“I am only angry,” he said quickly, “and determined to prove who is guilty and haul him before Mr Birch.” The truth of the murder was one thing, but he did not want to confess his feelings about it, even if he had little hope of concealing them.
“If we found Carew’s ring amongst their things, would that be enough for the magistrate?”
He noticed her use of “we” and found it a relief. “I searched their rooms this morning before we left for Dovedale.” He had the right to search any room in his house, so long as he did not break open anything that was locked. “Balfour has a lockbox, Utterson a trunk, but there was nothing I saw that was out of place to my eye.”
“And nothing was stolen from the village since Colonel Fitzwilliam set up a night watch?”
He shook his head, running a hand across his eyes. “No one stole anything last night whilst they were at Lord Poole’s, and no one left the house tonight. I think we need not continue the watch. Fitzwilliam intends to check the pawnshops in Matlock and Buxton tomorrow for anything recognisable and ask if new pawners have been in.”
Elizabeth frowned in thought. “They both were gone from Pemberley the morning Carew died. Someone must have seen them.”
“They bothclaimedto be gone, but everything had been in disarrayhere, and I and the servants were always going in and out of the house. His gaming friends in Buxton might lie for Balfour or Lord Poole might lie for Utterson. I cannot rely on that.” He felt the agitation, the frustration, building in his chest again. “Once I have anything to bring before the magistrate, then he can compel witnesses to testify in court. Until then”—he sighed and took her hand again—“I need proof, something specific, before I go back to Mr Birch.”
She traced her thumb along the back of his hand. “Who do you think it was?” she whispered.
“It is hard to accept either of them stole valuables and”—he swallowed—“killed someone over them. Money must be the motive, but both men still receive some monies from their fathers. Balfour will inherit, and Utterson will become a barrister.”
“I wonder if Mr Utterson is best qualified for that species of business.”
Darcy considered it. “He might know that he is not, and might be in want of money so he can spend like he thinks the son of a baronet should since he cannot earn a great income by his profession.”
“Mr Utterson seems to have clearness and quickness of mind, but he can sometimes be unjust or unkind.”
“And Balfour talks a great deal, and always with animation. But does being affable make him less likely to be guilty? Does Utterson’s resentful and ungracious nature make him more likely to be guilty?”
Elizabeth looked as though she wished so much that this was a question she could answer.
“Balfour cares deeply about reputation and appearances,” he finally said, “and wants to spend, but his father limits him.”
“That sounds like Mr Utterson as well.”
He nodded, staring at the space on the desk where the other taperstick should be. “This is why I need proof.”
“I know we shall find it.” She forced him to meet her eye and gave him an earnest look. “You will either catch them in the act when they are tempted again, or the pawnbroker will have information you can take to the magistrate.”
Darcy pressed a kiss to her hand as a thank you, and she surprisedhim by slowly lifting off the desk and settling gently on his lap. “Is this good?” she whispered.
He rested his hands on her hips, and she gradually brought hers to his shoulders. He nodded as she pressed her forehead to his, and he closed his eyes. Before he could enjoy the sweet, tight tension that was threatening to overtake him, she said, “I wish you would talk about it with me.”
“What more is there to say?” he asked, opening his eyes. “I need proof, and I will soon have it.”
Those large dark eyes of hers, that often judged so well, were giving him an expectant look. “One of your friends stole from your tenants and killed someone. You might not have the words to explain it, but you cannot hide from me how hurt you are.”
One of her hands had moved behind his neck and was brushing through his hair. It was such an intimate gesture, with her sitting in his lap and looking at him as though nothing in the world mattered more than what he was about to say. “I have plenty of words—sorrow, regret, rage, grief—but none of them properly express my feelings about this sickening betrayal.”
“It is a betrayal you could never have expected.”
He exhaled and looked directly into her eyes. “It is my fault. Whoever it was, they were my friend. I invited him into my home, trusted him, introduced him to my sister. It is my fault Molly Carew is dead, my fault that her father broke down in his parlour and had to build her coffin, my fault that?—”
“It is not!”
“I am responsible for a killer being welcomed at Pemberley.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “You were deceived, everyone was deceived, and no one could have known Mr Balfour or Mr Utterson was capable of such a thing. It is a betrayal of trust, of the bonds of friendship.” Her fingertips were still absently stroking his neck. “You must be suffering so much.”
“I had to drive home with Balfour with my sister and Utterson with you with the knowledge that one of them could murder you.”
“That was not going to happen in an open carriage?—”
