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Darcy didn’t trouble to ask who, as Mr. Hurst’s role in this was obviously clandestine. He likely reported to some agent of the Crown. The less they knew, the better.

“Inform who?” Bingley asked, looking from Hurst to Fletcher and back again.

“It is not important.” Hurst scrubbed his hands over his face. “Louisa will be worried by now.”

Darcy’s mind filled with Elizabeth’s bright, curious eyes. “They all will.”

“Indeed.” Some of the strain left Fletcher’s face, replaced by amusement. “I realize we took every able-bodied man with us, but I am a bit surprised Miss Kitty has not yet walked to the village to demand a report.”

“A hot meal and a bit of rest before we reconvene to form a new plan?” Hurst suggested.

Darcy nodded.

“A moment, then.” Fletcher stood, then climbed up to stand on his vacated chair. He raised his voice to address the room at large, saying, “We thank each one of you for your efforts, but we are calling off the search for a few hours. Fresh eyes will arrive from London soon. In the meantime, food and ale are still on me.”

That earned a cheer from the crowd.

Fletcher climbed back down, then went to speak to the proprietor.

Darcy rose and made his way in the direction of the door. He was disappointed they had no better news to offer to those they’d left behind in Netherfield Park, but was eager to see Elizabeth. No day could be counted as a loss when he was able to return to her at the end of it.

He halted that line of thought so abruptly that his body echoed the motion, causing Bingley to walk into him.

“I beg your pardon,” Bingley mumbled and went around.

Darcy shook his head and resumed walking. He must stop thinking about Elizabeth…Miss Elizabeth…in such a way. There could be no coming home to Elizabeth at the end of the day once one or the other of them departed Netherfield Park, and she appeared well enough earlier that afternoon that such a time seemed imminent. As relieved as he was to see that her initial wanness appeared temporary and that she seemed to have incurred no lasting harm, he wished she would remain longer at Netherfield Park. Given his vow, this time they had together was the most for which he could ever hope. He must shore up his moments with her to carry him through his days.

Darcy waited with Bingley and Hurst as Fletcher carved the gathered men into some semblance of order. Those from Netherfield Park he bid finish their meals and enjoy their lagers, but to return soon to take up their duties. To those others gathered, he offered free food and drink throughout the night if they kept looking, and put Sir William in charge.

So it was the four of them rode directly to the stable and unsaddled their own mounts, brushing them down before trudging up the walk. They went around the house to the front but, to Darcy’s surprise, the door didn’t open at their approach. He hadn’t seen the elderly butler in the village. Hadn’t thought the man was part of the search party.

Bingley opened the front door to eerie silence. Within, darkness triumphed between thick fingers of slanting orange sunlight. Darcy took a step back and craned his neck, looking upward.

“The windows are dark,” Fletcher said quietly, mimicking him.

Dread uncoiled in Darcy’s gut.

“Why are no candles lit?” Bingley demanded, stepping inside.

Darcy winced. Bingley hadn’t used a loud voice, but his normal volume sounded like a shout, seeming to echo in the vaulted entry hall.

Hurst and Fletcher exchanged a look. Fletcher nodded, slipped his Barlow out of his pocket, and flipped open the blade. They both stepped around Bingley and started down the hallway, one to each side. At each opening, they ducked in, then returned. Leaving the front door open for light, Darcy followed. After a moment, Bingley, too, began to move.

He came up beside Darcy, asking, “What is going on? Why is the house dark? Where is everyone?”

Darcy shook his head. He kept his pace slow, giving Fletcher and Hurst time to range out in front of Bingley and his loud whispers, but wanting to keep them in sight in case they found trouble.

Given the quiet in the house, trouble began to feel inevitable.

It wasn’t until they were nearly to the kitchen that Fletcher dipped down to touch something on the floor. He raised his finger, showing Hurst, but Darcy saw it too. A dark smudge, thick, and red. Fletcher pulled free his handkerchief and wiped his hand.

“Is that blood?” Bingley breathed, fear finally muting his voice.

Hurst pointed, directing Fletcher’s gaze, and Darcy could make out more drops. They led up to the kitchen door. After exchanging a look, Hurst and Fletcher burst into the room.

Darcy lengthened his stride to catch up, nearly running as he skirted the drops of blood. He pushed into the kitchen.

Orange rays filtered in the back windows and a banked fire glowed in the grate, the sun’s glow streaking copper pots and pans. Darcy blinked in the sudden brightness, a far cry from the corridors with their unlit sconces. Hurst and Fletcher stood by the kitchen table, looking down, both unnaturally still. With a strangled sound, Hurst staggered back until he came up against the wall, his face sheet-white.