Chapter 5 #2
Guy, the little traitor, yipped in excitement when he saw Darcy and pulled at his leash to go meet him.
Lizzie dropped the leash so the dog could run ahead, and Darcy dropped on one knee to pet him.
Guy whined in happiness, then flopped over in the grass, exposing his belly to Darcy.
Darcy obliged by giving his belly a good rub, and then had the audacity to look up at Lizzie and smile.
“Good morning,” he said, unperturbed by her own lack of excitement at seeing him. “Sleep well?”
“Smugness is unbecoming,” she said with a sniff.
Darcy gave Guy’s belly one last rub before getting to his feet. “Here we are, all alone out in the countryside with nothing
to occupy us . . . you’d be bored if you hadn’t agreed to look into the case.”
Normally Lizzie felt a thrill of delight whenever she realized that Darcy understood her. Now it was just irritating. “And
whose fault is it that we are out in the middle of nowhere without any cases?”
“Lady Catherine’s,” he said, giving her a pointed look.
“Lady Catherine didn’t drive us out of our home, and if we had just stayed—”
“Then we would have been risking certain danger to ourselves, if not your family.”
It was a low blow, and she glared. “You think that I don’t care for their safety? I wanted them to leave London—but me staying
and finding a way to meet with her would have protected them. It would have protected you.”
She felt a sudden pressure behind her eyes and realized with alarm that tears were building. She would not let them fall.
Darcy took a step forward, squaring off with her as if about to fight some absurdly close duel. “And who would have protected
you?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she didn’t need protecting, but she managed to keep those words in. This was well-trod
territory with them. Darcy thought she was reckless, and well . . . she had been, at times. But she hadn’t gotten where she
was—a solicitor, at last—by not taking risks. What was it he’d said to her, the last time she’d forged ahead without him?
I just want to be included.
Well, so did she. And having him side with her father against her . . . she wasn’t sure if she was ready to forgive that.
“Running away won’t solve anything,” she breathed. It wasn’t fair, really, because his words had stirred something in her
that she didn’t want to face, and he was standing so close that she could inhale his scent.
“Don’t think of it as running away,” he said softly. “It’s a strategic retreat.”
This was the rather annoying thing about courting a fellow solicitor—Darcy always had a clever rebuttal for her every argument.
“Strategic? More like reactionary. There was nothing well-planned about our flight from London.”
“I beg to differ—your mother told me in great detail all the planning that went into packing the eight trunks that came with
us.”
She smiled against her will. But she quickly righted her expression into something more stern. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Joke? Make you laugh?”
He was so close—it would be nothing to close the gap between them, to tilt her chin up and press her lips to his . . . but
no! She couldn’t think about kissing Darcy when she was still so irritated with him.
Except . . . the fierceness of her anger was starting to feel less like a roaring fire and more like smoldering coals.
As if sensing the warring emotions within her, Darcy said, “I know you don’t like it, but Lizzie—trust that Graves is doing
his job. He has dozens of men on the case.”
“That’s just the thing,” she said. “I’m not entirely sure I do trust Graves. He has his own agenda.”
They didn’t know much about him, other than that he worked for the Crown and had been pursuing Lady Catherine for many months.
Of course, for a great number of those months he had known that she had escaped and hadn’t deigned to tell Lizzie or Darcy,
leaving them in danger of being targeted by her associates.
Darcy sighed. “I can’t say I blame you—I can’t bring myself to fully trust him, either. But he might want to catch her as
much as you do. And the Dashwoods are utilizing their resources to try to flush her out.”
“If I—”
“Lizzie.” He took her by the shoulders. Lizzie felt the tension in them melt away at his touch. “There is no shame in letting others investigate if it is too dangerous for you to do so yourself.”
“She’s killed people, Darcy,” Lizzie said. “Who’s to say she won’t kill again, or send someone else to murder another innocent?
And what if it’s Marianne this time, or—”
He drew her into an embrace, and she didn’t fight it. “I know,” he said. “But Abigail and Leticia and even Wickham—their deaths
weren’t your fault. They were hers. And until we have a more solid lead, Netherfield Park is the safest place for us all.”
Lizzie didn’t want to agree with him, but he presented a very persuasive case. Feelings churned inside her—guilt at leaving
home, frustration at being forced to walk away from the case, and under it all, fear.
What would Lady Catherine do if Lizzie failed to meet her yet again?
Darcy released her. “Now, in the meantime—we have a new case.”
Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, a case that might predate us entirely, and in which there appears to be no living witness?
What a scintillating mystery this will prove to be.”
“Come now, you enjoy a challenge,” Darcy said, and the only thing more annoying than his confidence was the fact that he was
right.
“That constable didn’t seem to be interested in the slightest that there is a dead body in his county!”
“About him . . .” Darcy’s expression darkened for a moment, and Lizzie felt her interest pique.
“I wouldn’t trust his disinterest entirely.
While you all were examining the coin, I was looking at Mr. Oliver.
When Bingley revealed that he thought it was a Spanish mint, Oliver looked .
. . well, alarmed. I think he knows something he’s not letting on. ”
Oh, well . . . she hadn’t been expecting that. “You’re certain?”
“Absolutely,” Darcy assured her. “He seemed unsettled—and why would a Spanish coin unsettle him more than a body in the drawing
room? When he insisted on transporting it to the undertaker, I almost wanted to protest, but I couldn’t think of a single
decent reason to stop it.”
“Well, there’s not much he can do with skeletal remains.” Lizzie said. “But if he knows something he isn’t inclined to share . . .”
“Then it might suggest there is someone else who might know a thing or two about this stranger?”
“Well, at the very least it’s interesting,” Lizzie said. She shared what the maid Agnes had told her about the Netherfield
curse, and Darcy looked nearly as baffled as she felt.
“It seems rather ghoulish that people believe this place is cursed,” he said. “There must be a story there.”
“And perhaps it’s tied to our dead man,” Lizzie said. She couldn’t help the twinge of excitement in her belly when she said
that. She tried to ignore it. “All right, we need more information. There must be those who will be willing to talk to us.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Darcy said. “That’s why I came to find you. Bingley wants to drive into the village to speak with the undertaker and vicar about putting the body to rest. I thought you might want to come along, make a few inquiries of your own?”
Lizzie was tempted to give in to childish refusal, but there was no denying it now—they had a case, and this case was sorely
lacking in detail. Detail that could only be uncovered with a bit of sleuthing.
“Fine,” she relented. “But just because we have a new case—flimsy as it might be—doesn’t mean I’m abandoning the search for
Lady Catherine.”
Rather than appearing chastised, Darcy just smiled and took her arm.
“Of course not. I never would expect you to give up on anything quite so easily.”