“What do you know, Madame Evro?” She slipped a coin onto the table. “Who stands to harm me?”
“You stand between powerful forces,” the fortune teller continued. “Beware those who offer protection—they may be your greatestthreat. The spirits return when the veil is thinnest, seek the answers, and they may be found.”
“Do you know?” Elizabeth asked, leaning forward despite herself. “Who killed my parents?”
“The answer lies in plain sight, if you have eyes to see.” Madame Evro’s voice had changed subtly, becoming less theatrical. “Look to those who profited most from death. Look to those who have been paying for silence all these years.”
Elizabeth felt a chill. The fortune teller spoke not in riddles but in specifics that aligned too closely with what she had already discovered.
“You know something about the night of the fire,” she accused quietly. “Who are you?”
“Truth emerges in its own time,” the fortune teller agreed, releasing Elizabeth’s hand. “But sometimes it requires… assistance. The cottage where fire once burned holds secrets still. Seek them before others silence you forever.”
Elizabeth started at this reference to Rose Cottage. “What do you know about?—”
But Madame Evro had risen abruptly, her attention apparently captured by a presence beyond the alcove’s draperies. “Go now, child. Return to the light and safety. But remember—when shadows move tonight, trust your instincts above all else.”
Elizabeth emerged from the fortune teller’s booth with her mind racing. The woman’s knowledge was far too specific, yet her warnings raised more questions than they answered. Who had provided her with the information? And what immediate danger was she referencing?
As she looked around for Darcy, Elizabeth noticed another figure in white silk near the ballroom’s entrance. With a shock of recognition, she realized she was looking at another Diana—a woman wearing an identical costume, complete with silver accessories and a decorative quiver.
Why would there be another woman whose appearance was soclose to hers? What if she were the true Darcy heiress? Elizabeth began moving toward the other Diana, but a firm hand grasped her arm, stopping her progress.
“Miss Bennet,” a man’s voice said near her ear. “A word, if you please.”
Before she could take another breath, a cloth was pressed against her nose and mouth, filling her senses with a sickly sweet scent that made her thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.
“Do not struggle,” the voice advised with false kindness as Elizabeth’s vision began to blur. “This will be much easier if you cooperate.”
As she was forced out through a garden door, Elizabeth caught one final glimpse of the ballroom—the false Diana now dancing with Darcy, her costume perfect in every detail, her deception apparently complete.
No one would miss her. No one would realize she had been taken.
A horrible blow to her head blackened her sight. Elizabeth’s last coherent thought as consciousness faded was the horrifying realization that her duplicate would keep Darcy occupied while she was spirited away from safety.
She was well and truly trapped.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
RACE AGAINST THE WITCHING HOUR
Darcy had kepthis eye on Elizabeth, the figure in flowing white silk with a white eyemask. She’d danced with Wickham and Bingley, conversing casually. While Darcy admired Elizabeth’s investigative skill, this masquerade assembly was tedious at best and potentially dangerous. What useful information could she possibly extract from the figures of a quadrille?
With Elizabeth’s birthday mere hours away, Darcy contemplated a simpler solution: acknowledging her claim while proposing a joint stewardship of Pemberley. Such an arrangement would satisfy legal requirements while protecting Georgiana’s interests—and would allow him to remain near Elizabeth without the constant strain of mystery and suspicion between them. He spotted Blythewood conversing with Mr. Hurst. Midnight drew near, and once Elizabeth turned one-and-twenty, she could consent to a marriage without her father’s permission.
Turning around, Darcy realized he’d lost sight of her. Panic struck him as he weaved through the crowd, searching for the distinctive white costume. The assembly room was a tumult of dancing figures and grinning masks. ARoman soldier bumped against him with a mumbled apology, a shepherdess curtsied as he passed, but of Elizabeth there was no sign.
“Mr. Darcy!” Caroline’s shrill voice cut through his concentration. “You simply must assist me with the midnight unmasking ceremony. The orchestra requires direction, and Charles is in no condition?—”
“Not now, Miss Bingley,” he said curtly, still scanning the room.
“But it’s a tradition,” she persisted, positioning herself directly in his path. “As host, you must?—”
“Miss Elizabeth,” he interrupted. “Have you seen her recently?”
Caroline’s lips pursed beneath her Egyptian headdress. “I saw her speaking with Madame Evro near the garden doorway, though that was some time ago. Really, Mr. Darcy, her comings and goings are hardly my concern when we have the entire assembly waiting for?—”
A figure in white silk approached from the direction of the terrace doors. Relief washed over him as he caught sight of the distinctive Diana costume—then froze as the young woman drew closer and curtsied with an elegant grace. The familiar dark eyes beneath the white silk mask were not Elizabeth’s.
