“Tied with a pretty blue ribbon. I risked my life to retrieve them, not knowing what they were. Now I understand why you were so tense this Easter.” Fitzwilliam’s smile turned cruel. “I wager the old dragon was using them to compel you into something you had no wish to do. Quite the motive for murder, would you not agree?”
“You would use them against me?”
“Only if you give me cause.” The colonel shrugged one shoulder, as if it were of no importance.
Darcy’s jaw tightened. His cousin was testing him—taunting him. But this was not the place for confrontation. He was alone, surrounded by Fitzwilliam’s servants, in a house where every loyalty now belonged to the colonel. If he pressed too hard, he might not walk out unscathed. Fitzwilliam knew it—relished it—sitting there with his drink, toying with him like a cat with a trapped mouse.
It was time to attempt a different approach. “Let us leave the past behind. That is not why I have come.”
Fitzwilliam arched a brow. “No? Then what is it, cousin? You have never been one for pointless visits.”
“Your father is concerned. He has made inquiries—about the fire, about Lady Catherine’s death. I thought it prudent to speak with you first. To understand your position.”
The colonel’s expression soured. “If he was so concerned, he would have spared a moment to come here himself, to speak to his son and his ward. But I suppose we are not important enough to drag him from his golden throne.”
“You know that is not true,” Darcy kept his voice calm. “And I did not come solely at his bidding. I came to see if I could be of use, especially if you are required to return to your regiment. Rosings is in disarray. Managing it. . . Well, it could prove more demanding than expected.”
A slow smile spread across Fitzwilliam’s face, though his eyes remained sharp. “How thoughtful of you, cousin. But rest assured, I am more than capable of managing a house and a woman, though I admit the latter presents far greater challenges.
“Come tomorrow, and I shall show you just how well we are faring. We can ride to the mansion, and I shall share all the grand plans I have in store. Rosings Manor will stand proud once again.”
With a firm nod, Darcy agreed, fully aware that he was most likely stepping into a carefully laid snare.
***
Darcy arrived at the site at the appointed time in a rented phaeton driven by Ferguson. He met his cousin at the main entrance, and together they walked around the building. This was the first time Darcy had set eyes upon the manor since the fire, and the sight struck him like a blow. Everything was blackened by soot and ash, and the air was thick with the scent of charred wood and ruin.
His stomach turned. Visions of death and desolation rose unbidden: Collins swallowed by dark waters, the searing terror as he clung to a crumbling balustrade, convinced he too would be dragged to his death.
Yet, despite the tumult within, he proceeded with outward stoicism. The first stage of their tour carried a strange civility as Fitzwilliam pointed to remnants of the past, his tone tight, almost forced. Darcy kept the pretence, but beneath the surface, the ease of old companionship was gone. Nothing between them could ever be the same.
They entered through the ballroom and proceeded down the passage towards the grand staircase, which stood beside the ruined section of the house. A few wooden planks and scaffolding had been laid to permit safer crossing from one side to the other, and the structure appeared steady enough. No labourers were presently in sight.
It was time. There was no reason to delay this further.
“Enough of these games, Fitzwilliam. I want answers.”
The colonel’s eyebrows shot up before he chuckled. “What do you want to know? You have not asked anything yet.”
“You know what I mean. What happened to Lady Catherine? How Mrs. Jenkinson died. How the fire started. I want to know what happened here at Rosings. I want to know everything.”
Fitzwilliam studied him for a long moment, as if weighing the cost of what he was about to say. At last, he spoke.
“Anne did it. She killed her mother in cold blood while she slept. She kept her father’s letter opener in her rooms and used it to stab her. That thing was not even sharp. It was a bloodbath. You saw it.”
Darcy’s gut tightened. “When did hear you of it?”
Fitzwilliam ran his hand through his hair. “That same night. She came to my room. We. . . we were intimate. I was too drunk to realize what was happening until I saw her nightgown was soaked with her mother’s blood. She is truly mad, Darcy.”
He was still willing to give his cousin the benefit of the doubt, though the man’s entire manner had an air of performance. “Why did you not tell the truth? Why protect her?”
The colonel let out a sharp breath, his hands curling into fists. “I knew not what to do! I did not understand—truly understand—how unstable she was, not until recently. She is slipping further every day. More erratic. More demanding.”
With that, Darcy’s patience snapped. “So you chose to indulge her? Good God, Richard, youmarriedher! Are you so desperate for wealth that you would wed a madwoman? Cover up your own aunt’s murder?”
“You know nothing of desperation! Nothing of struggle!” Fitzwilliam threw his hands in the air. “You were born to privilege, to fortune—”
“So were you!” He shot back.
