The Last | F. Dracy

Prologue

London had never felt so heavy.

The city pressed in around Adele as she stepped down from the carriage, its unrelenting energy clashing with the tight coil of dread in her chest. The streets roared with the sound of vendors calling their wares, the clatter of carriage wheels over uneven cobblestones, the distant toll of church bells marking the passage of time. The air was thick—damp stone and horse sweat mingling with the faint traces of burnt coal. It was a far cry from the crisp countryside air she had left behind.

She had been to London before, but never under such dire circumstances. Never with such ominous uncertainty clouding her every step.

Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner led the way up the stone steps of their home on Gracechurch Street, its sturdy frame a rare point of familiarity amidst the chaos. Elizabeth followed closely, her shoulders squared with determination despite the weariness evident in her face.

Richard lingered behind. Though he had not spoken since they entered the city, Adele could feel the weight of his gaze sweeping over the streets, ever watchful. He was not only here as Elizabeth's protector but as a soldier preparing for battle. And a battle it would be.

No sooner had they stepped inside than Mrs. Gardiner turned to Elizabeth, her voice hushed but urgent. "Your uncle will begin inquiries at once. We must remain calm."

Elizabeth nodded stiffly, though her hands twisted in her skirts. "And if they are not married?" she asked, barely above a whisper. "If Wickham never intended to make Lydia his wife?"

Adele reached for her friend's hand, squeezing gently. "Then we do not despair yet."

But Elizabeth's eyes held something dangerously close to fear.

Richard removed his gloves with deliberate care. "Darcy is already searching," he interjected. "He left for London the moment he received word. If anyone can find Wickham, it is him."

Adele's breath caught. "Mr. Darcy is here?"

Richard glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "You sound surprised."

"I—" She hesitated, realizing too late how much her voice had betrayed. "I did not expect him to involve himself in such a matter."

"Then you do not know him as well as you once did," Richard said simply. "Darcy would never stand idle when action is needed. Least of all where Wickham is concerned."

Elizabeth exhaled shakily. "Then I must see him at once. If he has any word—"

"You must rest first," Mrs. Gardiner interrupted gently, guiding her toward the parlor. "It has been a long journey. We will send word to Mr. Darcy in due time."

Elizabeth pressed her lips together but did not argue.

Adele, however, remained standing near the door, her mind spinning. Darcy was here. Already searching. Already acting.

She did not know why the thought unsettled her so.

The house was quiet by evening, save for the occasional murmured conversation drifting from the study. Elizabeth had finally succumbed to exhaustion, her restless worry giving way to sleep, while Mrs. Gardiner sat beside her, turning pages of a book she was not truly reading.

Adele found herself unable to sit still. She had spent the last hour by the window, watching the flickering streetlamps below, waiting for something—though she knew not what.

Then, just as the last traces of sunlight bled from the sky, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the hall.

The butler entered, clearing his throat. "Mr. Darcy, sir."

Adele turned just as Fitzwilliam Darcy stepped inside.

He had not changed since she had last seen him, and yet—he had. His cravat was loosened, his coat slightly disheveled, his dark curls damp from the evening mist. But it was his expression that struck her most. There was no trace of his usual restraint, no careful mask of indifference.

He looked as though he had not rested in days.

Mr. Gardiner stood at once. "Mr. Darcy, you have word?"

Darcy inclined his head, though his jaw remained tight. "Some," he admitted. "I have traced Wickham's whereabouts to a lodging house in St. Giles. He has been seen frequenting certain gambling halls, but no sign of Lydia yet."

Adele's stomach turned. St. Giles. The very name conjured images of dim alleyways and shadowed figures, of debtors and criminals who made their homes in places respectable society feared to tread.

Richard's expression darkened. "You believe he still intends to keep her?"

Darcy's voice was clipped. "I believe he intends to delay until his terms are met."

Elizabeth, now awake, had entered the room quietly. "Terms?" she asked hoarsely.

Darcy hesitated, then spoke carefully. "I suspect he will demand a sum in exchange for marriage."

Adele's fingers curled into fists. "So he never intended—"

"No," Darcy said firmly, his gaze flickering toward her. "Wickham has always sought fortune above all else. He would not have taken Lydia had he not thought she might be of use to him. But he has miscalculated."

Elizabeth swallowed hard. "And what shall be done?"

Darcy's expression remained unreadable. "I will speak with him."

Adele inhaled sharply. "Alone?"

His gaze met hers then, fully and without hesitation. "Yes."

Something in his tone made her chest tighten. There was no arrogance in it, no bravado—only certainty.

"You mean to pay him," she whispered.

Darcy did not deny it.

Richard exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "You always were the stubborn one," he muttered.

Adele's heart pounded. She wanted to say something, to protest—but what right had she? And yet, the thought of him walking alone into whatever den Wickham had made for himself—

"You cannot go alone," she said suddenly.

Darcy arched a brow. "I am quite capable, Miss Bennet."

"You should not have to," she countered, her voice steadier than she felt. "Richard—" She turned to the colonel, her eyes pleading.

Richard sighed. "She's right, cousin. I will go with you."

Darcy studied him for a long moment before finally nodding. "Very well."

Adele released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Darcy glanced at Elizabeth once more. "I will see this resolved," he promised.

Elizabeth, unable to speak, only nodded.

Darcy turned to leave, Richard following at his side. But just before they stepped into the night, Darcy hesitated. He glanced back, his eyes finding Adele's once more.

And then, just as quickly, he was gone.

Adele remained still long after the door shut behind them, her heart hammering wildly.

She did not know what tomorrow would bring.

But she knew one thing.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was not a man to break his promises.

And she prayed, with every fiber of her being, that this would not be the one he could not keep.