His eyes fell on the disorder around them—a wreckage of scattered papers and overturned volumes. If only he could recoverthe letters Lady Catherine had held over his head, he might finally have some measure of peace.
“I can tell what you are thinking,” the colonel said gravely. “Anne is perfectly healthy, I grant you.”
“I am sure she is.” Darcy’s gaze remained fixed on his glass, though his tone carried little conviction.
“Then why are you so concerned? Something troubles you—I can see it.”
“Our aunt was brutally murdered. Is that not reason enough? What I cannot fathom is whyyouappear so unconcerned about the entire affair.”
Fitzwilliam let out a scornful chuckle. “If you wish to accuse me of being thankful she is gone, then I am guilty as charged. Yes, I celebrate that we are finally rid of the old shrew. But if you are implying that I had anything to do with her death, then you do not truly know me.”
“All I know is that her death occurred at a most expedient time.”
“What do you mean?” the colonel asked, brow raised.
“Do not think me blind to the attachment that has so conveniently blossomed between you and Anne these past weeks. For years, she followed you like a lost puppy, and you scarcely paid her any heed. And now, with her inheritance imminent, your affection for her has grown noticeably.”
The colonel smirked and emptied his goblet in one gulp. “I concede the point. Perhaps I would not care for her so much if she were not so rich. My situation is not yours, Darcy—I do not possess your financial independence. I must marry someone of fortune, and Anne is as good a candidate as any rich heiress—and she is more interesting than those insipid women of theton.”
“She truly cares for you. You should not toy with her feelings, especially not in the wake of her mother’s death.” Clearly, the colonel’s motives were more pragmatic than passionate.
“I understand. That is why I kept her at a distance all these years, hoping she would outgrow her infatuation. But as she grew older, I began to consider her a possibility. I merely relied on your ability to dodge Lady Catherine’s demands until she came of age to inherit.”
Darcy regarded him with scepticism.
“And why areyousuddenly so interested in her well-being? You never cared for Anne. In fact, you barely paid any attention to herthese past years.” The colonel’s tone shifted, growing more defensive and less accommodating. “Why this sudden desire to revisemyfeelings towards her? I sense an ulterior motive here, Darcy. You seem too eager to incriminate me. Perhaps by accusing me, you hope to absolve yourself of guilt?”
“Why would I need absolution? Absolution from what?” Darcy cast him a dark stare.
“You too benefit from our aunt’s death. Perhaps not monetarily, but you enjoy the tranquillity it brings. I am certain she was using every possible method to secure a marriage between you and Anne—hurling every dirty secret at you as a threat. And she must have found one particularly damning, judging by how altered you have been these past days.
“What is it, Darcy? Some mistake of the past you regret? Some misconduct you concealed from us? Or was it something more? Did she have you at her mercy at last?” Fitzwilliam’s voice dripped with cynicism.
“And that would have ended your hopes of becoming the master of Rosings, would it not?” he snapped, the stress and pressure of recent days finally catching up with him.
The colonel sprang to his feet, the chair scraping noisily against the floor. For a moment he loomed, menacing, before raking a hand through his hair as if reconsidering. “Good grief, Darcy, even in death she is making us miserable. I cannot believe we are accusing each other of her demise.”
“We both shall be facing a harsher inquisition when a coroner arrives, I grant you,” Darcy said with a sombre mien. “Mr. Bevan may have ruled us out after brief questioning, but a more experienced official will not be as benevolent.”
Fitzwilliam chuckled with scornful amusement. “The poor wretch almost fainted when he saw Lady Catherine’s body. And his questions to the servants! How can a magistrate be so inept?”
Darcy exhaled, rubbing his temples. “His inexperience is regrettable, but it changes nothing. An investigation, no matter how flawed, will still proceed.” He met his cousin’s gaze pointedly. “And as you have noted, everybody is a suspect.”
“And that includes me.”
He offered no reply, simply glared at his cousin.
Indignant, Fitzwilliam strode towards him, fury in his eyes. “You hypocrite! Swear to me that you never entertained the idea of killing her, Darcy—swear it!” When Darcy remained silent, his cousin laughed. “I thought as much. Believe me, if I am ever accused of this murder, I will ensure you suffer the same fate.”
With that final remark, the colonel stormed out of the room, nearly colliding with the parson waiting outside the door.
Chapter 10 – Unacknowledged Truths
Elizabeth’s visit to the drawing room was not as brief as she had intended. The chamber lay nearly dark; the night footman who usually tended the candles was nowhere in sight, and a single taper flickered on the mantel, casting long shadows across the furniture. She groped about until she found the dreary volume she had abandoned earlier, but even holding it in her hand confirmed how little she wished to resume it. The whole business of death and inheritance weighed too heavily upon her mind for such poor diversion.
A sound in the main hall made her pause. Footsteps—slow, deliberate—echoed across the marble floor. Relief fluttered through her; surely Mr. Darcy had quitted the library at last. Seizing the chance, she stepped out, only to glimpse Mrs. Jenkinson’s candle vanish round the landing of the staircase above her. Shaking off the image, Elizabeth returned to her purpose. Believing the library now deserted, she turned with quiet resolve towards the heavy door, intent on securing a more tolerable book.
She pushed the door open—and stopped short. Mr. Darcy was still within. He stood by the fireplace in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, a glass of port in hand, papers strewn across the desk behind him. Firelight carved his features into shadow and severity, and the deep furrow of his brow spoke of a turmoil she had no wish to confront.
