Page 89 of Ashes and Understanding
There was a long silence between them.
At last, the colonel tapped the quill against the desk. “So. We have four categories: Mr. Gardiner, Wickham, a foreign agent, or a disreputable militia man.”
He frowned. “This is far too vague.”
Fitzwilliam did not argue. “It is the best I could do on a first pass. We do not even know who was in the area that afternoon, andwith the militia swelling from the influx of displaced men, half the new officers barely have names that can be verified.”
Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose. “This will not do. There are too many unknowns—and we cannot go about interrogating everyone in Meryton.”
“No,” the colonel agreed, “but with your lady love’s help—”
“Miss Elizabeth,”Darcy corrected quietly, though without heat.
Fitzwilliam raised a brow, then smirked faintly. “Miss Elizabeth’s help, we may begin to eliminate some names. Servants hear things. Gentlemen confide too freely when ladies are present. I have seen more plots unraveled by drawing room gossip than through official channels.”
Darcy folded the list and placed it on the desk. “Tomorrow, Bingley and I can introduce you to Sir William Lucas and Colonel Forster. If you are to investigate discreetly, you will need their blessing. Then we will return to Longbourn to update Miss Elizabeth and come up with a more concrete plan.”
Fitzwilliam stood and refilled his glass. “And our charming hostess?”
Darcy stared into the fire. “She may rail all she likes. Bingley has made his intentions clear, and as for me—I am too weary to indulge her dramatics.”
Just then, a sharp knock at the study door drew their attention.
“Enter,” Darcy called.
It was a footman. “Miss Bingley requests the honor of your company in the drawing room, sir. She has prepared a whist table.”
Darcy’s lips thinned. “Tell Miss Bingley that I regret I am occupied with affairs of great import.”
The servant looked as though he had been sentenced to the guillotine. “Very good, sir.”
As the poor man withdrew, Fitzwilliam let out a bark of laughter. “You are going to be in her black books for a week.”
Darcy ignored him. “My valet can question the servants quietly. Your batman can listen among the grooms and stable hands, and you can also speak to the soldiers. Miss Elizabeth and I can keep to the drawing rooms.”
The colonel gave him a sidelong glance. “You certainly picked a capable partner, Darcy.”
Darcy looked away, toward the window where the last threads of daylight faded behind the trees. “She did not choose me. Not yet.”
∞∞∞
Elizabeth lay curled beneath her quilt, the fire in the grate nearly out, its glow reduced to soft embers that pulsed dimly across her ceiling. The house had quieted at last, but sleep would not come.
Her limbs ached with weariness, her bones heavy with the strain of a day that had offered both joy and dread in equal measure. And yet it was not the murder or the mystery that filled her thoughts—it was Mr. Darcy.
She could still feel his gaze on her when he had told her she was one of the most intelligent women of his acquaintance. Stillhear the quiet assurance in his voice as he had said she had done exactly the right thing. Still feel the weight of his hand covering hers as they pressed against the dying man’s wound—how warm, how steady he had been in the chaos.
Did he care for her? Truly? Or was it only gratitude? Admiration for her composure? She hardly knew how to trust her own thoughts where he was concerned. That man—so cold and aloof when first they met—had become someone else entirely in her estimation. Someone strong. Quiet. Principled. Someone who listened. Someone who cared.
And yet… how could she allow herself to feel anything, when her world had tilted so sharply?
Her eyes drifted closed at last, her head sinking deeper into the pillow. But peace was not to be found.
The memory of Smithson came unbidden—the terrible, wet rasp of his voice, the blood pooling beneath him, the weight of his body as it slumped in her arms.
Tell the raven it was the crow.
The words echoed in her ears again, and her eyes flew open.
