Murder at Netherfield Page 27

  “Yes, you may.”

  “Bravo!” said another voice, startling her.

  Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley had ended their discussion and risen to their feet. It was Mr. Hurst who had spoken, though Mr. Bingley was watching them with approval, though a hint of melancholy.

  “It seems, Darcy,” said Mr. Hurst, “Lady Catherine may have had something to concern herself over, after all.”

  “I, for one, never doubted it,” said Mr. Bingley. He clapped his friend on the back. “We will depart now. If you would like some advice, however, I would suggest you do not linger much longer. I believe you are already past the point Mr. Bennet indicated when he informed you of his expectation that his daughter would be returned to him ‘directly.’”

  With a laugh and a nod, Mr. Bingley departed, with a serious-looking Mr. Hurst following closely behind. It was strange, Elizabeth thought, but she did not feel quite so bashful at their teasing as she had when Mr. Darcy had declared his intentions. When she turned to him, he was watching her, a question written upon his countenance. Elizabeth thought she understood.

  “I am quite content to allow Mr. Bingley his fun, Mr. Darcy. But perhaps we should wait until we are able to depart from this estate to proceed any further. It would not be proper, consider we are living under the same roof at present.”

  “That is correct,” said Mr. Darcy. “I will call the very day I am able after I have completed my responsibilities to my family.”

  Thrilled that he wished to proceed in an expeditious manner, Elizabeth nodded and took his proffered arm. The hall outside the sitting-room was already devoid of Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley, as they had quite obviously made their way above stairs quickly. All was silent. Had Elizabeth not had this tall, imposing man as an escort, she might have found it more than a little frightening.

  Mr. Darcy led them forward quickly, understanding that he was likely testing Mr. Bennet’s forbearance as it was. Their footsteps echoed through the long hall as they walked, and Elizabeth looked about, the shadows cast by the few lights which remained on playing tricks on her mind, inducing her to see things which were not there.

  Then they heard voices. Mr. Darcy, who heard them first, stopped suddenly, bringing Elizabeth to a halt while motioning for silence. There were a number of open doors along the hall, but Elizabeth was certain the voices were coming from a door a little further along, a supposition which was borne out by the fact that there was a faint light flickering through the door, which was open just a crack. Though she could not make out any words, it seemed like an argument, for the voices were raised and the tone angry.

  Using soft steps, taking care that his shoes did not click against the tiles and give them away, Mr. Darcy led her forward. As they approached, Elizabeth realized this was the door to the library, for she could see one of the bookcases—woefully understocked with books, though the narrow gap. As they drew near, they heard a voice speaking, and this time clearly.

  “I know you are in a position to be generous. I shall await your response.”

  Mr. Darcy turned a determined glance at Elizabeth and stepped to the door, pushing it open. As the room opened to their view, they noted that no one was on the side revealed by the open door. Mr. Darcy rushed in, letting Elizabeth’s hand fall, and Elizabeth hurried in after him.

  On the far side of the room, a lone man whirled upon their entrance, and then straightened, throwing them a sardonic sneer. It was Mr. Wickham.

  “With whom were you speaking, Wickham?” demanded Mr. Darcy. He did not wait for a response, rather exiting through the nearby door into the room beyond. He did not stay long before he returned, his suspicious eyes falling on Mr. Wickham. The militia officer did not seem to be affected by Mr. Darcy’s presence.

  “Good evening to you too, Darcy,” said the man, insolence in his tone and manner. “Of course, I would expect you to rush in and make demands without waiting for a response.”

  “Spare me your glib tongue, Wickham,” snarled Mr. Darcy. “I have not the time nor the inclination for it. It sounded suspiciously like you were attempting your usual tricks, though blackmail is a new low, even for you.”

  A grunted laugh was Mr. Wickham’s response. “My business is my own, Darcy. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “I believe it does,” replied Mr. Darcy. He stepped up to Mr. Wickham, his merciless gaze bearing down on the other man. Though Elizabeth had thought Mr. Wickham a tall man, Mr. Darcy stood at least three inches taller, and he did not scruple to use his height to intimidate.

  “Of course, you do,” said Mr. Wickham, apparently not intimidated in the least. “The great Fitzwilliam Darcy, the master of Pemberley, possessor of the most inscrutable mask in all of England, and the appointed protector of all about him.” Wickham snorted in disdain. “My business is my own, Darcy. If you believe I have done something wrong, I suggest you lock me in my room, as you suggested to your cousin. He, at least, has a little more objectivity than you possess. But I warn you—when you are proven wrong about me, you will be left with naught but another body on your hands.”

  “What do you mean?” challenged Mr. Darcy.

  “Merely that I have harmed no one,” said Mr. Wickham. “I know you suspect me. But you are not nearly so intelligent as you believe.” Mr. Wickham sneered. “Poor Darcy,” mocked he. “You are so focused on me; you neglect to consider other options. I am not your quarry.”

  “If you know something, you will tell me, Wickham. Or I swear I shall break you!”

  “Do you see what manner of man this is, Miss Elizabeth?” asked Mr. Wickham.

  He deftly stepped back from Mr. Darcy and sauntered toward her, though she noted that he kept a wary eye on Mr. Darcy. For his part, Mr. Darcy was not about to allow the man to escape so easily, as he reached out and grabbed Mr. Wickham’s arm. Mr. Wickham only shook him off.

  “High handed, is he not?” Mr. Wickham threw a contemptuous glare back at Mr. Darcy. “This is only one of his many faults. Do you know that he is widely considered to be a man of arrogance and conceit, one who looks meanly on all others, even those of his supposed station in life?”

  “You may say what you like, Mr. Wickham,” said Elizabeth, standing her ground, “but I have no doubt who is the better man between you.”

  “What a laugh.” The full force of Mr. Wickham’s sneer was turned on Elizabeth herself. But he did not intimidate her. “I have often seen young ladies attempt to attach themselves to Darcy and others who possess the same wealth. Just like all the others, I am afraid you will be disappointed.”

  “That is enough, Wickham!” commanded Mr. Darcy.

  Elizabeth glanced at him and knew there would be greater unpleasantness if this continued much longer. She was certain that Mr. Wickham was also aware of this, though one might have been excused for misinterpreting it due to the man’s continued goading.

  “Darcy does possess the wealth, Miss Elizabeth. But he is not half the man I am.”

  He stepped close and peered down at her, running his tongue over his lips in what was intended to be a seductive action. Elizabeth felt nothing but repulsion.

  “If you give me half a chance, I will show you the difference between us.”

  Mr. Darcy snarled at Mr. Wickham, and Elizabeth knew he was on the edge of attacking the libertine. She stepped around Mr. Wickham deftly and stepped to Mr. Darcy’s side, placing a hand on his arm, a gesture she intended to be both possessive and pointed.

  “There is nothing you can say which would induce my belief, Mr. Wickham,” said Elizabeth. She looked him up and down. “All I can see is a man who has been grasping all his life, who has thrown away the advantages with which he was gifted time and time again.”

  A laugh—forced, Elizabeth thought—burst from Mr. Wickham’s mouth, and he shook his head. “It seems wealth has won again. A great pity it is.”

  Mr. Wickham turned to Mr. Darcy and saluted him with a mocking bow. “I commend you, sir, for winnin
g the loyalty of the fair Miss Elizabeth. I hope you enjoy her. And I hope you will not be hurt in the process, my lady.”

  Then Mr. Wickham exited the room, though with unhurried steps, which he intended to signal his utter lack of fear for anything they could do. Elizabeth felt Mr. Darcy’s muscles bunch beneath her hand, indicating his intention of following Mr. Wickham from the room.

  “It is, perhaps, best to simply allow him to leave at present, Mr. Darcy.”

  Mr. Darcy looked down at her, and his expression softened. He relaxed, but Elizabeth was certain she had only postponed the inevitable.

  “Though it is against my inclination, I believe you are correct. And Bingley was also correct—I believe your father will come looking for us if I do not return you to him.” He gestured toward the door. “I can deal with Wickham later.”

  His final words stayed with Elizabeth as they made their way from the room. The corridor once again was as empty as it was the last time they walked within it, but Elizabeth saw none of it. Instead, she pondered the meaning of what they had overheard. She also thought of Mr. Darcy’s meaning.

  “It is apparent to me you are deep in thought, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, drawing Elizabeth from her deliberations.

  “I suppose it is evident,” said Elizabeth, smiling up at him.

  “Even more so as you were chewing on your lower lip.”

  The intensity with which he said this took her aback. “I had not even been aware I was doing it,” said she, a little breathlessly.

  “It is one of those mannerisms I find irresistible about you, Miss Elizabeth. But I am wondering what you were thinking.”

  Elizabeth sighed. “I hardly know. I suppose I was attempting to divine the meaning of what we heard.” Elizabeth peered up at him, uncertain she should ask the question she wished to ask. “Do you mean to extract the information from him tomorrow?”

  “I believe we must,” said Mr. Darcy. “I know not what he was doing, but it is clear it was nothing good. We have enough problems at present without dealing with more of Wickham’s schemes.”

  “Of what schemes are you speaking, sir?”

  Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy looked up as one to see her father descending the stairs toward them. Though Elizabeth thought her father was not displeased, she knew he would demand an explanation for their tardiness. Mr. Darcy did not hesitate to give one.

  “That is interesting,” said Mr. Bennet when the matter had been explained to him. “Given your account of Mr. Wickham, I wonder what he is planning.”

  “I am concerned as well. I shall roust Fitzwilliam from his bed tomorrow morning, and we will ensure we obtain answers from Wickham. If nothing else, I hold enough of his debts to see him in prison for a long time. If he decides he does not wish to be forthcoming, I can use that against him.”

  Mr. Bennet nodded slowly. “That is for the best, sir. Can he be persuaded to resign his commission and leave the community? An unscrupulous man such as he can do much damage to the shopkeepers.”

  “Fitzwilliam will take great pleasure in it, Mr. Bennet. I suspect Mr. Wickham will have a choice in his near future—he either resigns his commission or finds himself transferred to the front lines in Spain.”

  The two men shared devilish grins, and Elizabeth could only laugh at it while being thrilled her father and the man she had come to esteem seemed so easy in each other’s company. It boded well for the future.

  “I shall leave it in your capable hands, Mr. Darcy,” said Mr. Bennet. “For now, I believe it is best to return my daughter to her sisters and mother. There will be more time to come to know each other on the morrow.”

  “Of course, Mr. Bennet.” He smiled at Elizabeth. “I will be happy to cede your daughter to your care.”

  Then Mr. Darcy bowed and, capturing Elizabeth’s hand, bestowed a lingering kiss on it. Elizabeth felt the heat rise in her cheeks again, a fact which her father could not help but notice.

  “Good night, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth before allowing her father to lead her away.

  They climbed the stairs, Mr. Darcy following behind, and when they reached their room, her father paused in front of the door. A quick look down the hall revealed that Mr. Darcy had already entered his room, leaving father and daughter alone in the hallway.

  “It appears you have made a significant conquest, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet.

  His manner, while teasing, as usual, was a little wistful. Elizabeth immediately understood—she, who had always been his favorite, had attracted a wealthy man, but more importantly, a man who lived some distance away. She would not be settled close to him, and though she knew he had always wished for that, he would not stand in the way of her happiness.

  “I esteem Mr. Darcy very much,” said Elizabeth. “But I would not call it a conquest, Papa. He would like to call on me. But there is a long way to go before that turns into anything more.”

  “There is little doubt it will, my beloved child,” said Mr. Bennet, bestowing a kiss on her forehead. “The way he regards you tells me everything I need to know. He is a man who will treat you like the jewel you are, and for that, I could not be happier.”

  “I hope so, Papa,” said Elizabeth in a voice barely audible.

  “Just take care to remain unobtrusive when in your mother’s presence.” Mr. Bennet chuckled. “Your mother seems to be convinced that Mr. Darcy is the one to blame for everything that has happened here. I expect that once we leave and Mr. Darcy comes to call on you, she will be won over by reports of his income and position in society. Until then, however, prudence would be advisable.”

  “Perhaps it is,” said Elizabeth, exasperated at her mother all over again.

  As her father turned to open the door, Elizabeth followed him into the room, hearing the welcoming voices of her sisters. While she knew she would be the target of their teasing jests, Elizabeth knew she should treasure these times. For if her father was at all correct, she would soon be leaving her father’s home to be mistress of her own. The thought of leaving her family was a little daunting, as she knew most young women would feel at the prospect. But it was also exciting. Especially when she would be moving to the home of a man she could love without reservation.

  Chapter XXII

  AFTER THE EVENT, DARCY was relieved he had rousted Fitzwilliam from his bed, not that it had been easy. For all that Fitzwilliam was accustomed to rising early due to his position in the army, Darcy had never known a man who was able to sleep quite like Fitzwilliam was. When Darcy entered his room that morning, throwing open the drapes to the grey of the predawn world outside, his cousin leaned on one arm and fixed Darcy with an unpleasant glare.

  “I hope there is a good reason for disturbing my repose, Cousin. Otherwise, I shall be rather put out with you.”

  For his part, Darcy was not in the most congenial mood, for he had slept ill the night before. His mind had been full of thoughts of George Wickham, continually running over the few short words he had overheard the previous evening. While he had not thought it the previous evening, now he wondered if Wickham had been speaking to the murderer. Discovering the truth and then threatening to expose the killer unless compensated was something Darcy could well imagine Wickham doing.

  “There is,” replied Darcy shortly. “Get up. You and I are off to greet our good friend Wickham and force some information from his worthless hide.”

  “I like it,” said Fitzwilliam, throwing aside the covers. Darcy had known any mention of Wickham, especially if he implied violence, would capture his cousin’s interest. “I am curious, however, as to the reason for this sudden change of heart.”

  “Get dressed, and I shall tell you.”

  Darcy did so as Fitzwilliam pulled on his clothes, grumbling about the lack of his batman, who was still in London. He asked a few questions as the account became more interesting, which Darcy answered as much as he could. In the end, his cousin was not hesitant to voice his disgust, both with Wickham, but also w
ith Darcy.

  “I should have known. Even if he is not capable of murder himself, it should have been clear to us all that Wickham is capable of anything which will be of benefit to himself.” Fitzwilliam turned a displeased scowl on Darcy. “We should have taken Wickham in hand many months ago, Darcy. You know this. Had he been neutralized from the beginning, you would not have spent good money to pay his debts, and he would not have importuned Georgiana.”

  “You may be correct,” said Darcy, not ruffled in the slightest. “But we might have remained ignorant about the identity of the true murderer. I suspect Wickham at least knows or has discovered something. I mean to obtain that information.”

  Fitzwilliam grunted. “I hope so. I will promise you that if he knows something, he will part with it. It will go very ill with him if he does not.”

  It was this implacable side of Fitzwilliam’s character which sometimes caused Darcy apprehension. Fitzwilliam had held many roles in the army, and Darcy knew his cousin had been called on to perform some truly unpleasant tasks in addition to having fought in battle. Darcy did not know the extent of it, and he would never ask his cousin to be explicit. But he knew Fitzwilliam was capable of extracting information from Wickham by whatever means.

  “After you, Cousin,” said Fitzwilliam when he was ready to depart.

  The fact that Wickham’s room was situated at the end of the hall, separated from the rest of the company as an unwanted guest, Darcy now counted as a blessing. It was far enough away from the other inhabited rooms and the hour was so early that any noise Wickham made would not be easily overheard.

  Except Wickham was not there. When they entered, Darcy noticed the bed was made and had not been slept in, the curtains still wide open to the outside world. There were not even any possessions in evidence to suggest the room was even in use.

  “Perhaps he has decided it would be best to flee,” said Fitzwilliam. “It would not be the first time.”