Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(72)

Darcy stood as soon as she and Charlotte entered the drawing room after Mr. Bennet, and Lizzie had never before felt such a confusing rush of emotion. Misery at being wrong. Embarrassment at how she’d accused him of mistreating Wickham. A flush of excitement at seeing him once more, mixed with worry when she fully took him in. He was dressed impeccably in a fine dark jacket, but he didn’t look as though he’d slept at all. His dark hair was a bit ruffled, as if he’d raked his fingers through it moments before.

Darcy turned to her and said, “Miss Bennet, are you well? Does your foot pain you?”

“I’m well, thank you,” Lizzie said, flustered by the formality. “I’m getting around just fine.” It seemed rather strange that they had experienced being held at gunpoint and facing organized criminals the night before, only to speak to each other so formally the following morning.

“She’s recovered just fine,” Mrs. Bennet said loudly, startling Lizzie. She hadn’t noticed her mother sitting by the fire. “Last night has hardly affected her one bit—why, she went to bed without even seeing me. I suffer from a condition of nerves, you see, and took to bed shortly after that villain Wickham kidnapped her.”

“I apologize, Mama,” Lizzie said, doing her best to sound polite and not irritated. “I had a very trying experience and my ankle hurt and I wished to go straight to bed.”

“But not to see your own mother?” Mrs. Bennet protested, and Lizzie clenched her mouth shut. A bath and bed were all she had wanted last night.

“Now, now, my dear, I’m sure Mr. Darcy didn’t come to hear about your nerves,” Mr. Bennet interrupted.

“No one ever asks,” his wife said, pouting.

Lizzie, now truly embarrassed, was gratified to see that Darcy was not disgusted with her mother’s manners. “I’m very sorry to hear that. Mrs. Bennet, I assure you it was a most trying night for those directly involved. And I’m afraid we’re far from resolving it.”

“Sordid affair.” Mrs. Bennet shuddered.

“Yes, Mama, but one that needs our attention.” Lizzie looked to her father. It would not do for her to ask her mother to leave. That ought to be her father’s job. But either Mr. Bennet was clueless or—and Lizzie rather suspected this was the case—or he did not wish to tangle with Mrs. Bennet.

“Right,” Mr. Bennet said. “Mr. Darcy has engaged my services as barrister for this afternoon’s hearing before the judge. It’s Weatherford presiding, so we need a tight case.”

“I trust that you’re fine with bringing in your father, Miss Bennet?” Darcy asked.

“Of course,” Lizzie said. “But . . . why not a barrister from your own firm?”

“You said it yourself: your father is an expert in business law. And I think, from what you’ve uncovered, Netherfield is at the heart of this case. It might look untoward if Pemberley and Associates were to argue the case. I hope you’ll forgive the early hour, too—I didn’t want to draw criminal attention upon Longbourn and Sons, so I thought meeting here was best.”

“Rather like a social call,” Mrs. Bennet observed hopefully, but no one seemed to have heard her.

“Of course,” her father said, reaching for the satchel Charlotte had brought. “And Miss Lucas was kind enough to fetch all that I needed from the office.”

“Besides,” Darcy continued with a slight clearing of his throat, and Lizzie realized he was addressing her, “this case is just as much yours as it is mine. This way, you stay involved.”

Lizzie had to work not to let a grin break across her face. Instead, she nodded. “Thank you.”

“Right, now start at the beginning,” Mr. Bennet said.

Darcy and Lizzie began laying out the facts of the case, volleying the story back and forth as best they could, depending on which of them had the better perspective. Lizzie consulted her notes often, and when they got through the entire tale, Mr. Bennet sighed and said, “There’s scant evidence here. I don’t like it.”

“We have three pieces,” Lizzie argued. “The false insurance policy. The penknife the Runners took into custody. And the button.”

“The button cannot help us unless we know whom it belongs to,” said Mr. Bennet, “and the murder weapon could belong to anyone—every gentleman in the city owns a penknife. They’ll likely try to claim it was Hurst’s.”

“It wasn’t Hurst’s, and it’s not Bingley’s,” Darcy was quick to point out. “I’ve already asked about Hurst’s and it was in his writing box in the study. And the guards at Newgate were all too happy to divest Bingley of his. Besides, Bow Street told me the one they recovered has a mother-of-pearl inlay, and Bingley carries his father’s, which is solid silver.”

“But it doesn’t definitely link anyone to the crime,” her father pointed out. “And so we must rely on this insurance policy.”

“It’s a decent fraud,” Lizzie told her father. “Perhaps not the most thorough, but then again, it likely was never written with the intent of standing up in a court of law—just to confuse and misdirect employees, or whoever inherited the business.”

“A bit overwritten, in my opinion,” Darcy added, looking to Lizzie. She nodded in agreement.