T he following day, Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam sent a note to Colonel Forster, requesting that Lieutenant Wickham pay a covert call to Netherfield—preferably in a manner that would avoid attracting the attention of Miss Bingley, the servants, or the increasingly nosy Hursts.
Darcy stood with his arms folded near the hearth in one of Netherfield’s smaller drawing rooms, watching as the colonel paced in long, measured strides.
“I still say we should have chosen to meet in the stables,” the colonel muttered. “Fewer rugs at risk.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “I should like to conduct exactly one clandestine meeting in my life that does not smell of horses.”
Before the colonel could reply, a soft tap tap-tap came at the window.
They both turned as the glass wobbled slightly in its frame.
A moment later, the sash inched upward, groaning in protest, and Wickham clambered inside with considerably less grace than expected. One boot caught on the sill; he stumbled forward with a muttered curse and landed with a thump against the wainscoting.
“Not quite as easy as it looks in novels,” he grumbled, straightening his coat and brushing off his breeches.
The colonel gave a dry look. “And yet, you managed to make an entrance worthy of theater.”
Darcy, arms still folded, said only, “You are late. And why are you not using the door?”
Wickham smirked. “Had to convince a chambermaid I was sneaking out, not in. You would be surprised how quickly panic sets in when you are seen climbing over hedges. And we are supposed to be feuding, remember?”
“Lieutenant,” the colonel said sternly, “you were not asked to come here in order to provide us with entertainment.”
“I gathered as much from the death glares. I would not have thought you to be so sensitive, Colonel, as to still hate me for the time I bested you in poker when we were fifteen.” Wickham’s easy smile faded as he took in their solemn expressions. “Well, I can see that this is not a social call, although I should have surmised as much when you asked to meet clandestinely. What, precisely, am I here for, then? Am I being arrested?”
“Have you done something that merits an arrest, Georgie-boy?” The colonel’s teeth gleamed in a feral grin.
“No,” Darcy said shortly. “We need your help.”
Wickham’s amusement faded. “Go on.”
Fitzwilliam stepped forward, voice calm but firm. “We believe the man who killed Mr. Smithson is still in the area—and that he may strike again. Your presence here, your history, and your argument with the victim all make you…convenient.”
Wickham blinked. “You suspect me?”
“No,” said Darcy quickly, then added more carefully, “but others might. And that’s what we want to use.”
“You want me to be your scapegoat?”
The colonel crossed his arms. “We want you to be our distraction. If the real killer believes you are under suspicion, he may drop his guard.”
Wickham tilted his head, thoughtful. “What about Colonel Forster? What if I am arrested?”
“He has been made aware of the situation,” the colonel said. “You will be protected, but you must also play your part convincingly.”
There was a long pause, then Wickham slowly exhaled as he dropped into a chair. “Very well, I will do it.”
“You will?”
The look of consternation on the colonel’s face was so comical, Darcy could not help but smirk. “I told you, Colonel—he says he has changed, and I believe him.”
“Now I am not saint, mind you,” Wickham protested in mock outrage, “but murder? And of a man who was attempting to harm children? That is worth the discomfort and rejection I will encounter here.”
“Darcy has offered to compensate you for your troubles,” the colonel replied, ignoring Darcy’s surprise.
“I have?”
“You have?”
Darcy and Wickham spoke in unison, then snickered at each other in a way that made Fitzwilliam shake his head and mutter. “Thick as thieves, just like before. But yes, Darcy has. Think of it as a charitable donation to the cause of national security.”
Darcy gave him a flat look. “You are very free with my purse.”
“I learned from the best,” the colonel quipped. “My father is much the same way.”
Wickham leaned back, arms crossed behind his head. “Well, then—I expect at least enough to cover the cost of a new coat. If I am to be the tragic villain, I ought to look the part.”
“Villainy suits you,” the colonel said, deadpan.
“I will take that as a compliment.”
Darcy shook his head but could not suppress the ghost of a smile. “You will need to be cautious, though. The real killer is out there.”
Wickham’s smile faded. “I will, Darcy. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For trusting me. For putting your faith in me. For allowing me to prove myself.”
Speechless, Darcy could only nod in reply.
“Now, now, enough sentiment, else you will have me weeping.” Fitzwilliam pretended to wipe a tear from his eye, and Darcy scoffed. “We are all in agreement. You, Wickham, will continue as you are—but allow yourself to be seen with a troubled conscience. A few pointed conversations, a little brooding, some remarks overheard by the right ears.”
“And you lot?” Wickham asked.
Darcy folded his arms again. “We will handle the rest.”
There was a beat of silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire.
“Well,” Wickham said at last, rising to his feet, “if I am to be your sacrificial lamb, I had best go practice looking guilty.”
“Try not to use the window this time,” the colonel muttered.
“No promises.” Wickham gave them a jaunty salute and slipped through the side door with theatrical stealth.
Darcy waited until the door closed before turning to his cousin. “Do you think it will work?”
Fitzwilliam’s face was solemn. “It had better.
∞∞∞
As soon as a note arrived from Netherfield informing Elizabeth that Wickham had consented to be a false suspect, Elizabeth began her part in the process. As she paid the usual calls with her mother, she dropped little tidbits of information meant to throw suspicion on Wickham. She could only hope that when everything was resolved, the neighborhood would forgive him.
“Lieutenant Wickham seemed quite unsettled at the card party,” she remarked to Lady Lucas. “He said Mr. Darcy’s and his cousin has long harbored resentment toward him. Some childhood grievance, I believe.”
To Mrs. Long, she added in a quiet aside, “It is odd, is it not? Mr. Smithson said he was here about insurance, and Mr. Wickham told me that the reason he had to take a position in the militia was because the property insurance company was delaying repayment at his place of employee. I wonder if there is a connection…” Her voice trailed off and she gave the elder woman a knowing look.
And when Mrs. Goulding tutted over rumors of misbehavior among the officers, Elizabeth nodded solemnly. “It is all so unsettling. I suppose we must take care whom we trust—charming men in red coats are not always what they seem. Mr. Wickham, for example, is almost too good to be true.”
At home, she made sure that Benjamin was never left unattended. If he was not in her arms, he was with the nurse and an additional maid. She spoke with the servants and told them that between the murder and the increase in strangers from London, she was worried about all of their safety and asked them to increase their vigilance. She also asked them to be in pairs at all times; no one was to be left alone.
And always, Elizabeth listened—at the milliner’s, at the butcher’s, in the drawing room when the ladies gathered for tea. She took every scrap of gossip, every whispered tale of debts and odd behavior, and filed it away for Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam.
∞∞∞
As Elizabeth sowed her seeds of doubt, the colonel began the painstaking process of interviewing each soldier under the guise of assisting the magistrate. He wore his uniform for these visits—neat, unadorned, and unmistakably authoritative. It granted him instant deference, and even the most unruly recruits stood at attention beneath his cool, appraising gaze.
Darcy assisted his cousin, writing down what each man said as they answered Fitzwilliam’s questions. They began with the newest arrivals to the regiment, calling them in one by one under pretense of helping the local magistrate sort out conflicting accounts of the morning in question. His questions were delivered with calm precision: “Where were you posted? Who saw you? Did you notice anyone acting strangely, either that morning or since then?”
Most of the men, unnerved by his rank and clipped manner, answered promptly. Captain Carter had been leading drills. Lieutenant Denny had been supervising several new recruits in their morning run.
A few stammered. Poor Chamberlayne could scarcely speak from nerves.
One, a soldier nearly as handsome as Wickham, attempted to lie about being asleep in his tent, though he had really been with the blacksmith’s daughter.
And one tried to flirt.
The last earned him such a withering stare from Darcy that he nearly saluted the gentleman twice out of confusion.
Darcy and Fitzwilliam recorded every inconsistency, every hesitation. They asked after friendships, petty grievances, even debts. When a few men began to mention they had heard Wickham quarrel with Mr. Smithson in the weeks prior, the colonel merely raised a brow and nodded, making note—but gave no indication of whether it was new information or something long confirmed. Darcy would make a sour face at each mention of Wickham’s name, helping further along any suspicions.
It was clear that the rumors Elizabeth had begun were making their way through the ranks, but the process of eliminating suspects was much slower than Darcy and Fitzwilliam would have wished. After three days of being no closer to Le Corbeau than before, they accompanied Bingley to Longbourn, discouraged.
The only one who had given Colonel Fitzwilliam any feeling of true unease had been Captain Carter. The man had greeted them with a small smirk, as if he knew of some private joke. But as the officer had been witnessed by dozens of men running drills all morning, Fitzwilliam had not choice but to cross him off the list of suspects.
Mrs. Bennet greeted them with unusual restraint—though her eyes sparkled when she mentioned the approaching ball, which was only a few days away—as the gentlemen were ushered into the drawing room. The three elder Bennet girls were sitting with their mother, each holding a piece of mending.
Elizabeth rose at once, and Darcy’s heart lightened at the sight of her. She glanced meaningfully towards the window and said, “Would any of you gentlemen care for a walk? The weather is unusually fine today.”
The three men accepted with alacrity, and Mrs. Bennet ushered Jane and Elizabeth out to accompany them. Mary was told to go as well, but she was obviously reluctant to go out in the cold weather. As they left the drawing room, Darcy saw Elizabeth whisper something to her middle sister, who gave her a grateful hug and dashed up the stairs.
“I told Mary she could hide in her room instead of coming out with us,” Elizabeth explained as they made their way out the door and into the side garden. The chilly winter breeze tugged at her shawl, and the dying sunlight cast long shadows across the grass. “She would usually give me a lecture on honoring our parents, but she has the headache today and was grateful for the reprieve.”
“It is quite in our favor,” Darcy replied, “as it will allow us to speak openly.”
Elizabeth tugged her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “How are things progressing with the soldiers? Has your batman gained any usual information from any of the servants?”
“We were able to confirm that your uncle was indeed home all morning of the murder,” Darcy said, “but other than that, I am afraid our efforts have yielded little fruit.”
“We are running out of time,” Fitzwilliam said flatly. “I have questioned nearly one hundred soldiers and officers, and I cannot swear to a single one’s innocence—nor can I say which man, if any, is our target.”
“Is there a deadline?” Elizabeth asked.
“I only worry that the longer it takes, the more desperate Le Corbeau will become.”
“Then we need to draw him out,” she replied, her voice steady.
“But how?” Darcy asked, punctuating his question with a cough.
The three fell silent for a time, then Elizabeth said at last, “Let us think on it tonight. If you will call tomorrow, perhaps we will have come up with an idea.”
“Very well. We will attempt to have Bingley call with us, but we may not be able to do so. His sister has been quite overset with preparations for the ball, and as tomorrow will be the day before, he may not have the liberty to leave.”
“Poor Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth murmured.
“Poor Mister Bingley,” Fitzwilliam said with a laugh. “He has my full sympathy. I would sooner face a French firing line than cross a woman in the throes of party planning.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Then I pray the French do not attack before the Netherfield ball—else we may all be undone.”
The colonel chuckled, but Darcy’s gaze lingered on her, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Let us hope for a quiet night.”
∞∞∞
Elizabeth lay staring at the canopy above her bed, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the ceiling. Sleep remained elusive. Her thoughts chased each other like foxes—swift, tangled, and relentless. Somewhere across the room, Kitty snored softly, the wheeze of it punctuated by a catch in her breath that had returned with the first frost. She always coughed more in winter.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, willing herself to calm, to quiet her mind as the clock in the hall chimed two o’clock in the morning.
It was no use. She could not sleep. How can we draw out Le Corbeau?
The question haunted her, but no answer came.
The only ideas she had come up with all involved using Benjamin as some sort of bait, but she refused to even contemplate the notion. Intentionally putting any child in danger was nothing short of reprehensible to her.
But she could think of nothing else.
She rolled onto her side and tried to focus on something else.
Mr. Darcy’s face came to mind—drawn, weary, pale beneath the early winter sunlight. He had tried to hide it, but she had seen the way his shoulders slumped slightly, the way he rubbed at his chest when he thought no one noticed.
He had coughed again that afternoon, twice during their conversation, and each time she had bitten her tongue to keep from suggesting they move indoors or offering him a warmer coat. She wanted to scold him for pushing himself, to press a hand to his brow and insist he rest.
But it was not her place.
If only it could be.
She wanted it to be.
The thought made her still. Slowly, it settled over her like a hush in a church. She did not merely admire him. It was not gratitude for his kindness, nor sympathy for his burdens, nor the thrill of his admiration that made her chest ache when he looked at her.
It was love.
Quiet, fierce, unshakable. The kind that crept in when she was not watching, that wove itself into her thoughts until she could not imagine a day without them.
I am in love with Mr. Darcy.
With that certainty came a longing so deep and burning so brightly, she had to close her eyes against it. She longed for the right to worry over him, to care for him without restraint, to share in his struggles and ease his burdens—not as a friend, not even as a confidante, but as his partner. His equal. His wife.
If she were his wife, then that afternoon she could have sent him to the fireside and demanded he stay there until his lungs were soothed and his color returned. She could have fretted over him without worrying about being too forward or unladylike.
But instead, she was left with silence and shadow and all the proper distance society required.
She sighed and pulled the covers higher, trying to settle herself.
Then she paused.
A scent.
Faint, but there— foreign and musky, not the usual sharp tang of pipe smoke from her father or the faded rose water the maids favored. It was a man’s scent, and not one she recognized.
A muffled thump echoed above her, and her blood ran cold.
Benjamin!
She bolted upright, her heart hammering. Without thinking, she snatched her parasol from the corner and crept to the door, easing it open.
The hallway was quiet.
Too quiet.
She moved quickly and silently up the servants’ stairs to the third floor. As she reached the landing, another soft thud made her breath catch in her throat.
Then, from within the nursery, a low rustling sound.
She flung the door open.
Moonlight spilled across the room through the open window, catching on the edge of the cradle. The maid and the nurse lay motionless on the floor, and a tall, dark-cloaked figure stood just beyond the cradle, reaching down toward it.
Something primal surged up in her chest.
She screamed—a ragged, guttural sound—and charged.
The man spun, startled, just in time to raise his arms as she swung the parasol with all her strength. The crack of wood on his forearm echoed through the room.
He stumbled back.
She struck again.
And again.
And again.
Her arm ached, her breath ragged, but she would not stop.
He caught the end of the parasol at last, and for one terrifying moment, they struggled for control. Then came the thunder of feet on the stairs and shouts echoing up the hall. The man’s head whipped toward the door.
His eyes—pale blue and furious—met hers for a heartbeat.
Then he turned and dove through the open window.
“No!” Elizabeth rushed forward, reaching the sill just in time to see—
Nothing.
The yard below was empty. No body. No figure running. Nothing disturbed.
He had vanished.
She stared into the dark, wind stinging her face, her knuckles white on the windowsill.
How did he get up three stories without a ladder? How did he get down ? Where did he go?
Behind her, a footman rushed into the room. “Miss Elizabeth?” he asked, gaping around the room from her at the window to the fallen nurses on the floor.
His voice broke through her foggy mind, and she realized that Benjamin was screaming from his bed. She rushed over to the cradle and snatched him into her arms, frantically checking him for injury.
He was fine.
Angry at be awakened so harshly in the middle of the night, but unharmed.
She let out a slow breath of relief and held him tightly to her as more servants swarmed in the room, along with her father. Mr. Bennet began barking orders for Mr. Jones to be summoned, as well as a magistrate. He then moved to his daughter’s side.
“Elizabeth, what on earth is going on?”
“There was someone in the nursery,” she choked out. “He tried to get to Benjamin.”
Mr. Bennet’s face was pale white. “Why on earth would someone do that? What in heaven’s name is going on? First the Gardiners, now us…”
Elizabeth bit her lip, and Mr. Bennet’s face grew severe. “Elizabeth Rose, you will tell me what you know this instant.”
She hesitated. “Papa… I… I cannot. At least, not right this moment. Could… could you send a note to Netherfield for Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy? They can explain things better than I can.”
His frown deepened. “You mean to tell me that two wealthy, single young men know more than I do of a matter that involves my household—my daughter —and you say that I must consult them ?”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. She had never seen her father so angry before.
“Please, Papa,” she whispered. “I cannot—”
Her voice broke, and her eyes filled with tears as the sheer magnitude of what had occurred caught up with her. His face softened, and he sighed heavily. “Very well, my dear. I will send them a message immediately, demanding their presence here as soon as it is light. But be assured that I will get answers, Elizabeth.”
“Yes, sir.”
He sighed again. “Now, you ladies all return to your beds. Mr. and Mrs. Hill can manage the servants, and I will send for Sir William.”
“Are they… are they dead?” she asked, craning her head to look past her father at the nurse and maid on the ground.
“Looks like a blow to the head each,” Mr. Hill said from his position on the floor, examining them. “But they are both breathing.”
“Send for Mr. Jones, then,” Mr. Bennet said. “Now, Lizzy, put Benjamin back in his cradle and return to your room.”
She clutched the crying child tightly to her chest. “I cannot leave him! It is not safe, especially with Nurse and Sally unconscious.”
He frowned. “Very well. Have Jimmy move the cradle to your room for the night. He can stay with you until we get it all sorted out. I will have Jimmy stay outside your door until your friends from Netherfield arrive.”
She nodded in agreement, and Jimmy—the burly footman who had been the first to enter the room—came to her side.
“What is this?” he asked, looking inside at the bedding.
He held something up, and Elizabeth let out a horrified gasp.
It was a single black crow feather.