Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(65)

It was dark, and she had only a vague idea of where she was. As she passed crates and dark ships, she prayed that she’d stumble upon help. Then, when she heard Wickham’s shouting and the sound of him jumping from the carriage and running after her, she simply prayed that no one would stop her escape.

“Elizabeth Bennet!” Wickham screamed into the night.

Still, Lizzie ran.

And then . . .

Crack!

Lizzie would swear for years to come that she felt the bullet pass by so closely it could have caressed her cheek. Her hobbling came to an abrupt halt out of pure shock, but she did not try to run again. She knew little about pistols, but she knew enough to not want to gamble on the possibility that Wickham’s was a double-barreled flintlock, guaranteeing him one more bullet before he’d have to reload.

“Don’t make me shoot again,” Wickham threatened.

Slowly, Lizzie turned. Wickham stood twenty paces behind her, wincing in pain but holding the pistol level. “Now, don’t do anything stupid and you won’t have to meet the same fate that Abigail did.”

Lizzie flinched at this confirmation. She wanted to fly at him and slap that smug look off his face, but she forced herself to remain steady.

“Why did you kill her? You saw—she wasn’t going to say anything about what she knew. She wanted a new life.”

“She recognized me,” Wickham said, as if it were an unfortunate accident. “I didn’t think she would, but when we left, I saw it in her eyes—she knew that I was more than a Runner, and she was a loose end.”

If Abigail had recognized him before, then that meant . . . “It wasn’t coincidence that you were called to the Hurst residence when the butler sent for help,” Lizzie said. “You were watching the house. Are you even a Runner?”

“Of course I am. They’ll take anyone upright and sober.”

“What were you waiting for?”

“I neither confirm nor deny anything,” Wickham said.

Lizzie took one step closer to him, heart hammering, but she had to know. “Did you kill Hurst?”

Wickham closed the rest of the distance between them, and Lizzie flinched, waiting for the gunshot. But he just grabbed her arm. “Don’t be absurd.”

“I won’t move until you answer me.”

“Then I’ll carry you.”

“Don’t you dare!” Lizzie exclaimed, although her ankle ached fiercely and she was afraid he would have to do just that if they had much farther to go. “Why won’t you answer me?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” he said, which made Lizzie think that he didn’t want to kill her. But he was prepared to use force. She made the split-second decision to not resist but not help Wickham either. If he had to drag her, that would slow him down and maybe give her more time to—

“Wickham!”

Both Lizzie and Wickham turned to see Darcy standing just thirty paces behind them. In his hand was a pistol, trained in their direction. Lizzie’s first thought was, Don’t shoot. She needed to know what Wickham knew.

Wickham swung his own pistol toward Darcy.

And without stopping to think, Lizzie stepped between them.





Eighteen


In Which Lizzie Endeavors to Use Reason



“ELIZABETH, MOVE.”

Darcy’s voice was steady, yet it contained a note of desperation.

“Yes, Elizabeth,” Wickham said, a mocking emphasis on her name. “Get out of the way.”

“No,” Lizzie said, and a preternatural calm descended upon her despite the terror she felt just a moment earlier when she was sure that Wickham had been about to shoot Darcy. “You only have one bullet left, Wickham, and if you use it on me, Darcy will surely end you before you have a chance to reload. Darcy, you can’t kill him, no matter how much you hate him. We still don’t know why he killed Hurst.”

“I didn’t,” Wickham said at the same time that Darcy said:

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do!”

She turned to Wickham, who was glowering at her. No, not her—at Darcy, standing beyond her. The resentment in his eyes took her breath away. “Are you blackmailing the Bingleys?”

When Wickham didn’t say anything, Darcy said, “It wouldn’t be the first time he resorted to such measures.”

“Darcy, wait your turn,” Lizzie said, keeping her gaze on Wickham.

“He sacked me and then challenged me to a duel,” Wickham told her, sounding more like the young man she had met.

“And you never bothered to show,” Darcy snarled.

“Because dueling is illegal!” Wickham shot back.

“Oh, I’m glad to know where your moral line falls,” Darcy said. “Not before embezzling from my family, not before seducing my sister, not before kidnapping her and now Elizabeth, not before extortion, but dueling? Duly noted!”

“And Darcy shot you?” Lizzie asked Wickham.

“I never shot him, although now I wish I had!” Darcy cut in, before Wickham could respond. “He broke my nose when I caught him with Georgiana, and rather than tear him apart right then and there, I challenged him to a duel. But scoundrels have no honor!”

Hearing Darcy speak, Lizzie couldn’t believe that she had ever thought him cold or emotionless. Careful not to move her position to provide either man a clear shot, she looked over her shoulder. She saw a stranger. Outrage had twisted his features into a furious scowl. He would do anything for his sister, she realized. Even go against the law to challenge a man to a duel.