Page 6 of In Want of a Suspect
“He didn’t say.”
Darcy didn’t prod her, which Lizzie appreciated. She didn’t volunteer the information that Jack Mullins wanted her to find the person, but Darcy was no fool. He simply shook his head and said, “Let’s see if I can hail a hackney.” But the rain seemed to have driven everyone indoors, for he was unsuccessful, even the closer they got to Cheapside. And so they trudged in the rain, silent, until they finally arrived at the top of Gracechurch Street, and Lizzie paused to say goodbye. Darcy was normally quite the gentleman and would insist on seeing her to her door, if not inside, but ever since her mother had taken note of Darcy’s and Lizzie’s unconventional business partnership, she’d not let up about when Darcy was going to start formally courting her. Try as Lizzie might to persuade Mrs. Bennet that there was a difference between courtship and a working relationship, her mother failed to see it. And so they’d taken to parting up the street, out of view of the Bennets’ front window.
“You won’t do anything rash, will you?” Darcy asked.
“Me? Never.” But she couldn’t stop thinking about Jack’s words—you have to find the woman who killed my brother.They stirred up questions inside of Lizzie that wouldn’t be silenced easily.
Darcy’s smile was more of a grimace. “Well, if you shouldchange your mind, then you know where to find me.”
She was too tired to even protest, but she did impulsively grab his hand and pull him close to her. She brushed her lips on his cheek in a chaste peck. “Thank you for today,” she said.
Darcy’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but a small smile appeared on his lips. “Next time, we’ll take my carriage.”
“So you admit there will be a next time.”
“With you? There’s always a next time.” And before Lizzie could say anything more to that, he tipped his hat and said, “Good evening, Miss Bennet.”
“Good evening, Mr. Darcy,” she said with a chuckle, and turned to make the short walk to her front door.
As she let herself in and fended off her mother’s cries of dismay at her bedraggled state, Lizzie thought about Jack’s peculiar request. She considered every angle as she bathed and attempted to scrub the scent of smoke from her hair. She ruminated on how one might connect arson with murder charges as she tossed and turned that night in bed. She thought about it so much that even the ever-patient Jane rolled over after the clock struck four and said, “Honestly, Lizzie!”
The following morning, she was weary and still brooding over the question of arson and Jack Mullins while mindlessly buttering some toast when a knock came at the front door. Lizzie, her younger sisters, and her father all looked up in surprise.
“Who could that be?” Lydia demanded.
“Maybe it’s Dar-cy!” Kitty sang, widening her eyes comically in Lizzie’s direction.
Lizzie threw down her napkin. “Not this again.”
“Ooh, is it Darcy?” Lydia asked. “Has he finally come to ask Papa—”
“It’s not Darcy,” Mary announced, leaning back in her chair to look out the window. “This fellow is shorter.”
“Is he handsome?” Lydia jumped up from her seat and was followed by Kitty to the window, where they both peeked shamelessly through the curtains. “Lizzie, have you thrown over Darcy because he refuses to propose?”
“I haven’t thrown him over!” Lizzie glared at her youngest sister as she stood. “And who says I want Darcy to propose?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Girls, come away from that window,” Mr. Bennet said, also standing. “How about I put us all out of our misery and go answer the door?”
“I’ve got it, Papa,” Lizzie assured him, and rushed out into the hall. She beat even the housemaid to the door, and threw it open to reveal Jack Mullins.
He was dressed in fresh clothes that fit him poorly, and his skin had a gray pallor that suggested he’d not gotten much sleep since she last saw him. Despite her request that he call on her, she hardly expected that he’d call so quickly—and at her home, not at Longbourn.
“Mr. Mullins!” she exclaimed, then stepped aside. “Please, do come in.”
“You called me Jack yesterday,” he said quietly as he entered the home and removed his hat.
“Yes, well... yesterday was an unusually terrible day.” They’d called each other by their Christian names when they were following his father’s business partner around London, trying to discover his plot. It had felt natural to call him Jack in the chaos of yesterday; but in the cool, pale light of morning, standing in her own foyer with her sisters and father in the next room, Lizzie fell back on formalities.
“Lizzie, who is this?” her father asked, attempting to sound gruff and not quite managing as he entered the hall and firmly closed the dining room door on the eager and curious faces of Mary, Kitty, and Lydia.
“Papa, you remember Mr. Mullins?” she asked, cringing at how high her voice sounded.
“Of course, of course,” her father said, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“Less than pleasurable circumstances, I’m afraid,” he said. “May we speak?”