Raising the Stakes (First Impressions)

32. Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Two

Elizabeth sat by the window, staring out at the bustling street below, her chin resting lightly against her hand. The sound of carriage wheels rattling over the cobblestones, the distant chatter of merchants and errand boys—it all felt oddly distant, like a world that no longer belonged to her.

She ought to be happy. She ought to be relieved.

She had been returned safely to her family. She had no lingering injuries beyond a dull ache in her skull that reminded her she had been foolish enough to run about London alone in a hired carriage. She was alive. And, as an unexpected consequence of all that had transpired, she would be granted a settlement of fifteen thousand pounds—a sum beyond anything she had ever dreamed of possessing.

It would change everything for her family.

It would be enough to see Jane properly settled, to bolster Lydia’s marriage prospects beyond the sort of reckless, romantic notions she was so prone to. It would give Mary the freedom to choose, rather than be forced into something simply because she lacked alternatives. And Kitty—Kitty would finally have something of her own, something that would allow her to shape her future rather than drift aimlessly, following Lydia’s every whim.

Elizabeth sucked in a shaking breath, rubbing at the corner of her eye with frustration. Tears? Really? For what? She never allowed herself to be foolishly sentimental. And yet, here she sat, feeling every bit the foolish girl she never wanted to be.

Her aunt sat across the room, surrounded by neatly stacked piles of correspondence, her brow furrowed as she sifted through letters, receipts, and financial records. The search for Anne Fletcher’s fingerprints on their lives continued, and Mrs. Gardiner carried the burden of ensuring that nothing had been overlooked.

Elizabeth stood and crossed the room. “Aunt, let me help,” she offered.

Mrs. Gardiner glanced up, startled from her work. “Oh, dearest, there is no need. ”

“There is every need.” Elizabeth reached for one of the letters. “You should not have to go through all of this alone. If Anne Fletcher truly touched every account, every household affair, then another pair of eyes would hardly go amiss.”

Mrs. Gardiner hesitated. “I know you mean well, Lizzy, but—”

Elizabeth sat down opposite her, looking at the overwhelming stacks of correspondence. “Surely there must be something I can do.”

Her aunt’s lips pressed together before softening into a gentle smile. She reached across the table, taking Elizabeth’s hand in both of hers. “No, dearest,” she said kindly, squeezing her fingers. “You ought to be resting.”

Elizabeth’s fingers curled slightly beneath the warmth of her aunt’s grasp. Resting.

As if sleep would mend anything. As if idle hands and an empty mind would stop her from thinking—from feeling.

She swallowed and forced a small smile. “Then I suppose I shall have to find another means of occupying myself.”

Mrs. Gardiner patted her hand before releasing it. “That is the spirit, my dear.” She nodded toward the sofa near the hearth. “Perhaps you might read something pleasant. There are new periodicals on the side table.”

Elizabeth barely stopped herself from scoffing. She was tired—more than tired—but she did not wish to lose herself in idle distractions. Instead, she wandered to a smaller desk on the far side of the room, smoothing the folds of her gown as she sat. “I think I shall write to my father.”

Her aunt’s expression flickered with understanding, but she merely nodded. “That is a fine idea.”

Elizabeth looked away before she could see the pity in her aunt’s gaze. She opened the drawer and found a decent pen, exhaling slowly as she examined the worn tip. It would have to be mended before she could start. She rummaged deeper into the drawer and found a knife to set to work.

If she had been born a man, she might have joined her uncle at the shipping yards today, pouring over ledgers, investigating every inch of his business to uncover what rot had been allowed to take root in his name. That would have been a useful distraction.

But she was not a man, and instead, she was left to her own thoughts—left to ponder over an “engagement” that never was, an “affection” she had been foolish enough to let herself believe in, and a life she never had any true claim to in the first place .

She finished mending the pen and reached for a piece of paper and the ink well. Then, her pen hovered over the page as she considered what to say to her father.

Would she tell him everything? The truth about the smugglers? The accusations made against her? No. At least, not yet. That would only worry him unnecessarily. She would simply say that she had done her duty in London, that she had helped her uncle and aunt where she could, and now, she wished to return home.

And as for the fifteen thousand pounds...

Elizabeth’s jaw set. Three thousand for each sister.

It was the fairest way to divide it. Jane would have her security, Lydia would have a respectable portion, and even Mary and Kitty would have something of their own.

But as she looked at the numbers, her fingers tapped restlessly against the desk.

Jane deserved more. She had always deserved more. And if the eldest of the Bennet girls married well, it could see their mother settled if widowhood ever came to her door. Yes, Jane ought to have more.

Elizabeth could do perfectly well with only two thousand—what did she truly need with a grand dowry? She had no intention of marrying Ambrose Whitby or whatever clever young barrister the earl had decided would be her fate. Besides, if the young man was only interested in the sum attached to her name, then he would be sorely disappointed, and deservedly so.

Her mouth curved faintly at the thought, though the amusement was short-lived.

Darcy would never have accepted such a match—being fairly paid to take her. He would have demanded she be wanted for herself, or not at all.

And yet, she reminded herself bitterly, Darcy himself had no further use for her. He had obligations—real ones, far greater than playing at courtship with a merchant’s niece.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, and blast it all if another tear did not fall onto the page. She swiped at it impatiently.

No more of this. She was done pretending. Her decision was made.

She would go home, as soon as a carriage could be found to carry her thence.

The days had stretched on with an agonizing slowness, each one more frustrating than the last .

Darcy had thought—foolishly, na?vely—that once Elizabeth was safe, his mind would settle. That he could return to his life, to his purpose, with nothing more than a lingering sense of gratitude.

He had been utterly mistaken.

She had occupied his thoughts before. Now, she consumed them.

The first day, he had sent a note—just a brief inquiry, no more than a line or two— Is Miss Bennet well? The response had been prompt, polite, distant.

Mr. Darcy’s concern is appreciated. I am quite recovered. My uncle and aunt send their regards.

Nothing more.

Clearly, she saw their obligations to one another as ended.

He had thrown himself into appearances, into meetings, into all the functions his uncle urged him to attend. But without her at his side, every gathering felt twice as stiff, twice as tedious. He was still a subject of interest, but the warmth she had lent him—the approachability that had made him more than an heir to Pemberley, more than another boring young master—was glaringly absent.

He had not realized exactly how much she had set him at ease. How much he had relied on her.

But now, it no longer mattered. Now, it was a waiting game.

The election period had ended yesterday, but there were still votes to be tallied—votes from the Derbyshire polls that had yet to be counted in London. He had done everything he could. The matter was out of his hands now.

That, perhaps, was the worst of it.

His stomach had been a constant knot of unease, churning with each passing hour. The election was impossibly close. Too many men had voted for Stanton before his crimes had come to light. If he won—if those last Derbyshire votes did not swing in Darcy’s favor—then what? Would Stanton be arrested, leaving a vacant seat to be scrambled over once more? Or… would he simply carry on in his office, undisturbed and unchallenged, as if Darcy’s efforts meant nothing?

No, no, that would not be. The evidence against Stanton was now undeniable. The earl had taken it to—who, precisely? Darcy was not sure. The Home Office? The Secretary of State for War? Perhaps even higher. He did not know, and for the first time in his life, he did not care. All he wanted was for Stanton to be stopped.

And now, at last, it was happening.

The French diplomats had already been escorted—a polite term for what had truly occurred—from the country. Their departure had been neither quiet nor dignified. It was one thing for foreign representatives to overstay their welcome, quite another to be caught consorting with smugglers and traitors.

Darcy had heard of their exit the night before. The earl’s sources had reported that the men had been taken under armed escort to Dover and placed aboard a ship bound for Calais, their diplomatic credentials revoked. An exile disguised as a return. They would never be allowed back, not under this government. Not after what had been uncovered.

He had imagined them standing at the rails of that ship, watching England shrink behind them, knowing they had played their game—and lost. It should have been satisfying.

But it was not enough.

Stanton’s ties to those men had now become a noose tightening around his own neck. He had been clever, too clever, leaving no clear evidence in his name—until now. Now, there was proof.

The men who had taken Elizabeth had been dragged from their hiding places in the dockyards by Bow Street Runners and militia officers acting on Richard’s information. Some had been caught at the warehouses, others had been discovered trying to flee the city under assumed names. The earl’s men had been thorough. Darcy had insisted upon it.

And Stanton’s name had been on many of their tongues when questioned.

Darcy had stood by while the reports were read aloud—what each man had admitted, what they had denied, what had been pried from them through careful interrogation. It had taken days, but in the end, the picture had been made clear.

Prisoners smuggled from all corners of the country, including Derbyshire, under false identities. Money changing hands, being funneled through different purchases to hide its true origins. The ships carefully selected to avoid suspicion. Some had been caught, some had escaped. Some had vanished entirely.

And it had all led back to Stanton. His ledgers, signed in his own hand, had been discovered. Testimony from the men captured at the docks corroborated the truth. It was over.

And yet, Darcy’s pulse still burned with fury when he thought of it .

Of Elizabeth—locked in the dark, terrified, alone. She had suffered because of this.

Because of them .

Darcy had played his part in it. He could not chase them down or uncover their secrets—his high visibility at the moment forbade that—but that same visibility made it possible for him to press the matter with powerful people. Because of him, the guilty had been exposed for what they were. And now, justice was finally coming. Stanton might still be walking free at this moment, but it was only a matter of time.

And yet, Darcy could not breathe easily. Not with her absence hollowing out a space in his chest.

He was a bloody fool, mooning about over a woman who… well, she never had loved him, had she? She was certainly good at acting the part—so good, he had almost believed it himself. Especially when he found her at the docks, and she had clung to him so…

The faint chime of the front bell rang, but Darcy barely registered it. He was busy pressing his face into his palms, wishing he could bury his humiliation. A Darcy of Pemberley, lost and spinning helplessly over…

Then—footsteps in the hall. A brisk knock at the study door. “An express has arrived, sir.”

Darcy sat up immediately, the ever-present burning in his stomach coiling tighter. “From whom?”

“The Colonel, sir.”

His heart lurched. Richard. That meant—

He did not waste another second. Rising so quickly that the chair fell back against the wooden floor, he strode forward and snatched the letter from the footman’s outstretched hand.

Darcy,

It was a fine thing we trusted your instincts.

The words blurred for a moment before he forced himself to focus.

I arrived in Ramsgate just in time. Georgiana’s things were being loaded into a carriage. A carriage bound for Scotland… with George Wickham.

Darcy’s grip tightened around the paper, the focus of his vision contracting to the letters on the page.

He had her. He had her completely under his thumb, convinced they were in love. I called him out then and there. I regret to say it caused a scene—dueling being illegal and all that—and in this case, dear cousin, you would have done better than I. You would have handled it tactfully. I fear I did not. There will be talk.

Darcy’s jaw clenched, the pulse bounding at his throat.

Mrs. Younge, of course, was complicit. I dismissed her on the spot. I have Georgiana with me now, and I fear she is not only unrepentant (as of yet) but also inconsolable. I am taking her straight to Pemberley—not London. To hide her away, yes. But that may not be enough. I will send word when we arrive.

The moment Darcy finished reading Richard’s express, his hands clenched around the letter, crumpling the fine paper between his fingers. His jaw locked so tightly it ached, his blood thundering in his ears.

Wickham!

The name alone was enough to send a fresh wave of fury surging through him. That man—that wretched, scheming blackguard!—had very nearly stolen Georgiana away! The thought was unbearable. Unforgivable .

Richard had stopped it—thank God—but not before a scene had been made. Not—not before Wickham had made yet another public spectacle of himself and, by extension, of Georgiana.

Darcy’s stomach twisted painfully. His sister! His sweet, trusting, foolish sister. He had tried to protect her, done everything within his power to make her happy and shield her from the world’s cruelties, and yet, somehow, Wickham had still found a way to get to her. Darcy could only imagine how Richard had found them—Georgiana standing there, her trunk packed, ready to be whisked away to ruin.

He wanted to hit something. No—he wanted to hit some one .

His fists curled so tightly that his nails bit into his palms. He could almost see Wickham’s smug, lying face, could picture the insufferable ease with which the man would have smiled as he spun whatever web of deceit had convinced Georgiana to trust him. Had he charmed her with pretty words? Had he frightened her, warning of her brother’s supposed cruelty and control? Or had he simply played on her loneliness, her vulnerability?

It did not matter. He had nearly taken her from him.

And now… now there would be talk.

Richard had done the best he could—Darcy knew that. Knew that his cousin had acted on instinct, that he had stopped an elopement in progress. But Richard had never been one for subtlety. And in a town like Ramsgate, where the comings and goings of a gentleman’s daughter were of endless interest to prying eyes, tongues would be wagging already.

His hand pressed against his stomach, where a deep, sickening nausea churned.

He was too high-profile now.

The election—whichever way it had fallen—had made him seen. If his name was on everyone’s lips, then so, too, would be his sister’s. If Wickham had already told her sweet lies, what would stop him from telling them to others? What would stop rumors from spreading beyond Ramsgate, beyond Kent, beyond Derbyshire?

Georgiana. His little sister. Ruined!

His breath was coming too fast. He forced himself to take a slow inhale, to exhale just as deliberately. He could not afford to lose control. Not now. Not when the work was still unfinished.

But blast it all to hell, he needed to do something !

He wanted—no, needed —to go to Georgiana. To look her in the eyes and demand to know why. To hear her explanation, to find out how close she had truly come to disaster. To hold her if she was shaking, to scold her if she was defiant. To tell her that she was safe now, that she would understand someday, that she would never have to see Wickham’s face again.

But Richard was right. He could not leave London now. Not with Stanton’s fate still uncertain, not with his own reputation hanging in the balance, not when the election was only just concluding. If he abandoned his position at such a crucial moment, he might as well admit his sister’s shame to the multitudes and hand Stanton the victory himself.

And there was something else. Something that pulled at him with an urgency just as fierce as his need to see his sister.

Elizabeth.

Before he even fully processed the thought, he was reaching for his coat. He needed to see her. To speak to her. To tell her—what?

That he was in love with her? That somehow, in these last weeks, she had become the blood in his veins and the hope that inspired him to greet each new day?

His breath stilled.

He did not know.

But, God help him, he needed to see her all the same.