The Morning Chronicle #2
Captain Bennet set down his cup with mock solemnity. “And to think, Lizzy, you have faced assassins, danced before royalty, and saved a prince, all without bringing disgrace upon the family. I am astonished. You did not even shoot your commanding officer.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved. “No, Papa, but I came close on more than one occasion.”
He laughed, the sound half amusement, half relief. “Good girl. It shows you inherited some measure of judgment. I daresay that restraint will serve you well in marriage, should you ever find a husband brave enough to test it.”
Elizabeth shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You may rest easy, sir. I do not intend to shoot anyone else.”
“I should hope not,” he said lightly, folding his newspaper. “Still, I find myself exceedingly eager to make the acquaintance of this young Colonel. A man who has survived both French gunfire and your company must possess uncommon fortitude.”
Elizabeth’s protest was lost in Mrs Gardiner’s laugh.
Captain Bennet turned at once to his eldest daughter. “And as for you, my dear Jane, I understand your Captain has also distinguished himself, though in a rather different campaign.”
Jane coloured and bent over her tea. “Papa, I wish you would not.”
He smiled, perfectly content. “Nonsense. I look forward to meeting both gentlemen. It is a rare thing indeed for my daughters to take up with men who can read, ride, and reload.”
“Papa,” Elizabeth said, half laughing, “you make us sound like a recruiting office.”
“My dear, I am simply grateful you have done your duty to king and country before taking on domestic command.”
* * *
London, though outwardly calm, hummed with rumour. Every street seemed to whisper the same half-truths: a French plot, a fire at Carlton House, a lady’s courage, and the name of a colonel whose reserve had at last betrayed him to romance.
At the War Office those whispers had already hardened into dispatches. Clerks moved briskly through the corridors, their arms piled high with papers still damp from the press.
Colonel Darcy was admitted at ten o’clock.
The footman who opened the great door eyed him with open curiosity; clearly even Whitehall was not immune to gossip.
Darcy ignored it. He had slept little, having seen Miss Bennet safely conveyed to her relatives’ care, and had spent the night reviewing statements from the officers of the Forty-Fourth.
His uniform was immaculate, but the polish of the brass could not disguise the shadow of a sleepless night beneath his eyes.
A secretary appeared. “Colonel Darcy, His Royal Highness will see you now.”
The Duke of York stood beside the hearth, one boot upon the fender, a newspaper folded carelessly in his hand. Beside him sat Sir Thomas Lennox, Under-Secretary for War, his desk a fortress of dispatch boxes.
“Ah, Darcy,” said the Duke. “It appears the city cannot breakfast without your name. Have you seen the papers?”
Darcy bowed. “No, Your Royal Highness.”
“Then you had best read for yourself.” The Duke handed him the newspaper with a faint smile. “I recommend the second column, society’s favourite fiction for the day.”
Darcy took it, scanning the page. His jaw tightened at the familiar initials—Miss E— B—, Colonel D—, and the insinuations that followed. When he looked up, his expression was composed, his voice measured.
“Miss Bennet’s name must not be further associated with this affair, sir.”
“Be easy,” said the Duke. “Her identity will remain a mystery. The Regent himself has ordered that she be referred to only as a lady of uncommon courage. Still…” he inclined his head slightly “…I cannot promise that the ton will not name her for you before week’s end.”
Darcy’s only reply was a brief nod.
Sir Thomas, sensing the Duke’s amusement, turned the conversation. “The prisoners have been examined again. Four are confirmed French agents. The fifth, your Mr Wickham, persists in claiming innocence, though the evidence speaks otherwise.”
Darcy’s expression hardened. “Then there is no doubt?”
“None,” said the Duke. “He will hang by Friday. A quiet business, no ceremony. England is weary of traitors.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Justice will be served then.”
“Justice,” said the Duke, “and honour. The Prince has asked that the officers of the Forty-Fourth be commended at the next levee. There will be medals for those who distinguished themselves.”
Darcy’s reply was steady. “Then I must name Captain Bingley, Lieutenant Lucas, and Sergeant Barrow before myself. Their conduct deserves every mark of favour.”
“Quite so,” said Sir Thomas, writing swiftly. “Your modesty does you credit, Colonel.”
The Duke folded his arms, his smile more genuine. “If you are wise, you will spend the next few days not in modesty but in rest. The Army can spare you until the fuss dies down. And if rumour is to be believed, you have reason enough to linger in town.”
Darcy met his gaze evenly. “Miss Bennet is recovering under her relatives’ care. I shall call upon them when propriety allows.”
“Propriety,” said the Duke dryly, “is a word seldom used by heroes, but I applaud the attempt. Go, Colonel. You have done the Crown exemplary service and given the newspapers something to print that does not involve Parliament’s debts.”
Darcy bowed and withdrew.
Outside, the cries of the newsboys echoed up the street: “Hero of Carlton House! Colonel Darcy and the mysterious lady!”
The wind caught a discarded sheet, lifting its corner across his path. His own name stared back at him in bold black type. He paused, the paper curling at his feet like the echo of a story already out of his hands.
Then he turned away, towards Gracechurch Street.