D arcy stood at the hearth in Bingley’s study at Netherfield, one hand braced on the mantel, the other loosely holding a glass of brandy he had yet to taste. He and Colonel Fitzwilliam had sought refuge there after returning from Longbourn to Miss Bingley histrionics at the new of her brother’s courtship.
“Courtship?” she had repeated, her voice rising so sharply it could have shattered the decanter. “With Jane Bennet? But Charles, you hardly know her! We have only just arrived! You cannot be serious—this is absurd—utterly absurd!”
Bingley, to his credit, had stood his ground, even as Caroline had fluttered and wailed, demanded and wheedled. When that failed, she had turned her gaze on Darcy, appealing to him with wide, desperate eyes.
“You must speak with him—reason with him! He cannot mean to entangle himself so irrevocably with that family. Her mother is intolerable, and her youngest sisters are barely out of the schoolroom! And as for Jane—yes, she is pretty, I grant you—but that is hardly the foundation for marriage. Surely you agree!”
Darcy had not answered. He had simply raised a brow and glanced at the colonel. That, more than anything, had seemed to rob her of further breath. By the time he had excused himself from the room, Darcy was left with a pounding headache and a renewed appreciation for Longbourn’s chaos over Netherfield’s civility.
“Do you think she will send for smelling salts next?” the colonel had whispered with a smirk on their way to the study.
The woman’s shrieks had finally died away, and the only sound was the fire crackling behind him. The day’s ride and outdoor conversation had once again inflamed his lungs, and the warmth of the blaze was insufficient to thaw the cold that had coiled tight in his chest.
He stared at the flames, but his mind was on Elizabeth. She deserved answers. She deserved peace. She deserved a life untouched by foreign assassins and burnt-out nurseries and men with too many secrets. And yet, what had he offered her? Suspicion. Danger. A dying man’s blood soaking through her dress. The memory of her trembling, fingers slick with red, refusing to let go.
He squeezed the glass in his hand, jaw tightening.
“Your Miss Elizabeth really is quite remarkable,” the colonel said from behind him, voice low, contemplative.
Darcy did not turn. “She is.”
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the fire and the soft clink of Fitzwilliam setting down his glass. Then: “You love her.”
It was not a question.
Darcy closed his eyes.
He had tried to deny it—to reason it away as admiration, as concern for a woman caught in an unfortunate circumstance. But every time she walked into a room, his breath caught. Every time she spoke with fire or wit or stubbornness, his chest tightened—but not in the way it used to when his lungs failed him. This was different. This was... devastating .
And still, he said nothing.
“You do,” the colonel murmured. “God help you.”
Darcy turned then, one corner of his mouth twitching. “It is far too late for divine intervention.”
Fitzwilliam huffed a dry laugh. “Does she know?”
“I imagine she suspects something.”
He looked back at the fire, then added under his breath, “Though I may have lost any chance I had, after today.”
“You have not.” The certainty in the colonel’s voice surprised him. “If you had, she would not have listened as long as she did. And she certainly would not have let you walk beside her.”
Darcy ran a hand through his hair. “You saw how angry she was—how fiercely she defended her uncle, how mistrustful she became.”
“Because she cares .” The colonel stepped beside him, folding his arms. “You are not a stranger, Darcy. You matter to her. That’s why it hurt.”
Darcy set the glass down on the mantel with more force than necessary. “Enough. We have more important matters to tend to then gossiping like women about my feelings.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam did not flinch. “Right, then. Murder.” He moved to the writing desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper and uncapping a small pot of ink. “Let’s begin.”
Darcy joined him, pacing slowly as his mind turned. “We start with the obvious—who would want Smithson dead?”
The colonel nodded. “The first suspect, naturally, is Mr. Gardiner. He had motive—the boy was in his home. Means—he was in Meryton. And opportunity.”
“I dislike it,” Darcy muttered. “Everything I have seen of the man suggests intelligence, calm judgment, a good head for business. Not the sort to resort to violence.”
“If we are to conduct a proper investigation, he must be on the list.”
“Very well,” said Darcy reluctantly. “I supposed we must also have Wickham on there, then.”
The colonel crossed his arms. “He was in London during the fire and here for the murder.”
“As were half the people currently in Meryton, including the regiment.”
“We cannot dismiss him out of hand.” The colonel added Wickham’s name beneath Mr. Gardiner’s.
Frowning, Darcy said, “I suppose the biggest problem we have is not that there are too many suspects, but too many possible motives. Was Smithson killed because of his facade as an insurance agent or due to his real occupation?”
The colonel looked up sharply. “You think a French agent did it?”
Darcy nodded. “Smithson was the only link between Denisse and your office. If Napoleon’s men discovered he was investigating the fire, or if they learned he had found the boy…”
His cousin was already writing. “Unknown French operative. Potentially a revolutionary loyalist—someone who would recognize Denisse or her mission.”
“It may not have been a foreigner,” Darcy added. “There are enough desperate men flooding into the militia—unvetted, displaced. Wickham himself said as much.”
“Then we add another category,” the colonel said grimly, dipping his pen. “Militia member—possibly a traitor, or an opportunist.”
Darcy exhaled. “We know Smithson bled heavily. He was injured on the path near Longbourn. Elizabeth found him barely alive.”
“Meaning the killer did not finish the job—or did not have time,” the colonel sat back. “Which could imply it was done in haste. A crime of opportunity or desperation. Not premeditated.”
Darcy’s expression darkened. “Or it could mean someone was watching. And ran before they could be seen.”
There was a long silence between them.
At last, the colonel tapped the quill against the desk. “So. We have four categories: Mr. Gardiner, Wickham, a foreign agent, or a disreputable militia man.”
He frowned. “This is far too vague.”
Fitzwilliam did not argue. “It is the best I could do on a first pass. We do not even know who was in the area that afternoon, and with the militia swelling from the influx of displaced men, half the new officers barely have names that can be verified.”
Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose. “This will not do. There are too many unknowns—and we cannot go about interrogating everyone in Meryton.”
“No,” the colonel agreed, “but with your lady love’s help—”
“ Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy corrected quietly, though without heat.
Fitzwilliam raised a brow, then smirked faintly. “Miss Elizabeth’s help, we may begin to eliminate some names. Servants hear things. Gentlemen confide too freely when ladies are present. I have seen more plots unraveled by drawing room gossip than through official channels.”
Darcy folded the list and placed it on the desk. “Tomorrow, Bingley and I can introduce you to Sir William Lucas and Colonel Forster. If you are to investigate discreetly, you will need their blessing. Then we will return to Longbourn to update Miss Elizabeth and come up with a more concrete plan.”
Fitzwilliam stood and refilled his glass. “And our charming hostess?”
Darcy stared into the fire. “She may rail all she likes. Bingley has made his intentions clear, and as for me—I am too weary to indulge her dramatics.”
Just then, a sharp knock at the study door drew their attention.
“Enter,” Darcy called.
It was a footman. “Miss Bingley requests the honor of your company in the drawing room, sir. She has prepared a whist table.”
Darcy’s lips thinned. “Tell Miss Bingley that I regret I am occupied with affairs of great import.”
The servant looked as though he had been sentenced to the guillotine. “Very good, sir.”
As the poor man withdrew, Fitzwilliam let out a bark of laughter. “You are going to be in her black books for a week.”
Darcy ignored him. “My valet can question the servants quietly. Your batman can listen among the grooms and stable hands, and you can also speak to the soldiers. Miss Elizabeth and I can keep to the drawing rooms.”
The colonel gave him a sidelong glance. “You certainly picked a capable partner, Darcy.”
Darcy looked away, toward the window where the last threads of daylight faded behind the trees. “She did not choose me. Not yet.”
∞∞∞
Elizabeth lay curled beneath her quilt, the fire in the grate nearly out, its glow reduced to soft embers that pulsed dimly across her ceiling. The house had quieted at last, but sleep would not come.
Her limbs ached with weariness, her bones heavy with the strain of a day that had offered both joy and dread in equal measure. And yet it was not the murder or the mystery that filled her thoughts—it was Mr. Darcy.
She could still feel his gaze on her when he had told her she was one of the most intelligent women of his acquaintance. Still hear the quiet assurance in his voice as he had said she had done exactly the right thing. Still feel the weight of his hand covering hers as they pressed against the dying man’s wound—how warm, how steady he had been in the chaos.
Did he care for her? Truly? Or was it only gratitude? Admiration for her composure? She hardly knew how to trust her own thoughts where he was concerned. That man—so cold and aloof when first they met—had become someone else entirely in her estimation. Someone strong. Quiet. Principled. Someone who listened. Someone who cared.
And yet… how could she allow herself to feel anything, when her world had tilted so sharply?
Her eyes drifted closed at last, her head sinking deeper into the pillow. But peace was not to be found.
The memory of Smithson came unbidden—the terrible, wet rasp of his voice, the blood pooling beneath him, the weight of his body as it slumped in her arms.
Tell the raven it was the crow.
The words echoed in her ears again, and her eyes flew open.
She had meant to ask. She had meant to ask the colonel what it meant—what he thought the message could be. But with all the talk of espionage, of Benjamin, of suspects and schemes and shifting loyalties, the words had slipped from her mind.
She sat up slightly, heart pounding. Tell the raven it was the crow.
They meant something. They had to. A message from the last breath of a man who knew he was dying was no empty poetry. Who or what was the raven? The crow? Were they names? Code names? Enemies? Allies?
She shivered and lay back down, drawing the blankets up tightly beneath her chin. The fire was nearly dead now, and the chill had crept into the room, but it was not the cold that made her tremble.
She would ask. Tomorrow. First thing.
She closed her eyes once more, but sleep came slowly, and her dreams were tangled with wings and smoke.
∞∞∞
It was early still, the pale autumn light filtering weakly through mist-hung trees as Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam rode through the quiet lanes toward the militia encampment. Frost clung to the hedgerows, and the breath of their horses rose in white plumes as they trotted along the rutted path.
“Charming countryside,” the colonel remarked, adjusting his reins with gloved fingers. “Peaceful. One would never guess a murder and an international scandal are quietly brewing beneath all this pastoral calm.”
Darcy did not reply. His gaze was fixed ahead, jaw tense, his mind already on the task before them.
The encampment lay just outside Meryton, still partially shrouded in morning fog. They found Colonel Forster near the officers’ tents, in the midst of directing the day’s drills. The moment he spotted them, his stern expression shifted to one of polite curiosity.
“Mr. Darcy!” he said in surprise. “What brings you here so early? You are not joining the militia, I trust?” His smile widened in jest, but then his eyes shifted to the colonel, noting the scarlet of his coat, the bar of rank at his collar, the composed military air—but with no spark of recognition.
Darcy dismounted and handed his reins to a waiting lad. “Colonel Forster, may I introduce Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam of the Regulars—currently attached to the Home Office. He is also my cousin, and he has requested an introduction.”
Colonel Forster blinked, then gave a hasty salute. “Begging your pardon, Colonel. I did not—well, I did not realize.” He straightened his posture at once and added with a hint of flustered pride, “It is an honor, sir, to meet a man whose reputation so precedes him.”
The colonel returned the salute with ease, his tone cordial but businesslike. “Thank you, Colonel. I am afraid this is not a social call. We had hoped for a few minutes of your time in confidence.”
“Of course,” Colonel Forster said at once. “Come with me, please.”
He gave a few orders to a nearby officer, then motioned the gentlemen to follow him into a large nearby tent. Once inside, he brushed off a thin layer of chalk dust from the edge of a rough-hewn table and gestured for them to sit. “You will forgive the disarray—we are preparing to receive more men. There is a great influx lately. Half of them without even proper references, I am afraid.”
Darcy exchanged a glance with the colonel. “We will not take long,” Darcy added. “We have reason to believe that recent events in the area—particularly the incident involving Mr. Smithson—may not be entirely disconnected from certain... more sensitive matters.”
Colonel Forster’s brow rose. “Indeed? I had wondered about that business. The magistrate has been quiet about it, which I suppose is no surprise. The man was an insurance investigator, yes?”
“That was the impression,” Darcy said carefully. “But there may be more to it than that.”
The colonel stepped in, his tone easy but edged with intent. “I serve with the Crown—unofficially, you understand. There is a possibility Smithson was acting in a capacity far more delicate than insurance.”
Colonel Forster blinked. “Good Lord. Do you suspect espionage?”
“We do not know yet. But we are gathering what information we can, as quietly as possible. To that end, I hoped to gain your permission to observe and inquire discreetly among the officers. Nothing official. Just a few quiet conversations and a bit of listening.”
To his credit, Colonel Forster did not balk. He looked between the two men, then nodded. “I do not like the thought of spies—or murderers—in my regiment. You may speak with whom you need, but be subtle about it. And let me know if you find anything concerning.”
“Thank you for your understanding,” the colonel said graciously. “Not every officer is willing to doubt the men under their command.”
Colonel Forster straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest at the compliment. “My loyalties are to my country first. Although to be entirely honest, before the London Fire, I would have balked at the request. But with so many new soldiers who behave as less than gentlemen…”
“Precisely,” Darcy chimed in. “With the growth of militia members, it makes security difficult.”
“That it does.” Colonel Forster’s mouth tightened. “They send me a list of names, and I do what I can, but the paperwork is patchy—especially after the fire. A number of men lost their documentation. There is no time to investigate every one of them thoroughly. Most are just trying to get work. Some… I wonder about.”
The colonel inclined his head. “But remember,” he said sternly, “this is to be kept in the strictest of confidence.”
“Absolutely,” Colonel Forster said. “What explanation should we give the men?”
“Perhaps we tell people that my cousin has been asked to look into the matter as a matter of routine,” Darcy suggested. “As London is still in disarray and the military has been asked to restore order, the murder of an insurance agent could fall under that purview.”
“Very good,” Colonel Forster said. “I may even hint at how nice it must be to be the son of an earl and able to stay at a manor for the investigation. That will make it seem as even less important.”
“Excellent plan, so long as the men are ordered to cooperate,” the colonel replied. “Additionally, if you could spare a reliable sergeant or lieutenant—someone discrete and absolutely trustworthy—I would like to use him to perform introductions and report on any suspicious movements among the men. Nothing formal, just… observations.”
Colonel Forster nodded. “I have a man in mind. Loyal as the day is long. He will say nothing to anyone, and he’s been with me long enough to know who talks too much and drinks too hard.”
“Perfect,” Fitzwilliam said, rising.
Colonel Forster walked them to the door, his expression grave. “If this truly is a matter of espionage, Colonel, then you have my full cooperation.”
Darcy extended a hand. “Thank you, Colonel. We will speak again soon.”
“And remember, Colonel, that this is up the utmost secrecy,” Colonel Fitzwilliam added. “There are only three men in Meryton who are aware: myself, my cousin, and now you. If word of this gets out, I will know its source.”
Darcy gave Colonel Fitzwilliam a confused look but remained silent as Colonel Forster offered his assurances of discretion. After taking their leave, he waited until they were alone before saying, “Only three, Colonel? I believe you forgot a person who knows about the situation.”
“I said men ,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied, mounting his horse with deliberate nonchalance. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is not a man. And I very much doubt she would let me forget it.”
Darcy stared at him for a moment, then gave a short, dry laugh. “You’ve a dangerous habit of dissembling.”
“Dangerous is one word for it.” The colonel glanced sideways at his cousin. “One man down.”
“Now for the second,” Darcy said. “And a far more talkative one. You had best give him the same story that Colonel Forster will be putting out. I am a bit surprised you trusted him, to be honest.”
“I have my reasons,” the colonel said mysteriously. “I will follow your lead for the magistrate, though.”
The remainder of the ride to Lucas Lodge was made in silence. When they were shown into Sir William’s study, the garrulous man rose to his feet with pompous ceremony. “Mr. Darcy! What an honor, what an honor, to be one of the first to be introduced to your friend. And a colonel, no less!” He bowed deeply. “Allow me to welcome you to Meryton, sir. And may I say, you have the bearing of a man accustomed to command!”
The colonel, with practiced grace, returned the bow and offered a genial smile. “You do me too much credit, Sir William.”
“Allow me to present my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Darcy said dryly. “He is here to assist you in your investigation of the death Mr. Smithson.”
“Ah, capital!” This exclamation was accompanied by the slight dimming of Sir William’s smile as he was reminded of the sordid event. “The whole town is abuzz about the matter; having the presence of an officer to investigate—particularly one with such connections—will cause quite a stir.”
Darcy shared a look with his cousin, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. Sir William, oblivious to the undercurrents, gestured grandly for them to sit.
“I see what you mean,” the colonel murmured under his breath as they moved towards the chairs. “This will require a different sort of handling than Colonel Forster.”
Darcy leaned close, his voice wry. “You are about to learn that information flows two ways in Meryton—so be careful what you stir.”
With Sir William Lucas beaming before them and the scent of tea and pipe smoke thick in the air, Darcy settled in, bracing himself for the next round of diplomacy in waistcoats and smiles.
The real work, after all, was only just beginning.