Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(79)

“Really?” Lizzie asked, clasping her sister’s hand.

Jane leaned in and whispered, “I wouldn’t miss your first appearance at court for anything.”

“Good work, Lizzie,” Charlotte added, and then, “Let’s make sure he can’t hurt anyone ever again.”

Charlotte’s words were a reminder that although Collins was taken into custody, they still had a very important job to do and not much time to accomplish it. The Bennets, Charlotte, Darcy, and Collins took two carriages to the courthouse. It wasn’t until they pulled up to their destination, Newgate looming close by, that Lizzie realized her dream of finally stepping through the entrance to the courthouse was about to come true. The moment was not as solemn as she might have imagined but rather rushed. She followed her father, and Darcy holding Collins, right through the gap in the brick wall and was surprised to find a large party already waiting for them in the courtyard: Bingley, his two sisters, Mr. Banks, and Hurst’s valet.

“Thank God!” Bingley cried when he caught sight of them all. “Court will be called to session in five minutes—where have you all been? And who’s this man?”

“No time to explain,” Darcy said, doing his best to corral the large party into the building. “But he killed Hurst, and we can prove it.”

In quick order, the entire group entered the building, too quickly for Lizzie to properly soak in all of the details that she had dreamed of observing. Her father borrowed robes and a wig, befitting his position as barrister, while Caroline, Louisa, Charlotte, and Jane headed to pay their admission to the spectator gallery. Lizzie didn’t follow them, and Darcy didn’t object, but he did ask Mr. Bennet, “Will the judge allow Miss Bennet to speak?”

“Women serve as witnesses all the time,” Mr. Bennet said. “And my Lizzie could convince a man to invest in ice in December.”

Normally, these words would have brought about a flush of pride in Lizzie, but at just that moment they were ushered into the courtroom. It was . . . smaller than Lizzie imagined but still very fine. The ceilings were tall, and a bank of windows on one end let in a weak spring light, and there were four brass chandeliers to illuminate proceedings. The rustling of paper and shuffling of many bodies made Lizzie feel faint as her father ushered her to the round mahogany table where counsel sat. To her right sat a jury of men. She peered past them to see if she could spot Jane and Charlotte in the gallery, but then Bingley was ushered to a bench on her left by a bailiff, and Darcy delivered Collins to another.

Before the judge could call the court into session, Collins began to yell, “This is lunacy! I strenuously object to my forced attendance—I have been framed, Your Honor!”

The gavel banged, and the sharp sound brought silence to the courtroom. “Mr. Darcy,” said the judge, “see that your witness does not speak out of turn again.”

“My apologies,” Darcy said, “but Mr. Collins is not merely a witness. He is the culprit for the crime that my client has been accused of.”

The judge didn’t appear to be surprised. “In due time. Collins, is it? Don’t speak out of turn or I shall find you in contempt of court.”

So this was Lord Weatherford, Lizzie realized. The judge was a stern-faced man with a hooked nose and eyes that missed nothing. Lizzie was under no illusions that he’d simply overlooked her presence at the counsel table. She did her best to not fidget, but when she glanced at Darcy, sitting between her and her father, she saw him swallow hard. It brought her small comfort to know she wasn’t the only one nervous.

Weatherford began reading the charges. “Mr. Charles Bingley, you’ve been charged with unlawfully entering the home of Mr. George Hurst at Number Forty-Five Grosvenor Square, and murdering him in his bed. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty, sir,” Bingley, Darcy, and Mr. Bennet all answered.

“One answer will be sufficient, thank you,” the judge said.

“My apologies, sir,” Bingley said, sounding meek on his elevated bench. His face was illuminated and he kept blinking. Lizzie looked up to see a cleverly mounted mirror that was tilted to shine light from the window on the face of the accused. “I’d like to plead not guilty.”

“Very well.” Weatherford was unsurprised. “Who’s representing you today?”

“Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Bennet, and, well—Miss Bennet, too.” Bingley looked at them. “I’m not really sure how this works.”

A tittering rose throughout the court, and the judge banged his gavel once, silencing them. A harried, thin-faced man opposite them raised an objection. “Mr. Bingley isn’t taking these charges seriously if he can’t decide who his counsel is! And if said counsel brings a woman to the table!”

Lizzie kept her posture so impeccably straight that Mrs. Bennet would have been proud.

“Mr. Bennet,” the judge said, “are you the barrister on Mr. Bingley’s case?”

“I am,” Mr. Bennet acknowledged, “although this position is rather a recent development, and I cannot claim full knowledge of the case.”

“Then why are you in my courtroom?”

Mr. Bennet began to speak, as did Darcy, who rushed to say, “It’s my fault, sir—”

“And you are?”

“Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, sir. I am the Bingley family’s solicitor.”