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“You see it too, then?” Sir William asked.
“It has been cut,” Darcy said, and both Fitz and Sir William nodded grimly.
“Where did you discover it?” Fitz asked, his voice unnaturally calm.
“Conveniently handed to me inside a bonnet owned by Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” was the reply. Sir William held Darcy’s gaze. “The man who left it had said he found it alongside, and Mr. Wickham was kind enough to imply it belonged to Mr. Darcy.”
Fitz began an angry protestation, but Sir William held up his hand. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr. Wickham himself has declared his disdain for Mr. Darcy, and I do not believe in coincidence. If Mr. Darcy had been struggling with Miss Elizabeth, the button would have been pulled away and the thread would be frayed, not cut.” One corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “I believe I know enough of Miss Eliza to be certain she would never be accosted without mounting a vigorous defense.”
Darcy recalled that Elizabeth’s vigorous defense had required a leap from a moving carriage. It was remarkable she had not been more grievously hurt.
“Further,” Sir William continued, “this is clearly the button of an evening jacket. When Mr. Darcy left Netherfield, he was in his riding clothes.”
“You saw me leave?” Darcy asked, startled out of his stoicism.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet was standing at the window. Not her normal position during a ball.” Sir William lifted two bushy eyebrows. “I saw Mr. Darcy leave.”
Fitz sighed, but Darcy could not bring himself to care. He abhorred disguise, and Fitz had forced this one upon him.
“Slipworth remained to pack my things,” Darcy said seriously. “He was sure that all the buttons were on the jacket after he had brushed it, but it would have remained out of the trunk until the last, to be placed on top.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “He secures every one of them as though they are worth a king’s ransom. Whoever it was could not have pulled it off, not quickly. He would have to cut it.” He was silent as he worked this over in his mind. “The Bingleys would not have chanced leaving their guests until the last family was gone, and Slipworth would have been up quite early.”
Sir William nodded. “Might there have been another man in the house, someone who knew you had gone?”
Darcy shared a look with Fitz. He had wondered the same. Might someone other than the Bingleys have witnessed the failed compromise? Been a part of it? He had not seen anyone, but it had been dark enough that the Bingleys had not noticed Elizabeth until she announced herself.
A shadow fell upon Sir William’s face as he asked, “Given that these items were located together . . . I should like to know, gentlemen, whether you might have seen my daughter’s friend Miss Eliza Bennet in town. I know London is a big place, but certainly Mr. Darcy would have called on such an acquaintance. Perhaps he mentioned it?”
Darcy knew he should not say anything in response to the older man’s inquiry. He was the magistrate, and a clever one. It might be a trick, and it was certainly a risk to answer. But Elizabeth trusted this man, in some ways even more than her own father. He had spent the past week trusting no one but Fitz, refusing to say anything about Elizabeth’s plight to anyone who did not already know, and what had that achieved? After he delivered Elizabeth’s note to Mr. Bennet, he suspected Sir William would be told in any case. More to the point, Elizabeth would not wish Sir William to continue to fear the worst. Although he could feel Fitz’s glare boring into the side of his face, he nodded and said, “I have seen her myself, sir. She sends her regards.”
Sir William’s face paled as he asked, “She is well?”
Darcy coughed. “She is recovering.”
Fitz stood abruptly and began to pace. His cousin would likely have his head, but Darcy could not regret watching Sir William’s anguish fade.
“That was not the expectation, then?” Sir William asked flatly.
“We do not believe so, no.” Darcy confirmed.
The man released a breath and gestured to the button in Darcy’s hand. “So, Colonel Black,” he said grimly, “who wants to see Mr. Darcy hanged for her murder?”
Darcy closed his fist around the button and thanked God that Sir William was exactly the man Elizabeth believed he was. “That,” he told the older man, “is what we are here to learn.”
Sir William dropped himself into the chair behind his desk. “There were a great many new faces at the ball,” he said thoughtfully.
Fitz offered the description of the two men who had accosted Elizabeth.
The older man shook his head. “There was no one in the ballroom with hair as light as you have described. He sounds quite distinctive. As for the second man, there were at least half a dozen men at the ball who were not from the neighborhood and had the same sort of looks.”
“Might you have noted anyone acting oddly?” Darcy asked.
Sir William leaned back and cast his eyes to the ceiling. “Mr. Bingley was restless. He left the ballroom before supper, which I found strange.” He was quiet, thinking. “He poured himself a cup of punch when he returned and took up his duties as host.”
“Did he speak with anyone you can recall?” Fitz inquired.
“Everyone,” Sir William replied. “As host, he spoke with everyone.” His bushy eyebrows pinched together.
“Perhaps we ought to think about those with whom he did not speak,” Darcy said. “Perhaps there was someone with whom he would not wish to be connected?”
