Chapter 32 Race Against the Witching Hour
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
RACE AGAINST THE WITCHING HOUR
Darcy had kept his eye on Elizabeth, the figure in flowing white silk with a white eyemask.
She’d danced with Wickham and Bingley, conversing casually.
While Darcy admired Elizabeth’s investigative skill, this masquerade assembly was tedious at best and potentially dangerous.
What useful information could she possibly extract from the figures of a quadrille?
With Elizabeth’s birthday mere hours away, Darcy contemplated a simpler solution: acknowledging her claim while proposing a joint stewardship of Pemberley.
Such an arrangement would satisfy legal requirements while protecting Georgiana’s interests—and would allow him to remain near Elizabeth without the constant strain of mystery and suspicion between them.
He spotted Blythewood conversing with Mr. Hurst. Midnight drew near, and once Elizabeth turned one-and-twenty, she could consent to a marriage without her father’s permission.
Turning around, Darcy realized he’d lost sight of her.
Panic struck him as he weaved through the crowd, searching for the distinctive white costume.
The assembly room was a tumult of dancing figures and grinning masks.
A Roman soldier bumped against him with a mumbled apology, a shepherdess curtsied as he passed, but of Elizabeth there was no sign.
“Mr. Darcy!” Caroline’s shrill voice cut through his concentration. “You simply must assist me with the midnight unmasking ceremony. The orchestra requires direction, and Charles is in no condition—”
“Not now, Miss Bingley,” he said curtly, still scanning the room.
“But it’s a tradition,” she persisted, positioning herself directly in his path. “As host, you must—”
“Miss Elizabeth,” he interrupted. “Have you seen her recently?”
Caroline’s lips pursed beneath her Egyptian headdress. “I saw her speaking with Madame Evro near the garden doorway, though that was some time ago. Really, Mr. Darcy, her comings and goings are hardly my concern when we have the entire assembly waiting for—”
A figure in white silk approached from the direction of the terrace doors.
Relief washed over him as he caught sight of the distinctive Diana costume—then froze as the young woman drew closer and curtsied with an elegant grace.
The familiar dark eyes beneath the white silk mask were not Elizabeth’s.
“Georgiana.” His voice carried a mixture of fury and disbelief. “What the devil do you think you are doing? You were expressly forbidden to attend tonight’s assembly.”
“Fitzwilliam, I had to come,” Georgiana whispered, her eyes darting nervously around the crowded ballroom. “Something terrible is happening.”
“Your disobedience is what is happening.” Darcy struggled to keep his voice low despite his anger. “Do you have any idea of the danger you’ve placed yourself in? Wickham is here, and in your current attire—”
“That’s why I emulated Elizabeth’s costume,” Georgiana interrupted. “No one would recognize me, and I needed to speak with you urgently.”
“We will discuss this at once,” Darcy decided. “Come, a dance will afford you your disguise. But you must return to your chambers afterwards.”
“But there is no time,” Georgiana started to protest as Darcy led her through the opening steps.
“I overheard Mrs. Wickham and Mrs. Bingley arguing in the ladies’ retiring room.
They were discussing… horrible things, Fitzwilliam.
Mrs. Bingley accused Mrs. Wickham of killing Uncle John and Aunt Rose. ”
Darcy nearly missed a step, earning a sharp look from the couple beside them. “I had my suspicions. This is troubling.”
“Mrs. Wickham didn’t deny it. She laughed and said Mrs. Bingley had no proof, and that after twenty years, none would ever be found.” Georgiana’s voice trembled slightly. “She also claimed Elizabeth would marry George tonight, whether she wished to or not.”
The dance figures separated them momentarily, giving Darcy precious seconds to process this revelation. If Martha was the killer and if Mrs. Bingley could be believed… He again looked for Blythewood. The magistrate had to be called.
“There’s more,” Georgiana continued when they came together again.
“Mrs. Bingley said she saw Martha take Aunt Rose’s locket.
She threatened to tell you everything unless Martha stepped aside and allowed Elizabeth to marry Charles.
Mrs. Wickham laughed and said their deal was that Elizabeth would marry George, not Charles.
I didn’t hear the rest because I came immediately to tell you. ”
Darcy’s mind raced through the implications. If Martha Wickham was indeed the killer, then Elizabeth was not merely threatened with an unwanted marriage—she was in the hands of a woman who had already murdered twice to protect her interests.
“We need to find Elizabeth right away.” Darcy’s head whipped around, scanning every couple in the set. “She’s not here.”
Without regard for propriety or the astonished expressions of the other dancers, Darcy seized Georgiana’s arm and pulled her from the quadrille.
“Have you seen Miss Bennet?” he demanded of the gentlemen near him.
“I believe you were just dancing with her, sir,” the man replied, gesturing toward the abandoned set.
“No, that was—” Darcy caught himself, realizing he couldn’t let anyone know about Georgiana’s presence. “Another lady. I’m looking for Miss Bennet specifically.”
He pushed through the crowd, Georgiana struggling to keep pace beside him as he questioned guest after guest.
A group of militia officers chuckled as he approached. “Lost your dance partner already, Darcy?” one called. “She’s the one in white—can’t miss her!”
“She’s been right beside you all evening,” another added, raising his glass in sloppy salute. “Though I can’t blame a man for losing his head around such a beauty.”
Their laughter grated against his growing fear. Elizabeth had been missing far longer than he’d realized, her absence concealed by Georgiana’s unwitting masquerade.
He spotted Blythewood near the card room, still in his judge’s robes, observing the festivities with judicial detachment.
“Blythewood!” Darcy called, pulling Georgiana through the press of bodies. “I must speak with you immediately.”
The solicitor turned, his expression shifting from mild interest to concern as he noted Darcy’s evident distress.
“What’s happened?” he asked, drawing them into a quieter alcove.
“Martha Wickham has taken Elizabeth,” Darcy said without preamble. “Georgiana overheard her confessing to the murders of John and Rose Darcy. She intends to force Elizabeth into marriage with George tonight, after midnight, when she is of legal age.”
“These are extraordinary accusations,” Blythewood protested.
“They are true,” Georgiana insisted. “I heard everything. Mrs. Bingley confronted Mrs. Wickham about poisoning Uncle John’s tea. Martha didn’t deny it—she laughed and said it didn’t matter what Mrs. Bingley claimed as long as George Wickham married Elizabeth.”
“We need the magistrate and constables immediately,” Darcy said. “Elizabeth is in grave danger.”
Blythewood nodded, his expression grim. “I shall send for them at once, if they can be roused.”
As Blythewood moved to speak to a footman, a shrill scream tore through the ballroom, stopping the orchestra flat as the musicians gawked. The dancers turned in disarray toward Caroline Bingley, standing near the punch bowl.
“Mother! Oh God, Mother is dead!” Caroline’s voice carried clearly across the now-silent ballroom.
Darcy pushed his way through the tumult of shrieking ladies and sputtering gentlemen. Servants dropped trays, and glasses shattered on the polished floor.
“Stand aside!” Darcy commanded as he gripped Georgiana’s arm protectively.
Mrs. Amelia Bingley lay crumpled beside the refreshment table.
A shattered glass littered the floor next to her, and her Roman matron costume was spread over the spilled punch.
Caroline knelt beside her, sobbing hysterically as she clutched her mother’s limp hand.
“She’s gone! She was perfectly well just moments ago! ”
Charles Bingley stumbled drunkenly forward. “Mother. It can’t be.”
Darcy dropped to his knees opposite Caroline, pressing his fingers to Mrs. Bingley’s throat while leaning his ear close to her parted lips.
For a terrifying moment, he detected nothing—then, almost imperceptible, the faintest stirring of breath against his cheek and the weakest thread of a pulse beneath his fingertips.
“She’s not dead,” he announced, straightening up. “But she has been poisoned. Someone fetch Dr. Wilson immediately.”
A footman dashed off as murmurs rippled through the assembled onlookers. Mrs. Bennet’s voice rose above the din. “Poisoned! At Pemberley! Oh, my poor nerves cannot bear such excitement!”
Charles caught Mrs. Hurst, who’d fainted, dropping to his knees beside his mother. His knightly armor clanked to the floor. “She… she had some punch. Martha Wickham brought it to her—no, to me. She asked me to bring it to Mother as a peace offering after some disagreement.”
“Martha Wickham,” Darcy repeated, ice forming in his veins as he scanned the room. “Where is she now?”
“I don’t see her,” Georgiana whispered, her eyes wide with fear. “Nor George Wickham. I heard her say Rose Cottage.”
“We have to go after her,” Darcy said, certainty growing with every moment. “This poisoning was meant to remove the last witness to her crime.”
A collective gasp arose from the assembled guests. Mrs. Bennet pushed through the crowd with surprising force, her feathered costume trembling with maternal fury.
“That woman has taken my Lizzy?” Her voice rose to near-shriek levels. “Where is Rose Cottage? We must go immediately!”
“Indeed.” He turned to a footman. “Have my horse saddled and torches prepared.”
“Count me in as well,” slurred Charles, swaying slightly but resolute. “Mother always said Martha was dangerous, but I never thought… poor Elizabeth, trapped with such a creature.”
“I shall charge in there with my bare hands,” Mrs. Bennet declared. “She will not harm my daughter.”
“And me!” Lydia pushed forward, her gypsy costume inappropriate for nighttime rescue operations. “Lizzy is my sister, and I won’t let that horrible woman hurt her.”
“You cannot stop me,” Georgiana argued with a determined tilt of her head. “Elizabeth is my friend and cousin. I shall walk if I have to.”
Darcy recognized the stubborn set of her jaw—a Darcy family trait that he knew from personal experience was impossible to overcome. “You will remain in the carriage at all times,” he capitulated. “And if I say retreat, you will obey without question.”
“Agreed.”
Darcy surveyed this unlikely assembly of volunteers—a distraught mother, a drunk gentleman, an overdressed gypsy, his teenage sister, and several officers whose military training might prove useful. Not the rescue party he would have chosen, but time was crucial.
“Very well,” he decided. “We shall require carriages for speed and lanterns for light. Those with military experience, bring whatever weapons you can manage. We depart immediately.”
He hoped they weren’t too late. Every moment of delay might cost Elizabeth her life—or her honor, which in society’s eyes amounted to the same thing.
The thought of her trapped with a woman capable of murder, facing forced marriage to George Wickham, filled him with rage so pure it burned away every other consideration.