Charlotte set the paperweight squarely on the desk, and her eyes met Elizabeth's. "That should present no difficulty," she said with a smile.
Elizabeth agreed and a moment later continued on to her room, muffing over the talk in her mind as she went. Her thoughts, of course, were running along rather different lines from Charlotte's. Anne's desire to wed Mr. Darcy confirmed enough to be worth of certainty. Did Anne see Elizabeth as her rival? Was this motive for wanting her dead?
But what was Elizabeth to do about it? She lay in bed, as the night crept on, trying to plan. Would anybody at all believe her if she explained her reasoning? For, once again, all she had on her side was logic, not evidence. She could not understand why the same logic had not immediately made itself felt to Darcy when they discussed Anne. She guessed that he was respectable and old-fashioned enough to have difficulty in bringing himself to imagine a woman committing such a brutal crime as murder. To consider Anne, his cousin, in the role of a suspect had apparently not even occurred to him.
But even if Mr. Darcy would listen, what could they do? The constable would have difficulty collecting evidence at this late date. The man who had actually pulled the trigger—and, in all likelihood, had held the reins of the thundering coach—was in the grave, disintegrating into the earth and therefore past identifying.
What if Elizabeth called on Anne and said, "I know you have tried to have me killed. Others know it as well. If anything happens to me now, however accidental it appears, you will be held responsible. No marriage will come with Darcy, and every attempt will be made to prove that you are guilty of murder." Would this be enough? Would Elizabeth then be safe, or would Anne think herself cleverer than Elizabeth, and believe she could still find a way?
The image of this conversation intrigued Elizabeth. Could she lure Anne into an indiscretion? Of course, that would accomplish nothing, she immediately realized. There would be no witnesses, or at least none who were not Anne's confederates, because if there were, the girl would not commit the indiscretion.
What was needed was for Anne to make an incriminating statement, and for Elizabeth to have another witness present. A trap; the word slid into her mind. She imagined herself a poacher, setting her trap in the dark of the night in a secret place, where it would be discovered by no one but the victim, and then only after it was sprung. Yes, the idea had merit, but how was it to be accomplished?
She would certainly need an accomplice of her own. Under other circumstances, Charlotte would have been the obvious person to whom to turn, but Elizabeth knew that she would never consent to a plan that involved putting her in any danger, however remote. Mr. Collins? Of course not! She could not afford to wait—she was leaving for London in a couple weeks.
Elizabeth briefly considered taking Denny into her confidence. He seemed to possess the necessary sense, as well as military training, and of course, he would shortly be a distant relative by marriage. Reluctantly, however, she had to abandon the idea; he had been her chief suspect until that morning, and he knew it, which would make his sudden promotion to colleague somewhat awkward. Besides, he was so little acquainted with Elizabeth that he might well think her idea mad.
Elizabeth tossed restlessly in the bed, wishing fretfully that she had possessed the foresight to become, if not married, at least betrothed. She had never before realized how useful a husband could be.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned from London; perhaps she could tell him that she had changed her mind, then, once this affair was finished, change it once again. But, of course, this was impractical. Aside from the inherent dishonesty of it, which was naturally repugnant to Elizabeth, the colonel wouldn't do. If he had been the sort of gentleman who would, she might have agreed to marry him.
All of this left her with the one individual who would do admirably, but whom she was most reluctant to ask. She knew if Darcy agreed with her reasoning, he would think her idea an excellent one. He had already used her as bait, without her consent, in a similar scheme. He had the standing, as well, that would enable him to call upon the constable, and Elizabeth felt sure they would jump to his bidding. In the end, she had no choice—Mr. Darcy was the perfect partner in this adventure.
But how could she humble herself by asking his assistance? Did etiquette permit one to ask a favor—and such a favor!—from a man whose offer of marriage one had so recently refused? She would be enormously in his debt, and him in hers.
But he had already shown, despite her rejection of his suit, that he was determined to protect her. Elizabeth told herself she need have no qualms about turning to him. She could send a note around asking him to call. Then, daringly, she decided it would be better if she called on him. If he came here, they would chance being interrupted by Charlotte or Maria or any of the constant stream of morning callers. And the butler would doubtless be leaning toward the keyhole.
CHAPTER NINE
The following morning, at half-past ten, Elizabeth slipped out the side door of the house. She was dressed in a drab brown gown, with an old brown cloak draped over her shoulders. The day was cool enough that she was able to wear the hood to cover her long hair and occasion no comment. She wanted to melt into her environment, not appear furtive.
She had chosen to walk the two miles to Rosings Park, rather than attempt to secure a cab. She had been tempted to send a lower servant to do her bidding, but feared he would promptly inform the butler at the parsonage, who would as speedily report to his master. The walk would give her the opportunity to stretch her legs and plan what she would say to Mr. Darcy.
The one difficulty she had foreseen was in being admitted to his presence. Unchaperoned ladies did not commonly call upon a single gentleman, particularly at this hour of the morning. Worse yet, her appearance would not impress Lady Catherine's butler, who might refuse even to send a message to Darcy.
Nonetheless, she walked up the broad steps to the heavy front door of Rosings with every appearance of confidence, and let the brass knocker drop. The door swung open immediately, revealing a severely dressed butler, whose astonishment was all too evident.
He recovered quickly, however, and said icily, as he began to close the door in her face, "If it's work you're seeking, try the back door. You'd do better not to bother your betters."
Elizabeth held out an imperative hand. "I wish to speak to Mr. Darcy," she said authoritatively. "My name is Elizabeth Bennet. He will know me."
The door, open only a crack, seemed to hesitate in its passage, then swung wider again. The man regarded Elizabeth skeptically, but stood aside and said, "You'd best come in."
Once in the marble-floored foyer, Elizabeth pushed the hood back, hoping the smooth swirl of hair her maid had deftly fashioned into a Grecian knot was still intact. She had counted on the fashionable style to help convince the butler of her legitimacy, although her accent no doubt helped.
She turned to face him, holding her chin high, and said, "Will you please inform Mr. Darcy that Miss Bennet desires to speak to him? I trust he is still at home?" A horrible feeling overtook her. What if he had risen early and was already gone, perhaps on his way to London, or worse yet, Derbyshire.
"Mr. Darcy is at home," the butler said woodenly, dispelling her worst anxiety. There was another pause; then he added reluctantly, "I'll inform him of your presence." This was accompanied by another doubting look, which Elizabeth met with an outward show of composure. "Will you wait in here, miss?"
"Here" was an elegant drawing room, with drapes in forest green pulled back by gold tassels from the gracefully proportioned bay windows. The walls were the palest of sea-foam green, and the delicate carved moldings were a clean white. Elizabeth hurried toward a gilt-framed looking glass to inspect her hair, which she was relieved to see had, for once, chosen to conform to her wishes. She pulled the cloak from her shoulders and laid it across the back of a green velvet sofa.
She was just beginning to panic and wish she had chosen the more proper course of sending a note around to Darcy
when the door opened and he strolled in. Elizabeth was alarmed to see that he wore riding clothes, but he had not yet donned his coat. The informality of his shirt sleeves helped create an instant air of intimacy from which Elizabeth recoiled.
“You look well this morning, Miss Bennet." He paused, insolently studying her from head to foot.
Elizabeth blushed but held her chin proudly high. “I did not wish to draw attention," she said.
“Wise," he agreed. “But nonetheless I must compliment you. Please have a seat. Would you care for tea? You must be fatigued from your walk in that respect.
Please, have a seat. Would you care for refreshments? You must be fatigued from your walk. I gather you did walk?"
"I am not so weak that occasionally putting one foot before the other fatigues me," Elizabeth said impatiently. "And no, I don't care for refreshments."
"Just as well," he murmured. "The butler was not at all convinced as to your identity. It might lower his dignity to wait on you."
Elizabeth turned away to hide her burning cheeks. Was Darcy mocking her? Would her action in coming here unchaperoned make him hold her in disgust?
"Did you believe it really was me?" she asked in a low voice.
"Naturally." He sounded amused. "What other lady of my acquaintance would dare stride boldly up to my front door and ask to speak to me?" The amusement was abruptly gone as he added, "Or is in a situation where such straits are necessary. I assume this is related to your present difficulties."
"Yes." She swung back to face him, self-consciousness forgotten. "I think I know who it is that wishes me dead."
His gaze sharpened at her dramatic announcement, but his tone made light of the import of her claim, as he remarked, "Good for you! I knew self-preservation would prove a powerful spur. So, do you plan to keep me in suspense? Shall we make it a guessing game?"
Elizabeth bit her lip. "Do you even care?"
His eyes met hers, and it was as though curtains had been drawn back from windows, revealing the naked anger that burned within. "I care," he responded quietly.
Elizabeth did not look away from that scorching gaze. "I believe it to be Miss de Bourgh," she said. “I think she saw us in the garden that evening when we...kissed," she muttered.
In an instant the customary cool mask had settled back over his features, leaving them imperturbable as always. “Anne?" He took her silence for assent and went on in the same conversational tone, "I understand your logic, but do you have more cause to suspect her? Is it possible there is a man you rejected who is now retaliating—"
Elizabeth's back stiffened and she challenged, "Need it be a man? Are you unwilling to believe a woman capable of such perfidy? If so, I am wasting my time in discussing this with you."
"Kindly cease attributing me with the prejudices and motives of others," he said coldly. "I am merely attempting to ascertain how well grounded your suspicion is."
Grudgingly, Elizabeth said, "I apologize." She sat in a silk-covered chair and watched as Darcy abandoned his relaxed stance before the small fire burning on the grate and walked across the room to stare out the window. She was conscious again of how easily he moved, and her body quickened at her awareness. She had to fight the mixture of hostility and longing that always gripped her in Darcy's presence and made sparks so quick to rise between them. Perhaps coming here today had been a mistake.
At length she mastered herself enough to describe her suspicions of Maria and Denny, and the outcome of that confrontation. "So you see," she concluded, "You will no doubt think me naive, but I believed his assurances."
"Mr. Denny and Miss Lucas?" Darcy had turned so his back was to the window, and the light formed a halo about him. "I met him in Meryton. I cannot imagine him choosing such a shy girl for a wife."
"You are misjudging Maria," Elizabeth said after a pause, adding with difficulty, "as I, too, have done. She is different with him, comes out of herself more easily, is more confident. You would scarcely know her. They suit each other very well."
"I must accept your word." He sounded unconvinced. "And no, I do not think you naive. If you had consulted me... But, of course, you could not be certain it was Denny until you followed them."
Elizabeth nodded. "I am glad to hear you confirm my thoughts, because, of course, there is no way to be certain. He could simply be a most plausible liar, who is using Maria. However, it is impossible to believe either engineered the scheme."
He hesitated, then resumed. "Also—forgive me—but I cannot credit either with the will or intellect to plan so effectively, and ruthlessly."
Elizabeth had to agree, although she felt somewhat disloyal in doing so. "You asked earlier whether I had more reason to suspect Anne," she said. "Although I have no evidence, all I have learned about her confirms my suspicion. The timing, in particular, fits quite well. I wondered from the beginning what precipitated the first attack; I believe she is afraid you will marry me instead of her. Plus everyone at the parsonage could have accomplished their aim far easier at home in Hertfordshire. The necessity to hire a stranger almost entirely eliminated Maria, who lacks the means. On the other hand, I was nearly run down by the coach shortly after we were discovered in the garden. Also, Charlotte has inquired into Anne's health, which is not at all what one would guess." She told him Anne hadn't been visited by a doctor in two years, and had apparently been faking her illness. "It seems to me very revealing of her character; I doubt your aunt even knows what she has been up too."
"Yes, indeed," he agreed. "It did strike me as curious when she disappeared into the garden with Maria that night of the party. She didn't appear sickly at all. I could not make her the prime suspect, however, when I have been acquainted with you such a relatively short time, and therefore had no way of knowing what other enemies you might have garnered." His mouth twitched. "I am not implying, you understand, that you have a particular talent for making enemies, merely that you have a sharp tongue, as I have before remarked, and an air of straightforward integrity that might well have clashed with someone who had a dishonest purpose."
"I thank you for that encomium," Elizabeth said dryly, "if that is indeed what it was." She hesitated. "Do you think my reasoning good? Am I right to believe it to be Anne?"
"Yes, undoubtedly," he said tersely. "But what are we to do about it?" A reluctant smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "I'm being foolish, aren't I? You must have a plan. You didn't take the risk of coming here just to tell me this, did you?"
"No," she admitted. "I do have a plan, for which I need help, and I didn't know where else to turn." She drew a deep breath. Apologizing in advance for what was beginning to seem unbearable presumption on her part, she said straight out, "Perhaps I'm asking too much."
"You know I want to help you," he said in his abrupt manner, as though he had read her mind and sought to ease the way. "I offered my assistance once before."
"Yes, I know," she said, "and although it was impractical to have even considered a solution that would have so trapped us both, I believe it was your offer that gave me the courage to come to you today."
At her words his mouth compressed into a taut line as he regarded her with something very near dislike. "My willingness to lend my assistance, which I hope you don't doubt, is entirely separate from my desire to make you my wife." He paused, then continued in the same chill voice, "Although it perhaps arises from the same motivation."
Elizabeth's heart seemed to leap out of rhythm, then resumed its steady course at a far faster tempo. What was Darcy trying to say? Was he merely being polite, saying what he ought to a lady he had asked to be his wife? Or dared she read more into his words?
"Of course, I'm flattered by your confidence in my humble self," he went on, his voice now dripping with sarcasm, which he punctuated at this point by offering a mocking half-bow, "but I must ask why you chose me. Why not Colonel Fitzwilliam, with whom you are also on such civil terms?"
Elizabeth held back her temper with an effort, her restraint, s
trengthened by the hope that was burgeoning in her breast. Darcy, impossible though it seemed, spoke as though he were jealous.
She answered equably, "Colonel Fitzwilliam would not approve of my scheme. I don't believe he thinks women should take any initiative outside the home. Besides..." She could not resist one tiny jab. "Thanks to your unmannerly interruption, I am not presently on civil terms with the Colonel."
"You don't feel you can turn to him for assistance, and yet you would become his wife?" He spoke with incredulous contempt.
Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap and returned his gaze with a serenity she did not feel. "Why should you believe I intend to marry him?"
A storm was brewing in his dark eyes, and his nostrils flared. "Why else did you turn me down? Or have you enjoyed encouraging me with no intention to have me as your husband? Was it a game you played?"
Elizabeth leaped to her feet in outrage. "How dare you? Your arrogance is unbounded. I have never encouraged you. Your offer came unasked—"
"And apparently unwanted," he returned bitterly. He lounged in a gilt-legged armchair, but his body was as tense as the string of a bow just before the arrow is sent on its deadly path. He stared up at Elizabeth as though he hated her.
Elizabeth could not bear it. She swung around, presenting her back to him, and bowed her head as she fought back tears.
"Elizabeth..." His voice was different, shaking, and she could feel, as though his warmth reached out to touch her, that he now stood close behind her. "It's unforgivable for me to reproach you, and at such a time, when you sought my help. As a gentleman... His large hands on her shoulders lightly drew her around, but then he seemed to forget what he was saying as his eyes searched her face.
Suddenly he threw back his head and gave a harsh laugh. "But I must ask. What does forgiveness matter?" His hands tightened. "Elizabeth, why did you refuse me? Why do you persist in denying it?"
Elizabeth stood very still under the weight of his hands and stared up into his dark eyes. Quietly she said, "I deny it only because it is not enough. How soon before your desire begins to fade? How long before you decide you should have married a woman of superior birth?"
Darcy's Kiss Page 8
