Page 55 of In Want of a Suspect

Not now, he reminded himself.

Darcy wound his way through the files, starting at theBs. He got toBitely, Johnbefore realizing that any files regardingJosette and her grandmother wouldn’t be underBeaufort, but underCavendish, her grandmother’s name. Cursing his lack of focus, he moved on to theCs.

Of course, there were more than a few Cavendish case files, and none of them were labeledCavendish, Amelia. They all had male names attached to them. “Albert, Frederick, George, Matthew, Phineas, Reginald,” he muttered as he paged through them all. But no Amelia. What the devil? Was her case file missing? Perhaps someone else had pulled it? He glanced at the log near the door, where every clerk was supposed to record whichever file they had removed from the room, so as to keep track of them all. Perhaps it was listed there?

Then, he heard Lizzie’s voice in the back of his head saying,It’s absurd, really, that a woman gives up everything, even her name, when she marries.

Of course! How stupid of him—they rarely labeled case files under women’s names if they were otherwise attached to a male. He pulled all the Cavendish files and set them down, and began to page through them. UnderCavendish, Reginald, he found what he was looking for: a sheet of paper with the man’s information. Name, address, business contacts, and family members. Wife: Amelia Cavendish, née Holt. A copy of the burial register from the week she’d died was the next document and, next to her name and date of burial, the cause of death was listed: “rheumatism.” The six-month anniversary of her death would be next week.

But other than that, the file was empty.

That couldn’t be right. He went through all the otherCavendish files, in case someone had made a mistake in filing, but there was nothing else there. Then he began searching the files in the drawer nearCavendish, Reginald’s file, but nothing turned up.

Where were the wills? The business contracts, the insurance policies, the years’ worth of history and paperwork?

He stalked over to the records logs and paged through them slowly, going back seven months—before the date of Mrs. Cavendish’s death—but there was nothing to indicate that the files had been removed.

Which meant that someone must have taken them.

But why?

Tomlinson was a brute to him, and he was clearly drunk with power. But Darcy had never seriously thought that he was anything more than a bully who enjoyed making a privileged son feel small when his father’s back was turned. What if he was responsible for something more nefarious? Lost files, unhappy clients... was Tomlinson trying to hurt the firm?

Darcy turned to the door and wrenched the door handle, but it didn’t budge. Immediately, panic closed around his throat like a vise. He twisted the knob, but the door wasn’t locked—it simply wouldn’t move. Something was blocking it on the other side.

Darcy shoved his entire weight against the door, but it was to no avail. Someone had trapped him in. From the other side of the door, he thought he heard the sound of footsteps, and he knocked on the door and called out, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

No answer came, and try as he might, he couldn’t hear anymore sounds beyond the door. He was stuck for the second time in this blasted room, and panic made his heartbeat gallop. Was this some kind of joke? A prank? Or was it a punishment?If I catch you slacking off or sneaking away one more time, I’ll lock you in here myself, Tomlinson had said. Darcy hadn’t thought he’d literally lock him in the office overnight.

He looked at the lamp, which glowed brightly, and took deep, even breaths. Already the walls around him felt too close and tight now that he knew there was no way out. He tried to think of Lizzie, when they’d been trapped in this room in total darkness and they’d loathed each other but her hand found his in the dark and she had calmed his nerves.

Oh, Lizzie. He wished she were here now to distract from the panic that was crawling up his body to grab him by the throat. He could imagine her now saying,At least we’ve got a lamp this time.Or,What secrets do you suppose we’ll find in these files? Who shall we look up first?Or maybe even simply,Someone at Pemberley really ought to reconsider the design of this room.

He choked on a small bit of laughter. Many horrible situations were much improved upon with Lizzie’s presence, or even just the thought of her. He could only hope that she felt the same way, although there was still that niggling, uncomfortable feeling that she wished to keep him as far away from her mother as possible. Would his absence be a worry or relief for her this evening?

The lamp flickered, and he noted with unease that it would not likely last the next hour. He settled himself on the floor,leaning against the closed door. Thoughts of Lizzie had distracted him momentarily from his panic. He tried to recall every detail of her appearance, catalogue each of her smiles.

If she was embarrassed about her mother, then he simply had to tell her that it didn’t matter. If she was worried about what her father might say, then he’d tell her he’d do whatever Mr. Bennet required to gain his approval. Darcy didn’t care what Tomlinson thought, what his own father thought—his life was far more interesting with her in it. A fair bit more complicated, too, but Darcy didn’t mind that. He’d once thought that in order to be successful, he had to be proper and follow the rules. That he had to stick to the path laid out before him by his father. But that path held no temptation for him now.

What was the law without justice? And what use was all his training if he never showed any bit of curiosity about the cases presented to him?

What good was life without Lizzie in it?

The lamp went out suddenly, and in the inky darkness, Darcy laughed. Not with panic or nerves, but with genuine surprise. Because it was only in the dark of the records room that he was finally able to see what was obvious.

He was in love with Lizzie Bennet.

It was Randall who let him out the following morning.

Darcy had fallen asleep at some point and he came awake slowly to a filmy gray light and a very sore back and bottom. Heheard the murmur of voices beyond the door and as he scrambled to his feet, the door swung open.

“Sir? I mean—Mr. Darcy?” Randall asked, bewildered.

“Randall!” Darcy dusted himself off, as if it were perfectly natural for him to be trapped in the room at such an early hour.

“There was a chair wedged against the door, sir. Did you spend the night here?”

“I did indeed, Randall, but no matter—what time is it?”