowed. There really was nowhere else for her to go right now. “Back to Gracechurch Street, please.”

The carriage jostled as it moved forward again, stopping and starting through the congested London streets. She could not leave yet. Not until she understood what this was. Elizabeth let out a slow breath, folding her arms across her chest as she watched the city pass beyond the window.

And then—

A sharp noise.

A commotion from outside.

The driver shouted, a startled exclamation lost beneath the abrupt lurch of the carriage as it jerked to a halt. Elizabeth braced herself as the sudden stop sent her forward. The movement outside was chaotic, muffled voices, footsteps scrambling against the cobblestones.

She barely had time to process the confusion before the carriage door flew open, and a man stepped in.

He was unfamiliar—dark-haired, broad-shouldered, dressed in a manner that suggested neither wealth nor complete poverty. His coat was worn but well-fitted, his cravat neat but hastily tied. There was nothing about his appearance that should have alarmed her, save that he was now seated in the carriage she had hired.

Elizabeth recoiled instantly, pressing herself against the far side of the carriage as if distance alone could force him back. Her hand shot out, fumbling for the door handle, but before she could make a move, the man slid onto the seat beside her, shutting the door firmly behind him.

“Get out!” she demanded, her voice sharp with alarm .

The stranger merely lifted a gloved hand, parting his coat just enough to reveal the pistol tucked at his side. “I would not advise raising your voice,” he murmured. “Nor would I recommend drawing attention to yourself.”

Elizabeth’s pulse pounded in her ears. The stately Mayfair houses outside the window blurred as panic surged through her, but she forced herself to breathe, to think. The driver—was he complicit? Or was the lurching she had felt someone on top of the box, threatening him, too?

Could she scream? The pistol, casually draped across the man’s thigh, cautioned her against it. Would anyone even come to her aid if she did?

“What do you want?” she snapped, hoping her voice did not quaver too much.

The man leaned back against the seat, chuckling as he watched her with unnerving calm. “You were unwise to run to the gentleman.”

Darcy stepped out of his carriage with purpose, barely waiting for the footman to lower the step before striding up to the Gardiners’ townhouse. The frustration from his conversation with his uncle still burned beneath his skin, but he forced himself to at least appear rational. If nothing else, Elizabeth deserved that much.

The manservant opened the door promptly. “Good afternoon, Mr. Darcy. May I be of service?”

“I have come to call upon Miss Bennet.”

The man inclined his head. “I regret to inform you, sir, that Miss Bennet is not at home.”

Darcy’s brows drew together. “Not at home?”

“No, sir. She left some time ago. A message arrived for her, and shortly after that, she informed Mrs. Gardiner by note that she was visiting the booksellers. Hatchard’s, sir.”

Hatchards? Darcy clenched his jaw. He had hoped to find her here, to speak with her before he could dwell too long on the implications of his uncle’s schemes. Instead, he was left with nowhere to direct his restless frustration.

He hesitated for the briefest moment, his fingers flexing inside his gloves. If she had gone to the booksellers, she would return soon, would she not? But no—he could not linger. He had no right to wait upon her return, not when they had made no engagement to meet. It would cause questions.

He could simply… go to Hatchard’s himself. It was not as if he did not frequent that establishment often enough.

“How long has Miss Bennet been out?” he asked.

The manservant frowned. “Oh, better than an hour, sir. Come to think of it, perhaps closer to an hour and a half.”

Well, that was inconvenient. She could have been there and back by now, had her errand been a quick one. Or she could be lingering over her selections, relishing a day out. Unchaperoned, of course—the woman was incorrigible in that regard.

Then again, she might have met with one of the ladies from the ball last night. The man did say she had received some sort of note, and surely, her company was much in demand just now, as was his. That did seem a plausible enough explanation. And if that were the case, she could be hours yet, or she could be on her way home at that very moment. There was simply no way to know.

“Thank you.” With a nod to the manservant, Darcy turned and descended the steps once more, his temper no less agitated than when he arrived. He would return home.

When Darcy’s carriage pulled to a stop in front of his townhouse, he barely had time to disembark before another vehicle arrived just behind his. The horses, slightly lathered from a longer journey, slowed as a gentleman stepped down from the conveyance, glancing up at the townhouse with quiet scrutiny.

Darcy’s gaze flickered over him. He recognized the man—not personally, but he knew that crest on the door, and he knew something of the man by reputation. Anthony Langton, a Derbyshire landowner, one who had been away in the country when the election had been called. Lord Matlock had despaired of his vote already, but here he was, in London.

Langton turned, catching sight of Darcy, and with a polite expression, he approached. “Mr. Darcy, I presume?”

Darcy inclined his head. “Sir.”

Langton tipped his hat. “Forgive the intrusion. I had hoped for a moment of your time. I hope now is not inconvenient?”

Darcy studied him. He had never spoken to Langton before, but he knew his name, his lands. A practical man, if his reputation was to be believed, with a habit of keeping his own counsel .

“Of course,” Darcy said at last. “Would you care to step inside?”

The gentleman nodded once, and together they entered the townhouse, moving toward Darcy’s study. Once inside, Darcy gestured toward a chair, taking his own seat behind the desk.

Langton did not settle immediately, instead glancing about the study before finally speaking. “I shall be frank, Mr. Darcy,” he said. “I returned to Town only this very moment, for I have been hearing rather interesting things about this election.”

Darcy remained silent, waiting.

Langton exhaled slightly. “I have never placed much trust in Stanton, and from what I have heard, he has only confirmed my misgivings. But as for you—” He hesitated, his gaze sharpening. “I know little of your politics. Some say you are moderate, while some call you too radical to be depended upon. Some say your connections are weak, while a handful praise you for breaking with certain… traditions. You are a Darcy of Pemberley, but a few even paint you as something of a…” He chuckled. “You will forgive me—something of a Robin Hood with your notions about taxation and land access.”

Darcy arched his brows. “I think you will find the truth to be somewhere between those extremes.”

Langton grunted as he shifted in his chair. “I will admit, I had hoped another man would stand—Gresham, perhaps. I trust his judgment.”

Darcy did not bristle at the remark, though he noted it carefully. Sir Edmund had been a quiet supporter of his campaign, but his reluctance to put himself forward had left a void that Darcy had been forced to fill. “Sir Edmund Gresham is a fine man,” Darcy acknowledged. “But he has chosen to lend his voice to another rather than stand himself. That being the case, I hope to earn your trust in the same manner.”

“You might,” Langton said slowly. “Stanton promises much, but I do not believe half of what he says. I am yet to determine if you will prove any better.”

Darcy inclined his head, accepting the statement for what it was—a cautious overture. They spoke for a few minutes longer, the conversation remaining polite but noncommittal. Finally, the gentleman took his leave, and Darcy escorted him back to the front hall.

As the door closed behind his guest, Darcy exhaled, rubbing a hand briefly along his temple. He had known there would be skeptics. He would have to work harder to convince them. Turning, he addressed his butler. “Has the post arrived?”

“Yes, sir. It was delivered earlier. It is waiting on your desk. ”

Darcy nodded, already moving toward his study, but then hesitated. “Was there anything from Miss Darcy?”

Benedict paused, his expression carefully neutral. “No, sir. Nothing from Miss Darcy today.”

Darcy frowned. That was… odd. Georgiana had promised to write regularly, and yet it had been several days now without a word. More than a week, in fact. Perhaps she had simply been enjoying herself too much to write.

Perhaps.

Darcy frowned and half turned to the hall. “Thank you, Benedict.” He started to walk away when the butler’s voice stopped him.

“There is something else, sir.”

Darcy turned back. “Yes?”

“Miss Bennet called while you were out.”

Darcy’s breath stilled. “When? What time?”

“Perhaps… an hour after you departed, sir. She did not remain long.”

“Did she state her business?”

Benedict shook his head. “No, sir. She appeared… somewhat distressed, but she left shortly after speaking with me.”

Distressed.

“Did you see which direction she went?”

Benedict shook his head. “She entered a hired carriage, sir. Not the Gardiners’ conveyance.”

That gave Darcy pause. “A hired carriage?”

“Yes, sir. It was most unusual.” The butler hesitated. “And—”

“And?”

“I happened to notice, sir, that the carriage stopped at the end of the street. A gentleman entered and joined her.”

Darcy felt his entire frame tense. “Who?”

“I could not say, sir,” Benedict admitted. “It was too far to make out his face, and there were other carriages on the street partially blocking my view, of course.”

Darcy stared, struck dumb.

The butler cleared his throat. “I only mention it because it struck me as… curious.”

“You are sure? You saw someone get into the same carriage as Miss Bennet? ”

“Quite sure, sir. I recall the door paint exactly, and it was the same which opened onto the kerb. I regret, sir, that is all I could see.”

Darcy narrowed his eyes. “Hold a moment, Benedict. I must wonder why you were staring after Miss Bennet’s hackney in the first place. Do you make it your habit to stand on the steps and look down the street after guests?”

Benedict swallowed visibly. “No, sir. It was only that her visit seemed… not quite the thing, do you see. And I must say, sir, with the attention you have been receiving of late, one must be cautious. Many ladies have attempted to gain your notice in recent weeks—”

Darcy had begun to pace, but turned on his butler with a cold, sharp look. “It is not your place to cast aspersions on a lady’s character.”

The butler stiffened, then inclined his head. “I meant no disrespect, sir. I merely felt it my duty to look after your interests.”

Darcy’s expression did not soften.

Benedict cleared his throat again. “I apologize if I have spoken out of turn. I only meant that there have been many ladies at the door of late, seeking an audience. Several each day, in fact. Your name has been in the papers, and there is always—” He hesitated. “Well. It is only natural, given your rising prominence, that certain individuals would wish to claim an acquaintance.”

Darcy’s lip curled. “Miss Bennet is not such a woman,” he snapped. “You are to accord her every respect, should she ever appear at this house again, expected or not.”

The butler bowed slightly. “Of course, sir. I ask your pardon.”

Darcy nodded curtly. “Very well. See that everyone has the same instruction. I will be in my study.”

“Yes, sir.”

Darcy strode into his study, the door shutting behind him with more force than he intended. His mind was a cacophony of thoughts, disjointed and urgent, each one crashing into the next before he could make sense of it.

Elizabeth had come to him. Again.

She must have needed something—something urgent enough to shatter her stubborn independence and send her searching for him in a hackney coach, of all things.

And now, she was gone. Gone with a man he did not know.

But had she meant to go?

Had she arranged this meeting in secret, slipping from his house to join some other man? A rendezvous planned beneath his very nose? His uncle already believed some treason lurked within Gardiner’s home or business. Could it be, after all… Elizabeth? The thought struck him like a blow, hollow and cold.

No.

It was not possible. It was not—

And yet, what did he truly know?

Elizabeth Bennet was clever. Independent. Stubborn. Had she, even now, decided to handle matters on her own, seeking out some contact she dared not share with him? The idea coiled in his mind, unwelcome and unbearable. It would be easier, far easier, to believe that she had been coerced. That she had been surprised.

That she had been taken.

His stomach twisted, the unease creeping up his spine, a slow and merciless tightening.

He turned sharply toward the door, already moving. “Bring my coat,” he commanded. “And call my carriage back!”