Elizabeth nodded. “There was truth in his eyes when he spoke to me about his regrets for his poor behavior in the past.”
There was a pause as the three of them considered the plan.
“Then we act quickly,” the colonel said. “Darcy and I will speak with Wickham and make the arrangements.”
“You may also wish to let Colonel Forster know as well,” Elizabeth interjected.
The colonel nodded. “We will also begin interviewing the soldiers and servants to confirm alibis, all under the guise of attempting to be fair in the investigation. Miss Elizabeth—your role will be vital. Keep the child under tight guard, but not hidden. You can also assist in spreading the whispers of Wickham’s guilt.”
“Many people saw us speaking at my aunt’s card party. I can spread word that he confided in me that Mr. Darcy has a vendetta against him from a childhood grievance. It will lend credence to the idea that you are targeting Wickham on purpose.”
“Excellent,” the colonel said. “We can also spread rumors among the officers of debts in London and a grudge againstthe insurance company for causing the loss of his employment there.”
Darcy and Elizabeth only had a moment to agree before the door flung wide open to admit Mrs. Bennet.
“Oh, my poor nerves,” she declared as she collapsed onto the settee, oblivious to startled looks she received from the room’s occupants. “I do believe Lydia has locked herself in the upstairs linen closet, and Kitty is weeping into her pillow. And as for Mary—well, she is quoting Ecclesiastes at them both, which is hardly helpful!”
Colonel Fitzwilliam straightened, already rising to offer some gallant remark, and Elizabeth tucked a stray curl behind her ear, her composure smoothing into something more practiced.
But Darcy could not look away from her, resolve forming in his mind.
I am going to marry her.
Chapter 23
The following day, Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam sent a note to Colonel Forster, requesting that Lieutenant Wickham pay a covert call to Netherfield—preferably in a manner that would avoid attracting the attention of Miss Bingley, the servants, or the increasingly nosy Hursts.
Darcy stood with his arms folded near the hearth in one of Netherfield’s smaller drawing rooms, watching as the colonel paced in long, measured strides.
“I still say we should have chosen to meet in the stables,” the colonel muttered. “Fewer rugs at risk.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “I should like to conduct exactly one clandestine meeting in my life that does not smell of horses.”
Before the colonel could reply, a soft tap tap-tap came at the window.
They both turned as the glass wobbled slightly in its frame.
A moment later, the sash inched upward, groaning in protest, and Wickham clambered inside with considerably less grace than expected. One boot caught on the sill; he stumbled forward with a muttered curse and landed with a thump against the wainscoting.
“Not quite as easy as it looks in novels,” he grumbled, straightening his coat and brushing off his breeches.
The colonel gave a dry look. “And yet, you managed to make an entrance worthy of theater.”
Darcy, arms still folded, said only, “You are late. And why are you not using the door?”
Wickham smirked. “Had to convince a chambermaid I was sneaking out, not in. You would be surprised how quickly panic sets in when you are seen climbing over hedges. And we are supposed to be feuding, remember?”
“Lieutenant,” the colonel said sternly, “you were not asked to come here in order to provide us with entertainment.”
“I gathered as much from the death glares. I would not have thought you to be so sensitive, Colonel, as to still hate me for the time I bested you in poker when we were fifteen.” Wickham’s easy smile faded as he took in their solemn expressions. “Well, I can see that this is not a social call, although I should have surmised as much when you asked to meet clandestinely. What, precisely, am I here for, then? Am I being arrested?”
“Have you done something that merits an arrest, Georgie-boy?” The colonel’s teeth gleamed in a feral grin.
“No,” Darcy said shortly. “We need your help.”
Wickham’s amusement faded. “Go on.”
Fitzwilliam stepped forward, voice calm but firm. “We believe the man who killed Mr. Smithson is still in the area—and that he may strike again. Your presence here, your history, and your argument with the victim all make you…convenient.”
