Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(57)

“I rather like you,” Lizzie said, and she went after Darcy.

By the time she scrambled down, there was no sign of a drunk, and the driver looked rather alarmed to find himself two passengers lighter. Lizzie took off, rounding the street corner just in time to see Darcy sprint inside Pemberley & Associates. She picked up her skirts to follow at a faster clip.

The office was draped in dark shadows thanks to the lack of lamps and the turn in the weather. But Lizzie followed the sound of Darcy’s steps deeper into the building, haphazardly bumping into furniture as she made her way to the open office area. “Bollocks!”

“Miss Bennet?” Mr. Darcy called out. She could just make out his figure across the room.

“I’m fine,” she said, winding her way in his direction. “Where are the lamps?”

“The front door was unlocked,” he said, and she detected a rattle in his voice.

“We need some light, Darcy.” Lizzie continued picking her way toward him, but her foot slid. She caught herself and blinked a few times to allow her heart to settle and eyes to adjust. Paper. She’d skidded on a loose sheet of paper on the floor. She picked it up, and as she looked around, she noticed more scattered sheets. Not just on desks but on the floor, too.

“Ransacked,” she muttered. She felt exposed, as if malicious eyes waited in the dark, unfamiliar corners of the firm. “Darcy?”

She would meditate later on the pathetic wobble to her voice, but in that moment she was relieved when Darcy responded with a whisper, “Over here!”

She could make out his figure over on the far side of the office and continued picking a path toward him. Light. They needed light. You are being a fool, Elizabeth Bennet, she told herself sternly, but she did not like this. Had Abigail felt like this, at the end? The idea of Abigail alone and afraid and in the dark as a killer closed in made Lizzie’s throat clench.

“Darcy?” Lizzie whispered, and reached out her arm. She was never so glad to feel his hand grasp hers, even if her own fear annoyed her. “Do you have a light?”

“Are you afraid of the dark?” he asked, not mocking. It was a genuine question.

“Does it matter? We’re supposed to be looking for something, and we can’t see.”

“Give me a moment. I have a tinderbox in my desk.” He placed her hands on the desk and added, “Don’t move.”

For once, Lizzie was glad to comply. She heard rustling and willed him to hurry. A scrape of the flint was followed by a tiny spark of light, and Lizzie focused on the glow. It took Darcy two more tries to get a candle to light, and she felt her breathing come easier when she saw his worried face illuminated. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded, then looked about in the meager light that his candle cast. “Oh my.” There were papers scattered everywhere. Darcy’s desk had been emptied, and his drawers stood open and bare. “Where was the insurance policy?” she asked.

“In my desk,” he replied. “I have no idea where it’s gone in this mess.”

“If it’s even still here.”

“Indeed.” He found a candelabra and lit four candles before setting it on another desk. Lizzie began picking up papers, shuffling through them, as Darcy muttered, “Why tonight, of all nights, to break in and steal an insurance policy?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Lizzie asked.

Darcy looked up, and even in the meager light Lizzie could read his irritation. “Please, do enlighten me.”

“We’re on to him,” she said. “Abigail was murdered last night, and she had information about Hurst’s business. The killer stole all of your paperwork on Netherfield so that whoever was left to pick up this mess would confuse the fraudulent policy at Hurst’s house for the legitimate one.”

“But I would know,” Darcy said.

“Would you be believed?”

That made Darcy stop. Lizzie could see it on his face, horror at the possibility of not being believed when he knew he was speaking the truth. Lizzie was glad that he was experiencing just an ounce of what she endured trying to break into legal work, but the triumph didn’t last. Instead, she felt the urge to reassure Darcy. “Bingley will secure the fraudulent policy. After all, I doubt the killer knows we’ve figured out the scheme—”

Lizzie caught sight of movement in the corner of her eye and turned to trace its source. It came from the direction of the records room, the door to which, she realized with unease, stood slightly ajar. Darcy had stopped speaking when he saw her react, and now he was looking at the corner. “Miss Bennet?”

It was just the dancing candlelight, she told herself. She started to turn back toward Darcy . . . and the movement came again.

“Someone’s there,” she breathed. Abigail’s killer? Improbably, she took a step forward and Darcy followed, leaving the candles behind. “I swear, I saw movement.”

Gathering her courage, she pushed the door open. “Is this door normally locked?”

“Yes,” Darcy confirmed, sounding nervous.

“Who has a key—” Lizzie was interrupted by a sense of movement in the corner of her eye. She turned and saw a dark figure right behind them, shockingly close. He was backlit by the candlelight they’d left on the desk, and surprise was on his side. He shoved both Darcy and Lizzie, sending them tumbling into the records room. Lizzie lost her balance and fell to the floor, and Darcy came down on top of her. By the time Darcy righted himself, the door had slammed shut and Lizzie heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the latch.