Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(12)

No, not a failure. Lizzie took in a deep, calming breath and regretted it as she choked on the Newgate stench. By the time she composed herself, disappointment had strengthened into determination.

Bingley had not dismissed her—he had asked her to call on him. While Lizzie detested idle social visits on principle, this was a chance to prove that she was just as tenacious as Darcy. All she had to do was stand by her original scheme and identify Hurst’s true murderer.

Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy had not seen the last of Elizabeth Bennet.





Four


In Which Lizzie Makes the Acquaintance of the Bingley Sisters



JANE WAS JUST AS dismayed as Lizzie to learn the outcome of her visit to Newgate, but for entirely different reasons.

“He asked you to call upon him? Lizzie, that’s nearly scandalous—why didn’t he ask if he could call upon you?”

“Does it matter?” Lizzie asked. “The point is I have another chance to convince him to hire me! Besides, could you imagine Mr. Bingley showing up here? Without Papa’s invitation?”

“Mama would keel over,” Jane admitted, “but she’d display his calling card for months.”

“Years,” Lizzie countered, and shook her head. “And this isn’t a social call. It’ll be business.”

“But I thought that Mr. Bingley declined your . . . help. In favor of Mr. Darcy.”

Lizzie shuddered at the name. “You know, I am not entirely convinced that he’s even qualified—his father is the barrister, not him. He looks barely out of university. For Mr. Bingley’s sake, I hope someone at Pemberley is overlooking Darcy’s work.”

“And you are qualified?”

Jane’s words were gentle, but they needled nonetheless. “I’ve been working with Papa for three years now, and reading all his legal texts for a lot longer. I shall prove myself, Jane. There are questions that no one is asking.”

“And we can always count on you to ask the questions no one else thinks of,” Jane said in a tone that was a cross between amusement and defeat. In the end, she didn’t try to stop Lizzie. This was why Jane was such an excellent sister—she was supportive, but she was unafraid to speak the truth, even when it was inconvenient to Lizzie.

But before Lizzie met with Bingley again, she retrieved a small sketchbook from her writing box that had gone unused except for a few feeble attempts at nature sketches in the very front. The sketchbook had been a gift from Mrs. Bennet at her last birthday, a futile attempt to find some feminine pastime that Lizzie might occupy herself with. Lizzie found a stubby pencil and began taking notes on the case so far.

When she was done writing down details that she had learned from Bingley, she had two looming questions:

How far in debt was Hurst?

Whom was he indebted to?

The next day, Lizzie pretended to have a headache so that her mother and sisters went on their round of social visits without her. As soon as they were gone, Lizzie tiptoed out of her room, avoiding the maid, and peeked through her mother’s address book—Mrs. Bennet liked to keep track of every residence of importance, whether or not she’d ever called on the inhabitants. The contents of her book revealed that the Bingleys lived in a very fashionable square west of Cheapside. It was a brisk walk there, as Lizzie didn’t want to spend the last of her coin on a hired carriage, so she was perspiring lightly and her cheeks were flushed when she arrived at the address. The Bingley town house was a newer construction, yet it had a refined air—just the type of residence her mother would like to imagine one of her daughters living in.

Lizzie was let in by an impassive butler. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet here to see Mr. Bingley,” she informed him, hoping she didn’t sound too out of breath.

The butler’s pause was almost impolite. “Your card, miss?”

Lizzie smiled graciously and produced her calling card from her reticule. “Mr. Bingley is expecting me. This is a matter of business, not a social call.”

“Please wait,” the butler said, a small frown ruffling his professional composure.

Lizzie let her eyes wander over the receiving hall as the butler disappeared. Even more evidence of the Bingleys’ good fortune was found in the richness of the furnishings. Lizzie stepped closer to the lacquered hall table and tapped a fingernail against the fine wood. A genuine Chippendale, she was certain. It fit seamlessly with the maroon entry hall, where every decoration was rich and lovely, from the marble floors to the ornate vases set in small nooks. It was precisely the sort of decor she would have expected from the owner of a worldwide shipping company, even if the tastes did feel rather . . . mature. It seemed as though the Bingley family were trying very hard to appear effortlessly wealthy, not nouveau riche.

Lizzie turned her attention to the calling cards arranged on the hall table, hoping to learn whom the family associated with. She recognized a number of names, including that of a countess. Lizzie didn’t see Darcy’s card among them, which meant that he was a business associate and not a social acquaintance to the Bingley family . . . or that he was so familiar, he did not even bother with calling cards.

“Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst will receive you in the drawing room,” the butler said, startling Lizzie. She jumped guiltily.

“Miss Bingley? But I’ve come to see Mr. Bingley.”