Raising the Stakes (First Impressions)

31. Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-One

Darcy adjusted the cuffs of his coat and exhaled reluctantly. He was dressed, prepared, every detail of his appearance immaculate, as was necessary for the task ahead. But still, he hesitated.

A hazy autumn glow slanted through the tall windows of his front hall, illuminating the burnished wood of the furnishings and glinting off the chain of his pocket watch as he flicked it open once more. He was not late—not yet—but the steady, rhythmic ticking inside the case taunted him, nonetheless.

No, not late. Far too early, for what he wanted.

His gaze slipped to the stairs, an instinctive movement that frustrated him even as he did it. He should not be standing here, waiting. He should not care if she woke to find the house quiet, to find him already gone. It was the rational thing, the necessary thing. Elizabeth needed rest after the ordeal she had endured.

And yet, he remained.

Mrs. Tate entered from the hall, hands folded before her apron. She stopped just short of him, her expression expectant.

“Miss Bennet?” he asked.

“She still sleeps soundly, sir,” the housekeeper answered. “I will see to her personally when she wakes, as you instructed.”

There had been no such instruction—or at least, he had not meant it as one. But Mrs. Tate had taken his concern for what it was, and he could hardly argue with her. He nodded, setting his pocket watch back into his waistcoat. “Very good.”

“She will be well looked after,” Mrs. Tate assured him. “I would not fret too much over her, sir.”

Darcy stiffened slightly. “I do not—”

“Of course not. But all the same, I will ensure Miss Bennet is comfortable in your absence.”

Darcy pressed his lips together, forcibly schooling his features. It would not do—none of this would do. He was making a spectacle of himself in his own house. His staff, always discreet, always dutiful, had clearly noticed. That was not a good sign.

With an abrupt nod, he turned toward the door.

Richard was already waiting in the entryway, fastening the buttons of his coat. He glanced up as Darcy approached and grinned. “Good morning, cousin. You look as if you are marching to the gallows.”

Darcy shot him a withering look and strode past him, grabbing his gloves from the table near the door.

Richard chuckled, following at a leisurely pace. “Come now, it cannot be so terrible. You are merely meeting with a handful of men who hold your political fate in their hands.”

Darcy snorted. “Your ability to frame things so optimistically astounds me.”

“It is a talent.” Richard leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “I suppose it will not help to remind you that you have already won over half of them. Your performance at the ball was precisely what my father hoped for.”

Darcy’s fingers clenched as he finished pulling on his gloves. “I do not care for performances.”

Richard grunted. “Could have fooled me.”

Darcy shot him a sharp glare, but Richard merely grinned. “Oh, very well. I will not needle you before you go off to do your duty.” He shifted slightly. “As for myself, I told my father he can do without me at Gardiner’s warehouse this morning.”

Darcy raised a brow. “He did not take kindly to that, I imagine.”

“Not at first, no,” Richard admitted. “But I made a promise, and I intend to keep it.”

Darcy frowned. “A promise?”

Richard clasped his hands behind his back. “Yes. To you.”

Darcy narrowed his eyes.

Richard sighed. “Look, I know you, Darcy. You will not be able to focus on anything if you are worrying over two people at once.”

Darcy’s stomach clenched. He did not have to ask who the two people were.

“So, I will be the dutiful cousin and hie me off to Ramsgate. I shall look in on Georgiana, ensure she is well, and write to you the moment I have anything to report.”

Darcy shook his head. “I spoke heedlessly. Georgiana is well looked after. Such a visit is unnecessary.”

Richard gave him a flat stare. “ Is it?”

Darcy only fidgeted with the handle of his walking stick.

Richard smirked. “Did not think so.”

Darcy inhaled slowly. “Very well.” He adjusted his coat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “You will—”

“I will see that she is comfortable,” Richard finished for him. “I will determine if she is well and behaving sensibly. And I will inform you of anything amiss. Does that satisfy your list of unspoken concerns?”

“It will do.”

Richard grinned. “Then I shall take my leave shortly. But you, cousin—” he stepped aside, gesturing toward the waiting carriage—”have an election to win.”

Darcy gave him a look of feigned irritation before sighing. He stepped toward the door, pausing only once, for the barest fraction of a second, before moving on.

Richard’s voice followed him as he stepped outside. “Oh, and Darcy?”

Darcy stopped just short of the carriage and turned back.

Richard’s smile was infuriatingly knowing. “Try not to miss her too much.”

Darcy turned on his heel without a word.

As he climbed into the carriage, he ignored the way his chest ached slightly at the thought of Elizabeth still asleep upstairs—safe in his home, if only for a little while longer.

The low hum of conversation, the clatter of porcelain cups against saucers, and the occasional murmur of political speculation wove together into the lively atmosphere of Jonathan’s Coffee House. The air was thick with the scent of roasted beans, tobacco, and damp wool from the coats of men gathered in close quarters.

Darcy stepped inside, his presence immediately noted by several men who turned to greet him with nods of acknowledgment or assessing glances. His expression remained neutral, composed, as he removed his hat and gloves, handing them off to a waiting attendant.

Lord Matlock had been correct—this was the place to be seen, to be heard, to solidify one’s standing in the political sphere. And yet, Darcy loathed every moment of it.

At a large, round table near the center of the establishment sat a collection of men of influence, many of whom Darcy had met before. And, of course, several of them were from Derbyshire. Among them were Harcourt, Linton, and Beaumont, whom he had spoken with at various gatherings throughout the season. Sir Edmund Gresham, a middle-aged gentleman with the first hints of silver at his temples and an even, patient gaze, sat with quiet authority. He had been a preferred candidate among several of the men before the election was called, but he had never put his name forward.

“Darcy,” Sir Edmund greeted, rising briefly from his seat as Darcy approached. “We heard you might be expected here this morning, but we were beginning to wonder if you had been waylaid.”

“I assure you, sir, I am not easily waylaid,” Darcy replied, taking the empty chair between Sir Edmund and Harcourt.

“A matter of opinion,” Linton murmured, sipping his coffee. “The ball the other night certainly caused a stir. I daresay your name has been spoken more in the last two days than Stanton’s.”

Harcourt chuckled. “Not for lack of his trying. His supporters are getting desperate. Word is, he has been promising to introduce certain reforms that would—” he waved his hand vaguely, “— redistribute certain privileges.”

“A polite way of saying he is making offers to the wrong sort of men,” Beaumont muttered.

Darcy steepled his fingers. “And what is the consensus here? Do we believe such offers will tempt voters?”

“They may sway the smallholdings men—some former merchants who do not understand what they are being offered,” Gresham replied. “But the larger landowners remain skeptical. It is why we meet, after all.”

For the next two and a half hours, the conversation wound through every concern regarding the election. Some men were firm in their support of Darcy, recognizing that he represented a steadier, more honorable path forward. Others still withheld judgment, their skepticism tempered only by the growing discomfort they had with Stanton’s methods.

Darcy engaged where necessary, offering assurances where he could, but all the while, he felt time slipping past him like grains of sand. The meeting felt endless. He resisted the urge to check his pocket watch, focusing instead on maintaining his patience. He could not leave first. That would be poor form, and form mattered in politics, no matter how little he cared for it .

At long last, the group began to shift. Men stood, chairs were pulled out of the way, and the gathering gradually broke apart into smaller discussions as gentlemen made their farewells. Darcy finally allowed himself the relief of preparing to take his leave when Sir Edmund, still seated beside him, spoke in a low voice.

“Would you be amenable to a private word, Mr. Darcy?”

Inwardly, he groaned. He had already endured the morning’s posturing, and now, more conversation? But Sir Edmund Gresham was not a man he could afford to ignore. “Of course,” Darcy said with determined politeness.

Sir Edmund stood, adjusting his coat. “I shall instruct my man to send my carriage round to your house. If you will permit me to ride with you, I shall not take much of your time.”

Darcy inclined his head, signaling to his driver to prepare to depart. Moments later, they were seated together in Darcy’s carriage, rolling through the city streets.

Sir Edmund wasted no time. “I had a letter from my steward yesterday,” he began, his tone grave. “It concerns my estate in Derbyshire.”

Darcy, who had been bracing for yet another redundant political conversation, frowned slightly. “And what concern of that is mine?”

“The concern,” he said, “is that my land was being used for something I did not permit.”

Darcy’s fingers tightened slightly where they rested against his knee. “Oh?”

“Aye. My steward uncovered unusual activity along the northern border of my property,” Sir Edmund explained. “A small building—a hunting lodge, really—was being used to house men temporarily. We might never have discovered it, but a tenant’s sheep went missing, and while tracking it, they came across the place.”

Darcy’s unease deepened. “What makes you so certain it was housing men? What did they find?”

Gresham leaned forward slightly. “The lodge itself was nearly empty when my men arrived—only a few scattered belongings, a ripped blue coat, and signs that someone had been eating and drinking there not long before. But they found a fellow crouching in the fells just beyond the lodge. The man they captured—a Frenchman, Darcy—was in a poor state. Starved, unshaven, desperate. They guessed he could not keep up and fell behind when others ran. My steward questioned him, and in his panic, he claimed he was being smuggled back across the Channel.”

Darcy’s eyes sharpened. “ Back? ”

Gresham nodded. “Yes. Not into England—out. And what is more, he thought my men were there to retrieve him for that very purpose. He kept babbling about a ship that was waiting, about payment, about someone failing to arrive with the proper funds. He was expecting to be extracted and taken south, likely to the coast.”

A cold understanding settled over Darcy. Stanton's smuggling went both ways—contraband goods brought into England, prisoners secreted out. This was precisely what the earl had been speaking of.

“When my steward pressed him, he mentioned names—not all of them familiar, but some were.” Sir Edmund’s voice lowered slightly. “He spoke of the docks, and a ship called the Eleanor .”

Darcy’s fingers curled into a fist against his knee. Gardiner’s ship .

“Naturally, after finding this fellow, my steward and his men searched the lodge again,” Sir Edmund continued. “The ashes in the hearth were fresh—someone had been burning papers, likely as they fled. But among the half-burnt pages, they found lists of names, schedules of movement. Some too charred to read, but others…” His expression darkened. “Others still bore signatures. One of them was Stanton’s.”

Darcy inhaled sharply.

“My steward retrieved what he could,” Sir Edmund said. “The ledgers were not left carelessly—they were meant to be destroyed. But some pages survived. Enough to make it very clear that Stanton has had his hands in this. They sent those pages to me with the letter and I have them in my possession. It seems Stanton’s interests extend beyond mere political rhetoric. This was not just a matter of bribing voters, which everyone knows he has done for years. He has been involved in something far more serious—contraband, prisoner smuggling, dealings that put Derbyshire and its people at risk.” He let the words trail off, leaving Darcy to complete the thought himself.

The earl had been right… and the implications were damning. Stanton had not simply been dabbling in illegal dealings—he was orchestrating them. And now, thanks to Sir Edmund’s steward, there was proof.

Darcy’s thoughts spun rapidly. This was it —the leverage they needed. The proof that Stanton was not merely a rival politician but a criminal, one whose actions could be publicly condemned, whose reputation could be destroyed beyond repair.

Sir Edmund watched him closely. “I offer this information to you, Mr. Darcy,” he said after a moment. “Not merely to aid your campaign, but because I believe Stanton must be stopped, and you are the best man to do it. The question is—how will you use it? ”

Darcy exhaled slowly, shaking his head slightly as he absorbed the implications of what had just been placed in his hands. “I will use it to see justice done.” The words came quickly, instinctively. He looked back at Sir Edmund, his voice firm. “I care little for winning elections, but I will not see Derbyshire’s future compromised by a man like Stanton.”

Sir Edmund studied him for a long moment before allowing a small smile. “That is precisely why you were the right man to stand for election, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy had no answer for that.

Sir Edmund straightened. “I shall send the records to your house later today. You may do with them as you see fit.”

The carriage pulled to a stop outside Darcy House, and Darcy blinked, coming back to the present. “Sir, will you not join me for some refreshment?” he offered.

But Sir Edmund declined, shaking his head and promising to send the papers over by courier as soon as possible. Then he stepped out and signaled for his own carriage.

Darcy remained seated for a moment, staring up at the familiar facade of his home. For the first time in weeks, clarity settled over him. He knew what he had to do, and why. He had a plan.

And the first step he intended to take concerned Elizabeth Bennet.

He exited the carriage, striding up the steps with purpose. His butler opened the door and assisted him in removing his coat.

“Miss Bennet?” Darcy asked, unable to keep the eagerness from his tone.

The butler hesitated. “The lady left not half an hour ago, sir.”

Darcy froze. “What?”

“Yes, sir. She did, however, leave a note for you. It is on your desk.”

A note.

Darcy barely heard the butler as he moved swiftly to his study. The paper was waiting for him, his name written in Elizabeth’s hand. He broke the seal, unfolding the letter with unsteady fingers.

Mr. Darcy,

I am grateful for all you have done for me. You have been my protector, my advocate, and my friend, and I shall always think kindly of you for it. I am pleased that you are finding success in your campaign, and I wish you well in all that is to come.

Lord Matlock assures me that I am no longer required to accompany you, and so, I take my leave. I have imposed upon your kindness long enough.

Thank you again, for everything.

Yours, Elizabeth Bennet

Darcy’s fingers clenched around the paper.

She was gone.