Chapter 3 In Which Lizzie and Darcy Make a Wager #2
the marriage mart? Why, if she were left with just you and no one else in the world, she’d have to depend on you to care for
her in her old age—if losing her family wouldn’t send her to an early grave.
Shall we try this again? You know the time and place already. I’ll be waiting, three days hence.
—Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Lizzie had watched her father get to the end of the letter, hands shaking as he read. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him,
I told you so. But she was still surprised when he looked up and said, “We must leave.”
“What do you mean, leave?”
But he had already moved to his desk and started riffling through his writing box. “That woman has been watching us. She knows
our movements and our habits, and it’s no longer safe. I will write to Jane and Bingley, and if that fails, your uncle Gardiner.
We can all leave the day after tomorrow and be gone from London before this meeting.”
“Get the girls away from London,” Lizzie agreed. “Lydia and Kitty have far too much freedom here, and they aren’t careful—”
“No, Lizzie. We are all leaving. Even you.”
“Papa, I need to stay in London,” she said, struggling to keep her voice measured. “You read the letter—she’ll be back at
the church three days from now, and if I go—”
“No!” Her father slapped the edge of the desk. “It’s bad enough you’re caught up with that woman, but you will not be touching
this case. I’ll write to Graves and inform him of our plans.”
“Papa, be sensible! That didn’t work the last time, and it won’t work now. She’s threatened your life—we can’t just run! Tell
him, Darcy!”
Darcy had remained silent as Mr. Bennet had gone about his preparations, and when Lizzie looked at him now, she realized he’d
gone quite pale. The last time he’d looked like that was when he’d rushed to her side after Mr. Tomlinson had given her a
rather nasty beating. “Lizzie,” he said.
She felt an awful shock ripple through her as he looked at her with apprehension and fear. “No.”
“I don’t like it,” he said, as if that excused his betrayal. “But I think your father is right.”
“You want me to give up.”
“No, I want you to be safe,” Darcy said.
“I want you both to leave it alone,” Mr. Bennet added.
“Papa!”
He didn’t even look up from the letter he was composing. “Think of it not as giving up. Think of it as taking a holiday.”
But Lizzie did not want a holiday. She wanted to face Lady Catherine. She wanted to look her directly in her cold, calculating eyes and hold her accountable for all the ruin she’d caused. She didn’t want her to slip away like she had twice before.
“Go,” she said. “But I won’t leave.”
“I’ll come with you,” Darcy said quickly, as if Lizzie would agree to this trip if he joined them.
Mr. Bennet had just nodded at him. “That would be fine.”
“I don’t agree—”
“You do not have to agree, but you will obey,” her father said, in a tone so severe Lizzie nearly gasped. Her mild-mannered,
book-loving father had never, ever spoken to her in such a way. “This is a matter for Graves, Elizabeth. Do not make me lock
you in your bedchamber, because so help me, I will.”
She had been too stunned—too hurt—to argue any further. And just like that, she had been overruled.
Now here she was at Netherfield Park, a most intriguing matter before her. And of course they expected her to begin investigating—it
was what she did, after all. But if she was going to solve a case, she’d much rather put her efforts to solving something
that actually mattered by finding Lady Catherine.
“But if not you . . . who?” Bingley asked.
Lizzie shrugged. “Perhaps Darcy is willing to look into the matter.”
“Of course,” Darcy said. “But Lizzie . . .”
She was doing her best not to look at her father, but she heard him sigh. “Clearly the body is quite old. It hardly seems like a pressing—or dangerous—matter.”
“I beg to differ!” Bingley exclaimed. “There is a dead body in my drawing room! Who is he? How did he get there? If we don’t
find answers, this could prove ruinous to our reputations.”
Lizzie felt herself waver then. She hated the idea of Jane’s reputation being sullied by her misfortune of marrying a man
who happened to inherit an estate concealing a dead body. But she remained resolute. “I have a backlog of cases back in London
that absolutely require my attention, so if anything, I should be seeing to those.” She gave her father a sharp look, and
then sat down on a nearby settee, not caring it was covered with dust—her own green skirts were sullied anyway. “I’m sorry,
Bingley, but this matter would be better suited for the local constable.”
She ignored the look her father gave her—part exasperation, part disappointment—and settled in to wait. She knew, on some
level, that she was being petulant. And if this had been a recent crime, she would have immediately begun asking questions.
But she couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit of resentment toward the men in front of her, as much as she might love and care
for them.
As the silence stretched on, though, Lizzie stared at the body and the tattered, stained cloth it was wrapped in, mulling over a hundred different possibilities.
It was highly suspicious that someone should be placed in a chimney to begin with.
It begged the question—why go to the trouble, when there were at least ten other ways to hide a body?
No, you only chose the most difficult method if it was your only option.
It was clever, but not practical. First of all, the body would have created a most horrendous stench in its early days of death.
Second of all, the first time anyone went to use the fireplace, it would have been discovered.
It didn’t seem likely the body had been placed there recently, given the fragility of the bones and the soot streaks around the stained shroud.
The shroud appeared mostly intact, suggesting that the soot had come from brushing up the inside of the chimney, not from catching fire.
The fireplace, therefore, had likely not been used since the body was placed there .
. . which suggested that Great-Aunt Honoria had not used the fireplace in years.
Had she known what it contained? And wouldn’t she have noticed the stench?
Unless . . . she had been the one to place the body there to begin with.
Lizzie shuddered at the idea of sharing a roof with a decomposing corpse. The questions were like gnats—no matter how hard
she tried to bat them away, they kept popping up.
From the hall, they heard the sound of a front door opening and Mr. Grigson’s hushed, urgent tones. Bingley leapt up nervously.
“That must be the constable!”
He rushed out of the room, and with a sigh, Mr. Bennet followed, leaving Lizzie and Darcy alone.
Alone, except for the deceased.
Darcy didn’t waste a moment. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Oh?”
“You’re being obstinate for the sake of being obstinate. It’s not in your nature to let matters this serious fall to someone else.” He stepped closer to her, so close that she could reach out and touch him. She might have, had she not been so thoroughly annoyed by the knowing look in his eye.
Instead, she stood, so he wasn’t looking down at her from quite so great a height. Only now that she was able to look him
in the eye without craning her neck, she found that they were perilously close. “Perhaps I’m turning over a new leaf,” she
said sweetly, trying to ignore the thumping of her heart.
Darcy rolled his eyes, but he said, “I know you, Elizabeth Bennet. If you’re not on this case by the end of the night, then . . .”
“Then what?” she challenged.
He leaned in, so close she almost thought he would kiss her. “Then I’ll pack up and go back to London first thing in the morning.”
His familiar scent was tantalizing, and she found herself charmed by the mischievous look in his eyes, as if he knew that
he’d walked her into a corner. For one breathtaking moment she wanted to forget all the reasons she was mad at him and kiss
those smug lips. But then she rallied and took in a deep breath. By the time she let it out, her armor was back up.
“If that’s the case, you might want to pack your bags.”