26. Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Six
The air was damp, thick with the briny scent of the Thames. The darkened alley they led her through was narrow, the towering warehouses on either side looming like silent sentinels. She glimpsed the flicker of torchlight reflecting off the river in the distance. The docks.
They were taking her to the docks. Was she to be hidden in a barrel and sent off to France as some sort of captive?
Wait… no, this was not the docks themselves, but nearby. This was a warehouse. An older one, probably on Thames Street, or perhaps the seedier end of Wapping Street.
A heavy door creaked open, and she was guided inside a cold, dimly lit room. The floor was rough beneath her slippers, and the scent of mildew and old wood filled her nostrils. A single lantern burned on a wooden table, casting flickering shadows against the bare walls.
She was not alone.
Two new men—one tall and broad-shouldered, the other wiry with a shrewd gaze—stood near the table. They had the look of men accustomed to keeping their business quiet, their clothing plain but well-worn. The wiry one tilted his head, scrutinizing her as if she were a puzzle he had not quite solved.
Elizabeth forced herself to stand tall, her hands folded primly in front of her. If they expected terror, they would be disappointed. “I must say, this is hardly the welcome I expected when I left my uncle’s house this afternoon.”
The taller man let out a rough chuckle, shaking his head. “She has spirit, this one.” The accent—he was French. Elizabeth felt herself starting to stare at him, but snapped her eyes back once more, attempting nonchalance. But in that glance, she saw… remembered.
That man had been at the ball. Both balls. An attendant to the French diplomat—the very one who had fumbled the note that she had so foolishly recovered.
The wiry man stepped closer, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You have something that does not belong to you, mademoiselle.”
Elizabeth blinked, feigning confusion. “Do I?”
The wiry man’s expression did not change. “Do not play games. The key. The letter.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “Ah. The mysterious key and letter. Fascinating, really. I would love to know what they are for.”
The taller man scoffed. “Do not waste our time. You know perfectly well what you were meant to do with them.”
She lifted her chin. “I do not.”
The wiry man sighed, as though she were an exasperating child. “Then you are either an exceptional actress or a fool.”
Elizabeth did not flinch. “And if I am neither?”
The men exchanged a glance. The taller one leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “Gardiner’s ships,” he said slowly. “You were given instructions. And yet, you have done nothing. Why?”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “Perhaps because I was given no instructions.”
A beat of silence.
Then the wiry man spoke, his voice almost… intrigued. “You expect us to believe that you accepted a key and a letter, and yet you did not know what to do with them?”
Elizabeth smiled slightly. “It is rather absurd, is it not? But I fear I am quite a greedy creature, and moreover, a vain one The key was rather pretty. How could I send it back?”
The tall man’s patience was unraveling quickly. “Enough.” He straightened, glancing at his companion. “She is stalling.”
Elizabeth felt a bead of sweat at the back of her neck but did not let her expression falter.
“Who has them now?” the wiry man asked softly.
She met his gaze evenly. “I wonder that myself.”
He studied her for a long moment, then exhaled. “You will tell us eventually.”
Elizabeth lifted a delicate brow. “That will be difficult, as I do not know how I am to obtain fresh information to tell you.”
The taller man turned toward the door. “Let her sit with the question for a while.” The door shut behind them with a resounding thud.
Elizabeth exhaled slowly, wrapping her arms around herself .
So. They did not intend to harm her—at least, not yet. They believed she knew something, that she had been meant to act.
Which meant they would wait.
Good. That would give her time.
She turned, scanning the room, searching for anything she might use to her advantage. The flickering lantern cast just enough light to reveal the uneven planks of the floor, a rickety wooden chair, and…
A small, dust-covered window near the ceiling.
Her lips curled into a slow, determined smile.
They had underestimated her daring. Or her recklessness.
And that would be their first mistake.
The streets of Mayfair were quieter at this hour, the hum of society dulled to the occasional passing carriage or the flicker of candlelight through drawing-room windows. He did not hesitate as he turned onto St. James’s, his path set—Brooks’s. Richard would be there. He had to be.
His mind was already working through the possibilities as his boots struck the cobblestone. Where was she? Had Elizabeth truly gone willingly? If so, it would be the first time in her life she was not at least somewhat contrary. Why? And with whom? That was the worst of it—the uncertainty, the doubt gnawing at him like a festering wound. He could not believe she had betrayed him—his instincts rejected the notion outright. But the possibility existed, whispering at the edges of his thoughts like a specter.
And if she had not gone willingly?
His jaw tightened, his pulse a steady roar in his ears.
The moment he reached the steps of Brooks’s, he did not pause. He strode through the entrance, nodding curtly to the steward who moved aside without question. The scent of cigars and brandy lingered in the air, the quiet murmur of political discussions and idle wagers filling the space. A few men glanced up as he passed, some with recognition, others with curiosity. Darcy ignored them, his gaze sweeping the room until—
There .
Richard lounged in a corner, his long legs stretched out before him, a half-empty glass of brandy in one hand as he conversed with an older gentleman Darcy did not recognize. His cousin’s expression was relaxed, the slight smirk on his face suggesting the conversation had taken an amusing turn. He had no idea—none at all—what storm was about to break over his head.
Darcy closed the distance in four strides. “Fitzwilliam!” he said sharply.
Richard looked up, his brows lifting at Darcy’s tone. “Cousin, you look as if you are ready to call someone out at dawn. Do I need to prepare my pistol?”
Darcy did not bother with pleasantries. “I need to speak with you. Now.”
Something in his voice—his stance, perhaps—must have struck a nerve, for Richard’s smirk faded. He murmured a word of parting to his companion, then rose smoothly, his easy manner replaced with quiet assessment. “Very well,” he said, setting his glass aside. “Let us find somewhere private.”
They moved swiftly to a small, unoccupied card room near the back of the club. The door shut behind them, sealing out the low hum of conversation beyond. Richard turned to face him, arms crossing over his chest.
“Now,” he said, his voice calm but edged with expectation. “Tell me what the devil is going on.”
Darcy exhaled sharply, pushing a hand through his hair before turning to face his cousin. “Elizabeth is missing.”
Richard’s expression did not shift immediately. “Missing,” he repeated. “As in, she stepped out for a walk, or as in—”
“As in she was last seen leaving my house hours ago, and she never returned home,” Darcy snapped.
That got a reaction. Richard straightened slightly, his posture sharpening. “That is concerning.”
“It is more than concerning!” Darcy ground out, pacing the length of the little room like a caged animal. “She left alone , Richard. The manservant said she did not call for her uncle’s carriage but took a hired chaise. And then—” He hesitated. He had not meant to bring this up so soon, but the words tumbled out anyway. “I did not hear of it for a solid half hour after I arrived home. Half an hour! First Langton robs me of my time, then Georgiana, and now— ”
Richard, who had been watching him with growing concern, leaned back against the door, arms crossed. “Hold on. You are spinning yourself into a panic over Miss Bennet, and now you bring up Georgiana? Darcy, what the devil is going on?”
Darcy turned sharply. “I am not spinning myself into anything.”
Richard scoffed. “Aren’t you? You are pacing like a madman and barking orders at me before you have even told me what exactly we are dealing with. You are rarely this discomposed. And now you are flinging Georgiana into the middle of it?” He shook his head. “This is not like you, cousin.”
Darcy inhaled sharply, forcing himself to still. But his hands clenched at his sides. “I have been on edge for days,” he admitted through gritted teeth. “Between the election, the schemes of our uncle, and… and Miss Bennet—yes, I am—concerned.”
Richard studied him carefully. “Concerned. Is that what you call it? What is this about Georgie?”
Darcy exhaled sharply, looking away. “I cannot—I do not know if she is well. I have had no word since her last letter more than a week ago.”
Richard frowned, the teasing edge vanishing from his voice. “And why should she not be well?”
Darcy hesitated just long enough that Richard’s expression darkened.
“Darcy,” Richard said slowly, now standing to his full height. “What has happened?”
Darcy dragged a hand down his face. “I do not know. I only know that something is amiss. I should have gone myself—I should have checked on her, and I would have if not for this… bloody nonsense! But with everything else—” He cut off abruptly.
Richard swore under his breath. “Blast it, man. Why did you not tell me sooner? Look, you are fretting about a few days of forgetting to write. Surely, Georgie is well enough. First, let us sort out this mess with Miss Bennet. You are right about one thing—something about this does not sit well with me.”
Darcy clenched his jaw. He had never wanted to be right less in his life. “I do not like this, Richard. Any of it. If she is harmed…”
“Are we back to talking about Miss Bennet now?”
Darcy narrowed his eyes and hissed in exasperation.
Richard let out a slow breath, running a hand through his own hair. “All right. First things first—Elizabeth. Tell me everything you know, every detail, however insignificant.”
Darcy nodded tightly, then relayed the events of the afternoon—Elizabeth’s visit, her distress over the note, her abrupt departure, and the message from Gardiner’s clerk, Temple. Finally, the man who had got into her carriage on his very own street. As he spoke, Richard’s expression darkened, his keen military mind already working through the implications.
“So she went to your house, possibly intending to seek answers about this shipping matter,” Richard mused, his fingers tapping against the back of a chair. “And now she is nowhere to be found.”
“Precisely.”
Richard inhaled deeply, then exhaled through his nose. “I will have my men begin asking around discreetly. In the meantime, we will pay a visit to Gardiner’s shipping office, whatever he has in port, and anyone who works for him. Someone knows something.”
Darcy gave a terse nod. “Agreed.”
Richard hesitated for only a moment before adding, “And as for Georgiana… If you still have nothing from her in the next day or two, I will go to Ramsgate.”
Darcy met his cousin’s gaze, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “It should be me. I should be going, but I… I cannot leave London.”
“I know,” Richard said simply. “But you trust me.”
It was not a question. Darcy exhaled slowly, nodding. “Yes. I trust you.”
Richard’s smirk returned, though it was tempered by the weight of the moment. “Good. Then let us find your Miss Bennet.”
Darcy ignored the way his pulse reacted to those words. He turned sharply toward the door. “It cannot be too soon.”
Elizabeth pressed her ear to the door, straining to hear anything beyond the thick wood. Silence. No footsteps, no voices. She was not sure if that was good or bad.
She turned back to the window. It was small, but the latch was old, and with a sharp twist and a push, the frame gave way with a reluctant creak. Cold air drifted in, carrying the faint scent of the Thames.
Leaning out, she took in the alley below. A narrow space between buildings, cluttered with crates and barrels, the ground uneven with patches of damp stone. The drop was high—not impossible, but risky. If she lowered herself carefully, she might manage without injury. Or she might break her neck .
Elizabeth pulled herself onto the sill, gripping the edge. Her skirts caught against the frame, and she struggled to free them without losing balance. She was shifting her weight to bring her feet around when the door burst open.
She had just enough time to twist toward the sound before a strong hand seized the back of her gown. Elizabeth gasped as she was yanked backward, her feet slipping from the sill as her gown made a ripping sound. She tumbled ungracefully onto the wooden floor, barely catching herself before her head struck the boards.
“Little fool,” a rough voice muttered above her.
She scrambled upright, shoving her skirts down to cover her legs just as the tall man with the scar loomed over her. He glared down, his mouth curled into something that was neither a smirk nor a sneer, but something in between.
“Thought you’d climb out, did you?” he said.
Elizabeth straightened her shoulders, ignoring the sting in her palms from her fall. “Can you blame me?”
His eyes flickered with something—amusement, perhaps—but it was gone in an instant. “You ought to be grateful we found you before you did something you would regret.”
Elizabeth scoffed. “Oh, I am positively overwhelmed with gratitude.”
Before he could respond, the door creaked again. A new figure stepped inside.
Elizabeth barely had to glance at him to know he was the one truly in charge. His clothes were finer, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested control. He did not look at the scarred man, nor did he acknowledge him. His attention was solely on Elizabeth.
She lifted her chin.
“You must forgive my associates,” he said. “They lack the refinement required for more… civilized conversations.”
Elizabeth folded her arms. “A pity you felt the need for their company, then.”
Something flickered in his eyes—interest, perhaps. He took a step closer, studying her as though weighing his approach. “You are an interesting creature, Miss Bennet.”
“Am I?” she asked dryly. “Well, that is a relief. I should hate to be a dull hostage.”
He chuckled. “Clever.”
Elizabeth did not respond.
He did not speak again immediately, but instead moved toward a small writing desk against the far wall. With an air of casual ownership, he picked up a stray quill and twirled it between his fingers. “I will admit,” he said after a moment, “this is not how I anticipated our introduction.”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “Do forgive me. Had I known we had an appointment, I would have dressed accordingly.”
His lips quirked slightly. “Tell me, Miss Bennet,” he said, setting the quill down. “Are you aware of what your presence here signifies?”
“I assume you mean to tell me.”
His gaze sharpened slightly. “You are either very foolish or very good at pretending.”
“Why not both?”
He chuckled again, though there was little humor in it.
Elizabeth held his stare, refusing to flinch. “What do you want from me?”
There was a long silence before he answered. “I want to know,” he murmured, “what you have told Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s blood turned to ice… just slightly.
His gaze flickered over her, and he smiled. “Yes,” he said softly. “I thought so. You really… truly know… nothing. Is that right? Found yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, did you not?”
The scarred man shifted beside him, but Elizabeth barely noticed. Her heart pounded, not in fear, but in cold, sharp calculation.
At least they knew now that she was not who they thought she was. They would stop demanding that she do heaven-knew-what with things she did not have anymore. That was something.
But the relief was fleeting. A breath, half-formed, before the weight of realization crashed down like a stone in her stomach.
Now, she had no value to them at all. No use. No leverage.
Just a loose end.