Page 88 of Ashes and Understanding
Darcy closed his eyes.
He had tried to deny it—to reason it away as admiration, as concern for a woman caught in an unfortunate circumstance. But every time she walked into a room, his breath caught. Every time she spoke with fire or wit or stubbornness, his chest tightened—but not in the way it used to when his lungs failed him. This was different. This was...devastating.
And still, he said nothing.
“You do,” the colonel murmured. “God help you.”
Darcy turned then, one corner of his mouth twitching. “It is far too late for divine intervention.”
Fitzwilliam huffed a dry laugh. “Does she know?”
“I imagine she suspects something.”
He looked back at the fire, then added under his breath, “Though I may have lost any chance I had, after today.”
“You have not.” The certainty in the colonel’s voice surprised him. “If you had, she would not have listened as long as she did. And she certainly would not have let you walk beside her.”
Darcy ran a hand through his hair. “You saw how angry she was—how fiercely she defended her uncle, how mistrustful she became.”
“Because shecares.” The colonel stepped beside him, folding his arms. “You are not a stranger, Darcy. You matter to her. That’s why it hurt.”
Darcy set the glass down on the mantel with more force than necessary. “Enough. We have more important matters to tend to then gossiping like women about my feelings.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam did not flinch. “Right, then. Murder.” He moved to the writing desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper and uncapping a small pot of ink. “Let’s begin.”
Darcy joined him, pacing slowly as his mind turned. “We start with the obvious—who would want Smithson dead?”
The colonel nodded. “The first suspect, naturally, is Mr. Gardiner. He had motive—the boy was in his home. Means—he was in Meryton. And opportunity.”
“I dislike it,” Darcy muttered. “Everything I have seen of the man suggests intelligence, calm judgment, a good head for business. Not the sort to resort to violence.”
“If we are to conduct a proper investigation, he must be on the list.”
“Very well,” said Darcy reluctantly. “I supposed we must also have Wickham on there, then.”
The colonel crossed his arms. “He was in London during the fire and here for the murder.”
“As were half the people currently in Meryton, including the regiment.”
“We cannot dismiss him out of hand.” The colonel added Wickham’s name beneath Mr. Gardiner’s.
Frowning, Darcy said, “I suppose the biggest problem we have is not that there are too many suspects, but too many possible motives. Was Smithson killed because of his facade as an insurance agent or due to his real occupation?”
The colonel looked up sharply. “You think a French agent did it?”
Darcy nodded. “Smithson was the only link between Denisse and your office. If Napoleon’s men discovered he was investigating the fire, or if they learned he had found the boy…”
His cousin was already writing. “Unknown French operative. Potentially a revolutionary loyalist—someone who would recognize Denisse or her mission.”
“It may not have been a foreigner,” Darcy added. “There are enough desperate men flooding into the militia—unvetted, displaced. Wickham himself said as much.”
“Then we add another category,” the colonel said grimly, dipping his pen. “Militia member—possibly a traitor, or an opportunist.”
Darcy exhaled. “We know Smithson bled heavily. He was injured on the path near Longbourn. Elizabeth found him barely alive.”
“Meaning the killer did not finish the job—or did not have time,” the colonel sat back. “Which could imply it was done in haste. A crime of opportunity or desperation. Not premeditated.”
Darcy’s expression darkened. “Or it could mean someone was watching. And ran before they could be seen.”
