Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(40)
“Of course it concerns me.” Darcy glanced around, as if afraid anyone would witness him writing off the presence of a murderer. “But what do you expect me to do about it? I’m a solicitor, not a vigilante.”
“Then whose concern is it? If those in positions of power don’t say to each other, ‘Something is wrong and we must right it,’ then who will do so?”
“You, apparently.”
“And just how successful have I been?” Lizzie asked, hating the bitter taste of her admission of defeat. “You’ll likely win your case, but allow me to share a lesson I’ve learned in the drawing room: Once your reputation is in doubt, it is near impossible to restore. You believe that a judge’s decree of innocence will save Bingley’s reputation?”
“A High Court judge is one of the most respected voices—”
Her laugh interrupted him. “People will gossip. They may still invite your friend to dinner parties and raise a glass to you for clearing his name, but they’ll secretly wonder, What if he got away with it? They won’t want their daughters to meet him, just in case. They won’t do business with him, for fear that maybe, just maybe, they’ll be next. A good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.”
“You take a rather dark view of society, Miss Bennet.”
“It comes from being the sort of young lady that society does not find agreeable.”
Darcy began to look just as frustrated as Lizzie felt. “I’m not responsible for what society may think. If anyone is foolish enough to let rumors or unproven suspicions color their opinion of someone, they are not worthy of my respect.”
“That’s an easy opinion to hold when you already have a position and a fortune.”
“Don’t pretend that you aren’t pursuing this matter for money or recognition, Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, his voice suddenly dark.
Lizzie was surprised at how much it displeased her to have Darcy looking at her with such disdain that she shocked herself by admitting the truth. “Of course I hope that I will be compensated—both in payment and recognition—for my hard work. But the recognition is more important to me. How else do you suppose someone of my position has any hope of getting a job? I don’t have the good fortune of simply being handed everything from my father.”
“You dare insult my work ethic while standing in my father’s firm?”
“You dared to condescend to me in my father’s firm, so why not?”
There was barely a foot of space between the two of them now. Lizzie wasn’t quite sure how it happened, except that arguing with Darcy seemed to slowly draw him closer and closer until she was standing just before him, the top of her head level with his eyes so that she was forced to hold her chin up to meet his gaze. He glared down at her.
“You’re infuriating.”
Despite herself, Lizzie’s gaze was drawn to his lips again as he spat out the words. She had an entire list of questions she would have liked to ask him next: What defense strategy would he recommend that a barrister employ before the judge? If those in power didn’t pursue the truth and uncover criminals, then who ought to? In light of Bingley’s case, did he believe that they needed more rigorous marriage and family laws? Was he also wondering what it would be like if they were to close the distance between them and . . .
In the end, she settled with, “And you’re excessively prideful.”
As far as comebacks went, it was not Lizzie’s strongest. Humiliation flushed through her, causing Lizzie to tear her gaze away from Darcy’s mouth before he could produce another disparaging word. She turned on her heel and stalked out of Pemberley & Associates’ offices, refusing to look a single person in the eye on her way out or to entertain visions of Darcy running after her to apologize with those alluring lips.
Eleven
In Which Lizzie Makes an Intriguing Connection
LIZZIE STEPPED INTO THE busy street outside of Pemberley & Associates, fuming. Darcy was dismissive. And lofty. And entitled and many other things besides, things that Lizzie fully planned to ruminate on when she got home and could speak with Jane. . . .
She rounded the corner, headed east toward Gracechurch Street, just as a hard hand clamped down upon her elbow. For a heart-fluttering moment she thought that Darcy had come after her (to argue another point? to apologize for his rudeness?), but that possibility was dismissed when she was yanked toward the street.
She drew in a breath to scream for help, but a gloved hand was already over her mouth. Her assailant steered her toward an open carriage door, and panic flooded Lizzie’s limbs in a fiery rush. She remembered, belatedly, Fred’s warning about her tail. She’d forgotten about the man following her because she’d let her emotions about Darcy overwhelm her senses, and now it didn’t matter that she fought against her attacker—he simply lifted her like a child and roughly shoved her into the waiting carriage. The door slammed shut behind her and the carriage began to move, making Lizzie’s head spin.
“Please take a moment to collect yourself,” a polite voice said. “I wish you no harm.”
Lizzie gripped the seat as she searched for the source of the voice. Her bonnet was askew and there was a tear in her right glove—Mama would be cross if she saw it. Then a sobering thought rose: Would Mama even have a chance to see her glove and become cross with her?