Whispers Beneath the Chandeliers #2
Jane laughed softly. “Even so, the others spoke well of him. They said he treats his men fairly, and that even General Fitzwilliam valued his judgment above all. Miss Lennox said he has twice refused promotion if it meant leaving his regiment behind. I think that speaks of his character better than any tale of grandeur.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened. “It does. He has never spoken of himself, nor of his family, save for his sister. I had thought him severe, but I begin to think it is only caution.”
Jane studied her for a moment, her voice soft. “He looks at you differently than he does anyone else.”
Elizabeth glanced away quickly, her colour rising. “That is only because he sees me as a problem to be solved.”
Jane’s smile deepened, though she said nothing more.
From her seat beside Jane, she could see the dais where the Prince Regent stood surrounded by courtiers and ministers, a glittering circle of power and vanity.
The Duke spoke with easy confidence beside him, the two men smiling as though the war had ended for good.
Attendants hovered discreetly at their backs, and a cluster of officers waited nearby, their polished medals flashing like sparks beneath the chandeliers.
To anyone else, it was an evening of triumph.
To Elizabeth, it was a moment balanced on a blade.
She watched the courtiers with careful eyes. One gentleman laughed too loudly at nothing in particular; another kept glancing toward the gallery where the musicians played. A footman near the dais shifted a tray from one hand to the other, his movements too precise, his gaze too intent.
Jane’s voice drew her back. “You are quiet, dearest. Are you unwell?”
Elizabeth forced a faint smile. “No, only thoughtful. There is so much to see.”
Her gaze flickered again toward the dais. “Look at them, Jane, all gathered together in one place. The Prince, the Duke, half the Cabinet. If one wished to strike at England herself, where better to begin?”
Jane frowned softly. “Lizzy, do not speak so. It is an evening of celebration.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth murmured. “Yet peace has not always meant safety.”
Across the room, she glimpsed Colonel Darcy speaking with Captain Bingley, their expressions grave even beneath their polite smiles.
Nearby, Miss Bingley stood with William Lucas, her gown of amber silk gleaming richly against the marble floor.
Miss Bingley’s laughter carried across the room, bright and practised, but her eyes strayed often, too often, toward Colonel Darcy.
Elizabeth’s lips curved faintly. Some dangers, it seemed, were universal.
Then her amusement faded. A man in servant’s livery passed close to the dais, moving easily through the press of guests.
Something in his bearing caught her attention, the economy of motion, the deliberate pace, the stillness that belonged more to a soldier than a servant.
Another followed him, pausing to adjust a candelabrum, but his eyes swept the crowd, not the light.
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened.
She leaned closer to Jane. “Do you see the footmen near the dais?”
Jane looked, puzzled. “I see two, what of them?”
“They move as though they are guarding the Prince, not serving him.”
Before Jane could reply, a familiar voice came softly at Elizabeth’s shoulder.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Colonel Darcy said quietly, his tone composed though his eyes were anything but. “Do not turn your head. Bingley and I have seen them too.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. “How many?”
“Four, perhaps five. All too well-trained for household staff. Sergeant Barrow is below, searching the kitchens.”
“Then it is as we feared.”
“Yes,” he said. “And if they mean to strike, it will be soon.”
For a moment, everything was still. The music carried on, bright and graceful, as though nothing in the world could shatter it. Around them, ladies laughed behind their fans and gentlemen bowed in polished ease, unaware that danger walked among them.
Elizabeth’s pulse thudded in her throat. “What shall we do?” she whispered.
Colonel Darcy’s voice was steady, but his hand hovered near his sword. “We watch. Any wrong move will send them to act before we are ready. Bingley has men at every entrance. Barrow will send word the instant he finds more below.”
She forced herself to breathe evenly, to sit as though nothing had changed. The scent of beeswax and roses seemed suddenly sharp. Every flicker of movement caught her eye, the swish of a gown, the flash of a servant’s buttons, the polished gleam of a musket carried too close to a shadowed doorway.
The orchestra began another tune. A reel this time, quicker, brighter, the rhythm of celebration. The crowd pressed toward the floor. The Prince Regent smiled and raised his glass.
Elizabeth rose with the others, the motion stiff with pain. Jane caught her hand at once. “Lizzy, you are trembling.”
“Only a little,” she murmured. “Stay near Captain Bingley. If anything happens, do not move until he tells you.”
Jane’s brow furrowed, but she obeyed.
Colonel Darcy’s eyes swept the crowd once more, sharp and searching. Then, without a word, he moved.
He crossed the ballroom in an instant, not with ceremony, but with purpose. His coat caught the candlelight, a flash of scarlet against the white marble, and for a heartbeat Elizabeth could not breathe.
Guests turned to look, curious at first, then uneasy. The orchestra faltered.
Colonel Darcy’s voice cut through the hum, calm but commanding. “Stand back.”
The nearest footman flinched. For the briefest moment, Elizabeth saw the man’s hand go to his coat, too quick, too practised.
“Gun!” she cried.
The word shattered the room.
The servant lunged, and Colonel Darcy was already there. The pistol fired, the sound deafening beneath the chandeliers, and smoke billowed through the air. Glass shattered. Ladies screamed.
Colonel Darcy caught the man’s arm, twisted, and the weapon clattered to the floor. Another servant threw off his livery and drew a blade; chaos erupted.
“Bingley!” Colonel Darcy shouted. “To the Regent!”
Elizabeth stumbled as the crowd surged. Pain tore through her side, but she forced herself upright. Jane’s hand caught hers; they ducked behind a pillar as soldiers of the Forty-Fourth fought their way forward, swords drawn.
Smoke curled around the candles, thick and choking. A chandelier above them swayed, its light scattering wildly across the mirrored walls.
Through the confusion, Elizabeth caught sight of Colonel Darcy again. He fought with grim precision, every movement controlled, each blow struck to defend, not destroy.
Then, at the far end of the room, another figure appeared: darker coat, officer’s bearing, his pistol raised above the sea of fleeing guests. His face was half-shadowed, but she knew him.
Wickham.
Her breath caught. He fired once toward the dais, the bullet striking the gilded frame beside the Prince’s shoulder. Panic exploded.
Colonel Darcy turned at the shot, his eyes finding her across the smoke and chaos. For an instant, everything else fell away, the noise, the fire, the screaming crowd, and she knew he saw him too.
Wickham smiled, mocking, and disappeared into the blur of servants rushing for the door.
Colonel Darcy lunged after him.
“Darcy!” she shouted, but the sound was lost to the din.
The chandelier gave a groan above her, and then it fell.