Elizabeth was there, seated at the low table with his daughter, helping her spread jam on toast. She looked up at the sound of the door, then immediately dropped her eyes to the plate. The movement was swift, almost guilty. Dark circles shadowed the delicate skin beneath her eyes—twin bruises that matched his own.
She had not slept either, and the knowledge gave him an odd satisfaction.
“Good morning, Papa!” Anne waved her toast triumphantly, jam already smeared across one cheek.
Darcy managed a faint smile and crossed to kiss the top of her head.
He allowed himself one brief glance at Elizabeth. She kept her eyes lowered, her fingers steady on the knife, but the faint colour that rose in her cheeks told him she felt his regard as keenly as he felt hers.
“I shall not stay,” he said, addressing Anne though the words were meant for both of them. “There is a great deal of work awaiting me this morning.”
Anne accepted this with easy confidence. She had never yet been denied her father’s attention when she truly wanted it, after all. Elizabeth murmured something polite and appropriate, still not meeting his eyes.
Darcy left before the ache in his chest could deepen.
He descended to his study, closed the door, and stood for a moment with his back against the wood. He walked to his desk and rang the bell.
Barton appeared almost at once.
“Send for Carruthers. Immediately, if you please.”
The man of business arrived within the hour, neat and precise.
“Mr Darcy,” Carruthers said with a small bow. “You wished to see me?”
Darcy did not invite him to sit. He remained standing behind his desk, his hands braced on the polished surface.
“I require you to go to Doctors’ Commons this morning,” he said without preamble. “You will make an application for a special licence.”
Carruthers’ eyebrows rose a fraction—the only outward sign of reaction.
“A special licence, sir?”
“Yes.” Darcy’s voice was level, almost detached. “You will provide the necessary names and details when you arrive. I shall give them to you now.”
He slid a folded sheet of paper across the desk. Carruthers picked it up, opened it, read the two names written there in Darcy’s firm hand, and closed it again without comment.
“You will not discuss the matter with anyone,” Darcy continued. “Not even with me, once the application is made. You will simply bring me the licence when it is granted.”
Carruthers regarded him for a moment with the same calm, professional detachment he had shown when Darcy had asked him to purchase a house in Somers Town without revealing the buyer’s identity.
“Very good, sir. Is there anything else?”
“Nothing.”
The man of business bowed once more and turned towards the door.
“Carruthers.” Darcy’s fingers tightened on the edge of the desk. “No one must know.”
Carruthers inclined his head with perfect understanding. “Of course, sir.”
He left without another word.
Darcy remained where he was, staring at the closed door long after the sound of footsteps had faded.
A precaution.That was all it was. A sensible measure taken by a man who had learned, at great cost, that life could change in a single afternoon. A man who had once proposed marriage in haste and been refused with brutal clarity. A man who now found himself on the edge of something far more dangerous than he had ever imagined.
He crossed to the window and looked out over the square, but he saw nothing of the carriages or the passing pedestrians. He saw only Elizabeth’s face in the moment after the kiss, her eyes wide, her lips parted, the rapid rise and fall of her breathing. He saw the way she had fled afterward, as though the ground had suddenly become unstable under her feet.