Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(13)
Vague disapproval flitted across the butler’s face. “This way, miss.”
Lizzie briefly weighed the benefits of arguing. It wasn’t entirely respectable for a young, unmarried lady to call upon the master of the house and not his sisters, but this was business! Nonetheless, the butler didn’t look like the sort to diverge from social graces, and Lizzie was rather curious to get a look at Hurst’s poor widow. . . .
She was ushered into a bright drawing room that felt as though it existed in an entirely different decade. It was done up in a rather lovely sky-blue wallpaper and contained feminine furnishings in the neoclassical style. The elegant, straight-legged chairs and low oval settees seemed impossibly delicate and utterly impractical, in Lizzie’s opinion. The only advantage to this room was that it didn’t feel as stuffy as the hall, and Lizzie appreciated the open airiness to the space.
Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst sat on the chaise longue in front of the fire. They shared the same blond, porcelain features, but Lizzie observed that one was red eyed, and she assumed that was Mrs. Hurst. The other young lady, who Lizzie guessed was about seventeen or so, was much more composed, resplendent in a pink-and-gray dress that highlighted her delicate bone structure. Her blue eyes were sharp, a paler and icier version of her brother’s, and the butler had barely announced her presence when the younger lady said, “So you’re Charles’s mysterious visitor.”
“I am,” Lizzie confirmed, refusing to be intimidated by her haughty look. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bingley, for assuming your identity. Time was of the utmost importance, and I could think of no better way to gain an audience with your brother.”
“Darcy said you were forward,” Caroline Bingley said with a bored flick of her gaze up and down Lizzie’s gown. Lizzie ventured a glance down and noticed that her hem was stained with mud, an inevitability in spring. This told her two things: Caroline was very proper, and Darcy must indeed be close to the Bingley family if Caroline referred to him with such familiarity.
“In my business, I find it’s best not to waste time,” Lizzie said.
“Business?” Louisa Hurst asked. “That sounds dreadful.”
“I hope not! Not if it may prove your brother’s innocence.” She remembered a beat later that the deceased was also Louisa’s husband. “My condolences, of course, Mrs. Hurst.”
Louisa sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick, and a tiny trace of blood streaked her right index finger. It was the only thing that appeared messy about Louisa, who was dressed in a mint-green-and-cream frock. It had a higher neckline than Caroline’s dress, and she wore a cream shawl around her shoulders, but it was most definitely not mourning attire. Interesting. . . .
“I’m so sorry to bother you in this very . . . troubling time. You must be in shock.”
“We are,” Caroline said sharply, but her sister merely rolled her eyes, as if the idea were ridiculous to her.
Lizzie stood still, calculating her next move. She had not been asked to sit, but if she wanted to get anything out of Mr. Hurst’s widow and sister-in-law, she would not be able to do so by playing by society’s rules. She took a seat on a nearby chair, praying it was not ornamental and would hold her weight. Caroline’s eyes narrowed at Lizzie’s dirty hem.
“I don’t believe that your brother committed this crime, and I’d like to prove it.”
Suspicious silence made Lizzie hold her breath until Louisa asked, “Why?”
Lizzie had planned for this question and the answer was evasive, with a dash of manipulation. “It isn’t right that you should live under the shadow of such a scandalous crime. Murder is quite bad enough.” Louisa flinched at the word murder, but Caroline did not. “But for the suspect to be your own brother—no. That casts a dark shadow on the entire family.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying all along!” Louisa cried, glancing at her younger sister with a look of well-trod frustration. “I’ll never marry again, and it’s all George’s fault.”
How very interesting that Louisa’s concern wasn’t for her dead husband but for her imperiled social prospects. Lizzie dug in. “The only way to clear your brother’s good name, and to show the ton that you’re merely a victim in all of this, is to discover the true murderer.”
“Why, Miss Bennet, you must be some sort of miracle worker if you think that your actions alone might influence society gossip,” Caroline said, her tone mocking.
“My father is a barrister,” Lizzie said. “I’ve been his protégée for a number of years and discovered that where men fail to see the truth, a woman may uncover many secrets before tea. I hope that you’ll give me the opportunity to ask a few questions and investigate.” She looked to Louisa, who was staring at Lizzie as if she were a talking pig. “Did your husband have any enemies, Mrs. Hurst?”
Caroline laughed under her breath, a sound so tiny that Lizzie almost missed it. But she kept her eyes on Louisa, who dismissed her question with the shake of her head. “George was always upsetting some person or the other but he would tell me, ‘Don’t worry your pretty little head, Louisa! I’ll see to it . . . or your brother will.’”
Caroline laughed audibly this time, but when Lizzie looked to her, the other young woman stared back in a way that dared Lizzie to say anything about it. Lizzie worked to keep her expression polite and sympathetic. Caroline was the guard of her family’s secrets, then. Lizzie was unlikely to get much out of Louisa with her in the room.