Chapter 16 #3
Elizabeth frowned in thought. “They both were gone from Pemberley the morning Carew died. Someone must have seen them.”
“They both claimed to be gone, but everything had been in disarray here, and I and the servants were always going in and out of the house. His gaming friends in Buxton might lie for Balfour or Lord Poole might lie for Utterson. I cannot rely on that.” He felt the agitation, the frustration, building in his chest again.
“Once I have anything to bring before the magistrate, then he can compel witnesses to testify in court. Until then”—he sighed and took her hand again—“I need proof, something specific, before I go back to Mr Birch.”
She traced her thumb along the back of his hand. “Who do you think it was?” she whispered.
“It is hard to accept either of them stole valuables and”—he swallowed—“killed someone over them. Money must be the motive, but both men still receive some monies from their fathers. Balfour will inherit, and Utterson will become a barrister.”
“I wonder if Mr Utterson is best qualified for that species of business.”
Darcy considered it. “He might know that he is not, and might be in want of money so he can spend like he thinks the son of a baronet should since he cannot earn a great income by his profession.”
“Mr Utterson seems to have clearness and quickness of mind, but he can sometimes be unjust or unkind.”
“And Balfour talks a great deal, and always with animation. But does being affable make him less likely to be guilty? Does Utterson’s resentful and ungracious nature make him more likely to be guilty?”
Elizabeth looked as though she wished so much that this was a question she could answer.
“Balfour cares deeply about reputation and appearances,” he finally said, “and wants to spend, but his father limits him.”
“That sounds like Mr Utterson as well.”
He nodded, staring at the space on the desk where the other taperstick should be. “This is why I need proof.”
“I know we shall find it.” She forced him to meet her eye and gave him an earnest look. “You will either catch them in the act when they are tempted again, or the pawnbroker will have information you can take to the magistrate.”
Darcy pressed a kiss to her hand as a thank you, and she surprised him by slowly lifting off the desk and settling gently on his lap. “Is this good?” she whispered.
He rested his hands on her hips, and she gradually brought hers to his shoulders. He nodded as she pressed her forehead to his, and he closed his eyes. Before he could enjoy the sweet, tight tension that was threatening to overtake him, she said, “I wish you would talk about it with me.”
“What more is there to say?” he asked, opening his eyes. “I need proof, and I will soon have it.”
Those large dark eyes of hers, that often judged so well, were giving him an expectant look. “One of your friends stole from your tenants and killed someone. You might not have the words to explain it, but you cannot hide from me how hurt you are.”
One of her hands had moved behind his neck and was brushing through his hair.
It was such an intimate gesture, with her sitting in his lap and looking at him as though nothing in the world mattered more than what he was about to say.
“I have plenty of words—sorrow, regret, rage, grief—but none of them properly express my feelings about this sickening betrayal.”
“It is a betrayal you could never have expected.”
He exhaled and looked directly into her eyes.
“It is my fault. Whoever it was, they were my friend. I invited him into my home, trusted him, introduced him to my sister. It is my fault Molly Carew is dead, my fault that her father broke down in his parlour and had to build her coffin, my fault that—”
“It is not!”
“I am responsible for a killer being welcomed at Pemberley.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “You were deceived, everyone was deceived, and no one could have known Mr Balfour or Mr Utterson was capable of such a thing. It is a betrayal of trust, of the bonds of friendship.” Her fingertips were still absently stroking his neck. “You must be suffering so much.”
“I had to drive home with Balfour with my sister and Utterson with you with the knowledge that one of them could murder you.”
“That was not going to happen in an open carriage—”
“And I am sure Carew felt safe walking in Pemberley’s park, even as she approached whoever it was who murdered her!”
She flinched, and he winced at having raised his voice.
“I am sorry, my dear. It is simply a horrible thought, that she knew her attacker but had not known to be afraid of him. She might not have even run or defended herself because he was supposed to be a gentleman, the master’s friend.
” He gripped her a little tighter. “I brought this into my home, Elizabeth.”
“Oh, Fitzwilliam, it is not your fault.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek, lingering there. “Guilt is a terrible taskmaster.”
“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, it is.”
“You have a responsibility to everyone at Pemberley, of course, for their safety, their happiness—but you did not kill Carew. You cannot take on all of this guilt. Leave some for Mr Balfour or Mr Utterson. They are to blame, not you.”
He nodded and gave a half-smile. She was not wrong, of course, but that did not lessen his self-reproach.
“I am torturing myself thinking of what Carew’s final moments must have been like,” he said, remembering turning over her body in the stream, the blood on the side of her head.
“Of what her father suffers now and will suffer further when I tell him that my friend, the friend of the man who employs him and employed his daughter, who he had a right to expect would keep his daughter safe . . .” He shook his head.
“You cannot carry the pain of someone else’s loss.”
“In this case, I think I can.”
She brought a hand to his cheek and gave him a sad smile. “Then you shall have to let me help you carry the burden.”
Darcy brought his hands to her face and pressed a soft kiss against her mouth.
He tried to draw back and thank her, but Elizabeth increased the pressure of her lips and coaxed his lips apart, slipping her tongue deep into his mouth.
The intensity in her kiss set his mind whirling and gave him the courage to let his hands move up from her hips.
Elizabeth moaned softly into his mouth, and rather than tensing under his touch, she pressed into his hands, making desperate little sounds that spurred him on.
He could have kissed her and touched her like this for hours, but Elizabeth pulled away to kiss his jaw and neck.
Darcy sighed at this calmer feeling after such a passionate exchange, but then she moved her hand from around his shoulder to down between them to touch him.
The air in his lungs escaped in a rush, his voice low due to his tightening throat. “You don’t have—”
“I want to,” she murmured into his ear.
He could hardly argue with such a reasonable answer.
It was a foreign sensation to feel someone else’s fingers drawing him to life.
Even through his clothes, he shuddered at the gentle contact.
After enjoying it for longer than he should, he moved her hand away and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tighter against him, seeking her lips.
She relaxed into him, parting her lips and offering her tongue, but this time both of their hands stayed in one place.
“Will you come to bed with me?” she asked after this exchange ended.
His heart raced along with his ardour even as he shook his head. “This . . . this pain, this grief about what happened—it is a terrible reason to go to bed with you.”
“Only if it was the only reason.” Her eyes were dark and full of meaning.
“If Hester, or Caroline, or any other woman came in here looking to comfort you, would you have let them this far into the room?” He shook his head.
“There is nothing wrong with your finding solace with me.” She shifted in his lap and gave a quick downward glance, her lips parted.
“If you said yes, it would be because you love me, and have loved me for months, and because I have promised to marry you.”
What had before been only transient desires, Elizabeth inspired in him a rising passion, and thoughts of her as his wife began to take a more settled hold in his imagination.
He had never felt the calm satisfaction of being loved, and certainly not by someone who so well understood him.
Darcy brought a hand to her cheek, running his thumb across her lips until she gave it a firm kiss.
“I have been a fool. I should have asked you to marry me a week ago, and I should have said yes the moment the invitation left your lips.”
Her brow creased in sympathy. “Not a fool, Fitzwilliam. Perhaps you have been . . . rather too much of a gentleman.”
“Then ask me again.”
“If I were to invite you to come to my room in ten minutes and”—she blushed prettily but did not look away—“and stay for the rest of the night, would you?”
“Of course.”