Page 70 of In Want of a Suspect

Tomlinson wasn’t there! That was the first bit of luck Darcy had had in a while. “I’ll be quick,” he promised.

Recognizing he’d get no better opportunity, Darcy walked toward the office, keeping his head down. From his pocket, he withdrew his key. It was the same that let him into the records room, but it was also a master key that opened even office doors. He’d never abused the privilege of carrying this key before and he could only imagine his father’s horror at finding out that Darcy had used it to enter the office of another employee—a superior!—to rifle through his paperwork.

But Darcy didn’t hesitate to insert the key into the lock and open the door.

The office was dim, with only a bit of daylight coming in through the drawn curtains. Darcy closed the door behind him, eyes searching for a place to start. The desk held a mountain of paperwork, and there were filing cabinets against the back wall. Darcy decided to start there.

None of the files were labeled, however, which meant that as Darcy paged through the folders he had to open each one and scan the documents within to get a sense for what they were. He kept his eyes open for the names Amelia or Reginald Cavendish, Josette Beaufort, even Leticia Cavendish, but found nothing. A voice inside him that sounded suspiciously like Lizzie whispered,Hurry.

He shifted his focus to the desk. This was more precarious.If he moved any of the files, Tomlinson might suspect that someone had been in here poking about. Darcy tried to memorize the exact position of the piles before he reached for the first file, but quickly realized how futile it was. He was in too much of a hurry. He’d have to just try to be careful.

The files on the desk were mostly familiar. Insurance claims, a libel case he was on, new business contracts, a loan agreement he’d reviewed last week. He even picked up a stray letter that appeared to be from Mr. Tomlinson’s mother in Milnthorpe—he caught a glimpse of a sentence that read “proud you are making something of yourself” and an entreaty to come visit before he tossed it aside as well.

This was useless. If Tomlinson was keeping files in his office that should be in the records room, then where would they be? Not on the desk. Anyone could come into the office at any time and lay eyes on anything that was left out. No, these files would be hidden.

He moved to the drawers of the desk, testing each of them. There were six, and five of them slid open, revealing various tools, nibs, jars of ink, and bundles of letters. But the bottom right-hand drawer was locked.

Darcy cursed, not even wasting his time on the other drawers. The lock was too small for his master key. He cast about the room, looking for any place that might be a hiding spot for a key but to no avail. Besides, if this drawer held very important documents, Mr. Tomlinson wouldn’t be as careless as to leave the key in his office.

There was nothing to do but pick the locks.

Marianne Dashwood had given them a lesson once. Lizzie had been rather enthusiastic about it, and Darcy had barely paid any attention because gentlemen did not pick locks. But today was proving to be the exception.

Darcy grabbed Mr. Tomlinson’s penknife and slid it between the drawer and its casing. It was a rather crude and rough way of breaking the lock, and a distant part of him realized there was no going back now. He was going to scuff the wood and possibly break the lock, and Tomlinson would know someone had broken in. He might even suspect him. But Darcy didn’t care anymore.

Click.

The lock gave and Darcy yanked the drawer open.

There weren’t very many files in the drawer, which surprised him. But the very first document he picked up was the last will and testament of Mrs. Amelia Cavendish. Excitement coursed through his veins as he thumbed through the rest of the documents. It was here! It was all here and...

He came across a letter with a broken seal.

A letter addressed to Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.

August 23, 18—

Cavendish House

Dear Mr. Darcy,

I hope you can forgive an elderly lady for the impudence of writing you when a handful of years have passed since we were last acquainted. I write not for myself, but the sake of mygranddaughter Josette. Despite the fact she has turned down your offer of marriage, Josette assures me you remain honorable. I know my days are near their end. Very soon my affairs will be exposed by solicitors and creditors, and all my secrets will come to light. I do not fear for this, except in one matter that I entrust to you. It is my hope that you still care for Josette enough to protect her future.

As you are likely aware, my daughter, Anne, Josette’s mother, fell for Joseph Beaufort, a Frenchman who visited London before the Revolution. I was against their marriage, as was my husband, but she eloped with him to France. In the weeks following the news of the Revolution, we had no word, no address, and no reason to believe that she was safe. Joseph’s family was nobility, and we feared the worst. I was so disheartened that my son, Jacob, became determined to travel to France and discover the fate of his sister. It was dangerous and his father tried to dissuade him. I, to my everlasting regret, did not. I hoped he would defy the odds and both of my children would return to me safely.

But months passed without a word, then years. By then my husband had passed and I had very little hope I’d ever see either of my children in this life. Five years passed, and one day a man arrived on my doorstep with a little girl who was a mirror image of my Anne. The girl, as you may have guessed, was Josette, and her guardian angel was Dupont. He was Joseph’s dearest friend, and he bore the tragic news of Joseph’s and Anne’s deaths, but he also brought their daughter to me, and for that I am eternally grateful, and I immediately gave him employment.

Josette, as you likely have inferred, has lived a difficult life.She speaks little of the things she saw before she arrived in London. Dupont has told me about my daughter’s life in France and her last days, and I believe that she was too ashamed of her elopement to return home to us when circumstances in France became dangerous. That, too, is a regret I carry to my grave. But Dupont also told me of Joseph’s family, particularly of his brother François, who had a girl of his own, just a little younger than my Josette. They were close as children, and I knew that Josette missed her cousin and worried about her as she grew older. It was an ache that I understood well, and Dupont convinced me it was one that I could do something about.

Not long after your attachment to Josette ended, Dupont received word from friends in France that Leticia was still alive. With my blessing and full support, he left London to retrieve the girl. To Josette’s everlasting joy and my eternal relief, he was successful. He returned with Leticia within a matter of weeks, and I agreed to shelter her.

But given the popular opinion toward the French and Napoleon’s encroaching war, Josette and I recognized that introducing Leticia to society was, in its own way, a risk. Not to mention, her status in London was precarious as a French citizen, and with the increase in anti-French sentiment, we worried about her becoming detained, or worse, deported. It was becoming increasingly evident that Leticia would not allow herself to be pushed aside or hidden away—you will see what I mean when you meet her. And so we concocted a story, only slightly less scandalous than the truth. We said that Leticia was the illegitimate daughter of Jacob and awoman he met on his ill-fated journey. We said that I had long suspected I had another grandchild, but I had lost track of her and her mother in the ensuing war. We said that she had surfaced and had proven to my satisfaction that she was kin, so she was granted the safety of British citizenship. It was only a matter of planting a few well-placed rumors and soon the entire ton accepted the story. If anyone doubted it, then Josette was able to convince them with the level of affection and sisterly care she shows her cousin.

Which brings me to the reason for my writing. Everyone will assume that I have amended my will to include Leticia, for they all know her as the daughter of my only son. But I fear doing so would prompt a probe into her parentage and a close inspection into Leticia’s past would ruin her reputation, and Josette’s—she is a devoted cousin, and she will not cut ties with Leticia. Therefore, I am not leaving Leticia anything, and I need a solicitor who understands the delicate nature of this unique circumstance.

Leticia will not dispute the will. Josette does not need the law to do right by her cousin, so you should not worry there. My only concern is that recently Leticia has attached herself to a young man—she thinks I do not know, but although I may struggle to grip a pen or soupspoon these days, there is nothing wrong with my eyes. I’m sure she’ll have confided in Josette, but I fear I have too little time to properly meet her young man and ascertain that he can be trusted with our secret. If he is an honorable gentleman, then he shall make her very happy. If not, then I fear he cannot be trusted—and under no circumstances should he learn that Leticia shall have no inheritance from me.

I am entrusting you, Mr. Darcy, to see to these affairs. You remind me of my Jacob, and I was very happy to see you and Josette together for the short time you enjoyed each other’s company. I am very sorry it did not lead to a union, but I hope that even after all this time, you still care for her well-being. She will need someone she can trust in the coming weeks.