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"Thank you," he said. "That is enough for tonight. We shall take the matter to a magistrate and establish who engaged this man."

Darcy waited until the others withdrew to confer with the surgeon. Lady Caroline’s housekeeper, who had come from Ashcombe Park with blankets and servants, remained nearby, ensuring propriety while Elizabeth and her fiancé spoke quietly by the fire.

When the others withdrew from the farmhouse room, Darcy was again confronted by the sight of Elizabeth sitting upright beneath a borrowed shawl, her face pale and one sleeve darkened where the surgeon had worked. He had pictured a dozen dreadful outcomes during his ride, and none had prepared him for the smallness of her injured figure in a chair that did not belong to her.

He stopped beside her chair. Elizabeth saw that he had not yet composed his expression.

"You have been very quiet, Fitzwilliam," she said.

He drew his chair closer, then checked himself when she winced. For a moment his hand hovered uselessly beside hers. She took it with her uninjured hand and held it.

"I am still here," she said.

"I know. I am trying to believe it."

"Then you must not look so terribly unconvinced."

He bowed his head over their joined hands. His thumb moved once against her fingers, so gently that she scarcely felt it. He had come prepared to be useful, to speak to the surgeon, to make arrangements, to ask every question that might prevent another danger. Instead he could only sit beside her until the shaking in his own hands ceased. Elizabeth did not release him.

The housekeeper remained within sight at the doorway, attending to a folded blanket and pretending not to notice that the gentleman who had ridden so hard now seemed unable to move from his chair. It was the kindest service she could render, and Darcy was grateful for it.

"I thought of Mama," Elizabeth admitted at last.

"Because she was hurt in a carriage?"

"Yes. I thought of the first memory she could never recover. It was foolish. The coincidence frightened me more than the accident itself."

Darcy took her hand again. "There is nothing foolish in remembering your mother when you have nearly suffered the same misfortune."

"She survived," Elizabeth whispered. "And so did I."

"You did."

She looked past him toward the window, where the farmhouse garden had disappeared into darkness. Someone had taken the wrong road on purpose. Someone had left injured women behind without seeking help. These facts would not be transformed into harmless accident merely because everyone wished them so.

Darcy saw the resolution settle upon her face.

"Whatever happened," he said, "we shall learn the truth carefully. You will be heard."

Elizabeth turned back to him. "Then I am not afraid to ask the questions."

For the first time that evening he saw the woman who had once commanded a bleeding earl to remain still upon a Hertfordshire road: shaken, injured, and yet unwilling to let fear decide what must be done. He bent and kissed her uninjured hand.

The mystery that would alter all their lives had begun with an act of violence meant to look ordinary. It had failed in its immediate purpose. But there were people in London who did not yet know that Elizabeth had survived, and one woman who had been waiting with terrible eagerness for news of the road to Ashcombe.

At the lodging shared by the Falkenried couple, Adelheid sat beside an untouched supper as the evening grew cold. Albrecht had remained at Matlock House to help arrange whatever was needed for Elizabeth's care. He had sent word that a carriage accident had occurred and that his niece was alive.

Alive.

Adelheid read the message until the word lost its meaning. She had not yet heard from Vogel. Every silence became a threat. If the girl had lived, she might have seen the driver's face. If the driver had fled, he might be found. If Vogel feared for himself, he might name the woman who had sought his help.

From the street came the rumble of a carriage and the passing voices of strangers. Adelheid rose to close the curtains. In the glass she caught sight of her own face, carefully composed even when no one remained to observe it.

She had arranged one accident to conceal a murder. Now she had arranged another to conceal the first. Each time she had believed an act of violence would restore the quiet she deserved. Each time someone had survived.

She stood in the darkened room and waited for a messenger who did not come.

ACT IV • THE CRIMES OF FALKENRIED