Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(68)

“No. I didn’t. I promise . . . on my dying breath, I swear. I didn’t kill . . . Lady Catherine . . .”

Lizzie’s desperation for answers got the better of her. “Lady Catherine killed him?”

Wickham laughed a little. Then she realized it was not a laugh but a choking gurgle. He was drowning in his own blood, she realized. “Help me!” she snapped at Darcy, and they propped him up.

“Lady . . . Catherine has spies . . . mastermind. Did not kill . . . Hurst.”

“Do you know who did?” Lizzie asked, but Wickham coughed wetly. Lizzie would have sworn in that moment that he smiled—a brief, rueful smile that reminded her of walking the streets of London, discussing criminal activity and trading theories. A smile that was full of charm and secrets and half-truths.

Then he shut his eyes and breathed his last.





Nineteen


In Which Lizzie Ruminates on Her Regrets



“ELIZABETH?”

Darcy’s hand weighed on her shoulder. When their eyes met, concern was written across his face. “Elizabeth, we must go.”

Still she did not respond. Wickham was dead.

“Elizabeth?”

“Don’t worry,” she said faintly. “This isn’t my first dead body.”

“Well, it’s mine,” Darcy said.

Lizzie looked up and was flooded with relief that he was here and unharmed. Although perhaps not perfectly well—he was drenched and shivering in the cool spring night, and Lizzie knew he needed to get warm before he caught a chill.

“What do we do?” she asked, and he shook his head. In the distance, she heard the hue and cry and knew that others must not be far behind.

“He’s dead, and I’ll be blamed,” Darcy said, voice hollow. It was as though they were in a courtroom. This was the Darcy she recognized. “They’ll believe this was a lovers’ quarrel, or another duel. They’ll never believe that some other woman shot him from the deck of a ship before shoving off from the dock. Or that I attempted to save his life. I shall go to prison.”

“Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” Lizzie said faintly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The woman who shot him,” she clarified.

“Oh, very good,” Darcy said, still sounding quite serious. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh shot him to death. The judge will certainly believe that.”

His tone lifted upward, and Lizzie realized he was panicking. This was the cue she needed to take one last look at Wickham and set his body down. She was damp and his blood stained her dress and hands, but she stood and gripped Darcy’s elbows so that he was forced to look her in the eye.

“You will not be blamed for this,” she told him sternly. “We’ll tell the truth, and my mother and sisters will corroborate that Wickham kidnapped me. My father’s a barrister, so we’ll be believed.”

Darcy scarcely had a chance to reply before the clattering of another carriage drew their attention, and Lizzie was relieved to recognize the Bennets’ horse and their small chaise. Her father leapt down, wild-eyed with worry.

“Lizzie!” he cried as he ran toward her, and made a strangled noise when he saw the blood upon her dress.

“It’s not mine—” she began to say, but then Mr. Bennet engulfed her in a tight embrace, and she was overwhelmed with the temptation to let her father take care of all her troubles.

She gently patted him on the back until he released her, and she said, “I’m unhurt, Papa. Mr. Darcy aided my escape.”

“Mr. Darcy!” Mr. Bennet grasped the younger man’s arm. “My deepest thanks. Are you hurt?”

“No, sir,” Darcy said, nodding courteously at Mr. Bennet.

Lizzie could tell by the way he watched the streets beyond for the Runners that he was on edge. It was such a strange feeling, knowing that his fate was in her hands, that she could dictate what happened next and it would have immense consequence on Darcy’s life. Was this what men felt like all the time? Did they even stop to appreciate the power?

Then she remembered how Darcy had come to her aid, repeatedly, and wasted no time. “Papa, Mr. Darcy saved me, and then he tried to save Mr. Wickham as well. We must tell the Runners he isn’t at fault for his death.”

“You shot him?” Mr. Bennet asked, but there was no blame in his tone.

More people had come to the edges of the scene, looking on with curiosity, and just beyond them Lizzie could hear a man’s authoritative voice braying, “Coming through! Stand aside!”

“Someone else did. I’ll explain everything, but Mr. Darcy is innocent.” Mr. Bennet stared at Lizzie, confusion clearly written across his face, and she added, “Please, Papa!”

Her father nodded, and with a quick glance to Darcy, he turned to meet the Runners bursting through the assorted onlookers.

“We heard report of pistol shots.” A burly man with a thin beard addressed Lizzie, Darcy, and Mr. Bennet. Someone brought a lantern closer to the scene, and Lizzie saw the man flick his eyes suspiciously between Darcy, soaking wet, and Lizzie, drenched in blood, before finally settling on Wickham’s lifeless body.

“Thank you for coming,” Mr. Bennet said, disarming the man with civility, and before he could take in a breath, Mr. Bennet continued. “That man lying dead there tried to kidnap my daughter. He took her from our home, brandishing a pistol at anyone who threatened to get in the way. Thank God Mr. Darcy was present—he leapt to her defense, and pursued that criminal in his carriage. I followed them here, only to find that the abductor was killed by his own comrade, who has fled.”