Even in the moment, Richard had sensed some mystery at work, but he had not dared voice such a doubt without better evidence. The bloody, swollen abrasions disfiguring the dead man’s face seemed too strategically placed, the clothing somehow too haphazardly fitted. The body could have been a decoy—it would not be the first time he had seen such a thing, but to raise the alarm about his suspicions before learning more would be to jeopardise the real Darcy, if he still lived. And if Darcy had been in danger, Georgiana might be as well….
Richard stopped at the top of the stair to catch his breath. Glancing down, he surveyed Darcy’s domain; the elegance and luxury of all that was Pemberley, the glittering heart of northern Derbyshire. Not a man in the kingdom would have protested the position into which he had been thrust—caretaker to all, de facto master of all. The mistress was his ward, and another landed heiress apparently held designs on his name. Nothing might be denied Richard Fitzwilliam, for all power and authority had fallen to him. His knees started to buckle.I cannot do this!
He pressed fingers deeply into his eyes, wishing to blot out the visions burned into his memory. It had never worked, and it did not this time either. The one consolation, the one sweet name that had the power of bringing peace when the horrific images and the fear of his duties loomed, was not truly his—that memory was its own source of pain, but mercifully not so raw on this day as his present heartache. He lingered another moment with his hands over his eyes, trying to dwell on soft words, and a wildflower laurel gracing the raven locks of one who had once soothed his cares.
As always, memories of conflict and war would intrude, but on this occasion, Richard opened his eyes and slowly lowered his hand. Inspiration flowed into him with that one triggered memory, and he stood gasping and cursing himself for a simpleton. “Hodges!” he cried, as his perch at the top of the stair afforded him a view of the butler passing below.
The elder man paused, unruffled at such an outburst from the stair. “Colonel Fitzwilliam,” he bowed grandly. “What can I do for you sir?”
“Call for an express rider. I must send a letter to London with all speed!”
Chapter six
Longbourn
“Lydia?”Elizabethtappedquietlyon the door to her sister’s room. “Lydia, have you seen my green bonnet?”
There was no immediate answer, and Elizabeth began to withdraw. She had not expected a warm reception—relations between herself and her youngest sister had been strained, at best. A civil reply might have been in order, however. Frowning, she turned away, but the door opened a crack just as she did so.
“Lydia?”
“I don’t have your bonnet,” was the sullen response.
“I did not mean to imply that you had taken it—”
“Iusedto steal your bonnets,” Lydia interrupted.
Elizabeth blinked, smiling reluctantly. Indeed, Lydia had been known throughout the county as the girl with the most fashionable bonnets, and it was nearly always at the expense of one of her sisters. She had a clever knack for making them over just so and suiting her features to best advantage.
“So you did,” Elizabeth confessed with a low chuckle. “But it has been many days since you attempted a walk out of doors. I only thought to ask if you knew where I might have left it. I cannot think where it might be.”
“I would not know. You are not going walking today, Lizzy? Why, it is freezing. You will catch your death!”
“No,” she admitted, touched and more than a little surprised at Lydia’s apparent interest in her welfare. “Our aunt and uncle Gardiner have invited me to return with them to London, and I wished to take my newest bonnet.”
Lydia’s face fell from her usual apathy into utter dejection. “Oh.”
Elizabeth bit her lip, casting about for some words of consolation. “I am sure that someday soon, you also will—”
“No, Lizzy. I shall never be invited anywhere. I turned sixteen last July, and already I am a cast-off wife. Everyone knows it. There shall be no balls, no officers, no string of suitors for me. Nothing remains but to hide here at Longbourn until that beastly man should return, or until I receive word that he has been killed somewhere.” Lydia backed away from the crack permitted by her door, sliding her hand up to close it once more, but Elizabeth stopped it.
“Lydia… may I ask you something?”
Shock lit the girl’s features. Never had Elizabeth humbled herself to ask a real question of her, and by the sincere tones in which she spoke, Lydia judged the matter of some import. “I… I suppose,” she mumbled, backing farther from the entry.
Elizabeth took that for an invitation and entered the room. Lydia stood silent and expectant and both cast about awkwardly for where they might stand or sit, for neither was certain to what the conversation might tend. Elizabeth rather desired to seat herself to pose her question, while Lydia might have been more satisfied to answer quickly and regain her solitude. In the end, by uncomfortable looks and movements, they reached a sort of understanding, and both poised at opposite ends of the bed. Lydia looked down to the floor, and Elizabeth cleared her throat.
“You are still angry with me,” Lydia observed flatly. “You have every right, of course.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “I am not!”
“Yes, you are. You are a terrible liar, Lizzy. I see it every time you look at me—or rather, avoid looking at me. You could not hide your feelings if you put a bag over your head.”
Elizabeth swallowed, then cleared her throat again. “I—” her voice broke, and she paused to swallow once more. “Iwasangry.”
“And now you are simply disgusted?”
“That is not fair, Lydia. What you did—” Elizabeth threw up her hands in mute frustration. “You could have ruined us all! Did you even consider that?”
