Why is his cousin so very interested in Benjamin?
Elizabeth paused at the threshold of the drawing room, her hand resting on the doorframe. What had passed between the two men after she left? Had Darcy tried to defend her—or was he as entangled in this web of secrets as Colonel Fitzwilliam clearly was?
She stepped in, unnoticed, just in time to hear Darcy’s low, urgent voice: “Do not make a mess of this. If you do, you will not only lose me her good opinion—you will cost us the only chance we have of finding out the truth.”
“What truth?” she asked, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.
Both men whirled around. Their expressions—equal parts shock and guilt—told her enough.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward first, his manner suddenly all charming affability again. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said, “might we trouble you for a walk? The air is fine and brisk, and I find fresh air clears the head for serious discussions.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flicked to the window. The weather was, at best, inhospitable—cold, gray, and blustery. She raised an eyebrow. “I believe I would prefer to remain indoors,” she said coolly. Her gaze shifted deliberately to Bingley and Jane, who were still seated near the hearth, engrossed in conversation.
Darcy and the colonel followed her line of sight—and looked appropriately chastened to realize they had forgotten they were not alone.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s smile slipped. “Miss Elizabeth, this is no small matter. I am prepared to tell you more than I have ever told anyone outside my orders. But it cannot be overheard.”
Elizabeth crossed her arms. “There is a murderer on the loose, Colonel. For all I know, you arrived at Netherfield just this morning to invent an alibi. It’s possible you arrived earlier but are only now making your presence known.” Her voice was even, but the tension behind it made Darcy flinch.
The colonel’s eyes darkened, but before he could speak, Darcy stepped forward. “A compromise, then,” he said carefully. “We shall walk, but within sight of the drawing room windows. A maid may sit with Bingley and Miss Bennet to observe us at all times.”
Elizabeth bit her lip, uncertain. Finally, she said, “I would also like a footman stationed outside within earshot should I call out.”
“Within shouting distance,” Colonel Fitzwilliam muttered, visibly irritated. “But not close enough to overhear our conversation.”
She folded her arms and glared at him. “Why should I?”
Darcy stepped forward and leaned to whisper, “Because Mr. Smithson was not who he pretended to be.”
Elizabeth gave him a sharp look but did not argue further. She rang the bell and gave the necessary instructions to the maid and footman, issuing them with a general’s clarity and tone. Then she turned and fetched her boots and overcoat from the hall.
As she bundled herself in a thick pelisse and wrapped a scarf around her throat, she could feel both men watchingher—waiting, perhaps hoping for something gentler in her expression.
They received none.
The three stepped out into the wind together. Behind them, the window curtains fluttered slightly, and Elizabeth could see the maid watching, as ordered.
“Well?” Her tone was sharp, biting, and it caused Darcy to flinch.
The two men looked at one another, then Colonel Fitzwilliam sighed. “It is a long story, Miss Elizabeth. I am struggling to know just where to begin.”
“Perhaps at the beginning,” she responded pertly. “I will inform you of any questions I have along the way.”
The wind gusted again, sharp and damp, and Elizabeth drew her pelisse more tightly around her. The three of them walked along the edge of the gravel path, just barely in view of the drawing room window, the watching maid a small silhouette behind the glass.
Colonel Fitzwilliam walked with his hands clasped behind his back, his brow furrowed as though sorting through a number of possible beginnings. At last, he said quietly, “I work for the Home Office, Miss Elizabeth. My regiment was merely a cover. I am an agent of the Crown.”
Elizabeth stopped walking. “You are a spy?”
He offered a wry smile. “Yes. I suppose that’s the common word for it.”
She arched a skeptical brow. “This sounds like something from one of my younger sisters’ ridiculous romance novels.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed once, short and without mirth. “Well, this particular tale does have some romance in it, I admit—but its ending is far more tragic than any of your sisters’ novels, I suspect.”
Still unconvinced, Elizabeth folded her arms. “And I supposed you mean to tell me that Mr. Smithson was a spy as well?”
The colonel’s eyebrows rose high on his head. “Yes, he was. Very clever of you to make that deduction so quickly.”
