Page 1 of A Matter of Murder
One
In Which Lizzie and Darcy Arrive at Netherfield Park at Last
“Oh, Netherfield Park at last!” Mrs. Bennet cried as she stepped out of the carriage that had come to a stop in front of the elegant manor house. She clasped her hands beneath her chin as she took in the sight. “I never thought I’d see the day!”
Miss Elizabeth Bennet stumbled out of the carriage after her mother, tripping over her small dog, Guy, as he made his own hasty escape. Mr. Darcy’s strong hand was there in an instant, steadying her as she regained her bearings after six hours of travel. Sixinterminablehours, during which her mother had barely stopped talking long enough to take a breath. Darcy squeezed her hand gently and gave her a subtle wink, as if he knew that she had been contemplating throwing herself out of the moving carriage just before Netherfield Park came in sight.
She rolled her eyes slightly, then turned to her mother and whispered, “Mama, please!”
But Mrs. Bennet was unperturbed. “Three stories, Lizzie!Have you ever seen such a large and distinguished estate? And to think, my Jane is the mistress of it all!”
Lizzie stepped forward so that Darcy could offer a hand to her best friend, Miss Charlotte Lucas, who alighted from the carriage far more gracefully than Lizzie had. Charlotte came to stand by Lizzie and murmured, “Well, itisimpressive, you have to admit.”
Netherfield Park announced itself with towering ionic columns, and the entrance was large enough to drive a phaeton through. It was palatial compared to the town house on Gracechurch Street that the seven Bennets—and Guy—shared. Well, six Bennets now that Jane had married Mr. Bingley and left the family home for good.
“It’s very large,” Lizzie conceded. She wasn’t one to be carried away by extravagance, but she was finding it hard to be impervious to the grandeur of the estate when it belonged toJane, her sister who had, up until very recently, shared a bedchamber with her.
Darcy, however, did not seem fazed in the least. “It’s very well appointed.”
“Well appointed?” Lizzie repeated incredulously, but she didn’t get a chance to say more, for the front door was thrown open and there was Jane herself, coming to greet them with Bingley by her side.
“Mrs. Bingley!” Mrs. Bennet shouted, and fell upon her daughter, kissing and hugging her as though it had been years and not six weeks since Jane’s wedding.
For this display of emotion, Lizzie couldn’t exactly fault her mother—she had missed her older sister more than she had thought possible. She was thrilled for Jane, and a bit in awe of the wealth she now possessed. It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving person. However, not a week after her nuptials, she and Bingley had departed from London, creating a distinct, Jane-shaped hole in Lizzie’s everyday life.
Mrs. Bennet finally released Jane and moved on to Bingley, and it was Lizzie’s turn to fling herself at her sister, no more gracefully than her mother had. Jane was radiant—she wore a new dress of cream lawn, and her cheeks were pink, and her curls appeared extra bouncy. Lizzie was achy, sweaty, and dusty after such a long day, but Jane embraced her just as fiercely. Her sister smelled familiar—violet water and fresh linen, but now there was another crisp scent under that familiarity, something that smelled refined and expensive.
“I’ve missed you,” Jane whispered in her ear.
“And I you,” Lizzie said. “Come back to London.”
Jane just laughed as she released her. “I think you’re going to love it here, Lizzie. This old house is full of so many rooms, you couldn’t even begin to imagine.”
Bingley also turned to Lizzie and greeted her with an enthusiastic grin. “Jane said that prying you and your father away from your work would be quite a Herculean task, so don’t think we don’t appreciate your sacrifice.”
“I would do anything for Jane,” Lizzie told him, “even spend a summer in the countryside.”
Her bright smile couldn’t quite hide her sarcasm, however. While it was true that she had missed her sister, and she would most certainly have dropped everything if Jane had called, this summer sojourn had not been her idea—she’d been strong-armed into it, and the chief perpetrator of such strong-arming had been none other than Darcy himself.
Darcy, for his part, looked utterly oblivious to her frustration. When she glanced over her shoulder, he was greeting Jane with the utmost civility. Anyone else might have thought he looked a bit on the dour side, but that was just his permanent expression these days.
The last time Lizzie remembered seeing him truly smile was after solving the case of the Mullins Brothers’ storehouse fire three months earlier. Not only had they discovered the true reason for the fire, but they’d unspooled a smuggling ring, stopped an innocent young lady from marrying a true villain, and uncovered a Crown secret. To be sure, it had been aminorsecret, and the Crown’s emissary had made certain that they wouldn’t be able to brag about solving the case, but it had still been a success.
The only dark spot, of course, had been Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
It still gave Lizzie chills to think that the woman was at large, and responsible for yet another murderous plot. Even more so when she thought about how that plot had included her own kidnapping. But Lizzie had been able to push aside her fears and lingering questions and bask in the satisfaction of another case closed, with Darcy by her side.
Until the first letter had come.
It had been delivered to Longbourn & Sons a week after the conclusion of the case. It arrived on a creamy expanse of parchment, lavish in its wastefulness considering the brief message it contained:
You’re clever, but not as clever as I.
She’d known who it was from, even without a signature, and she’d shown it to Darcy, naturally. And her father. And Charlotte. And, well... everyone, really. She wouldn’t admit it now, but receiving a letter from the woman herself had sent a thrill up her spine not unlike the one she’d felt when she’d first heard the news that Charles Bingley had been hauled off to Newgate for murder. Or when Jack Mullins had grasped her hand and had told her his storehouse fire was arson.
“She’s taunting you,” Darcy had said.
“Baiting,” Mr. Bennet corrected as he studied the missive. “She wants to see how you’ll react. You mustn’t give her the satisfaction.”