Page 59 of Intrigue and Inheritance (Crime and Consequences #3)

Elizabeth had moved to Darcy’s side, her face pale but determined. “We must try to make her comfortable until the doctor arrives,” she said, though all three of them knew, from the terrible precedent of Lord Joseph’s death, that medical assistance would almost certainly arrive too late.

“Blankets,” Darcy instructed, and a footman hurried to comply. “And warm cloths.”

Lady Catherine’s body arched in another violent spasm, her breathing becoming a series of ragged gasps. The froth at her mouth increased, bubbling with each laboured breath, and her eyes began to lose focus, rolling wildly as the convulsions intensified.

“This cannot be happening,” Anne whispered, her voice barely audible over her mother’s agonised moans. “Not again. Not here.”

Mrs. Jenkinson pushed forward, thrusting her ever-present vial of smelling salts beneath Lady Catherine’s nose. “My lady! Breathe deeply, it will help!” Her voice cracked with distress, tears streaming down her thin face as she attempted, futilely, to minister to her patroness.

Lady Catherine showed no reaction to the pungent salts. Her convulsions were weakening now, but Darcy recognised this not as improvement but as the final stage of exhaustion that had preceded Lord Joseph’s death. Her grasping fingers loosened their hold on his arm, falling limply to her side.

“Catherine,” Lord Matlock said urgently, taking his sister’s hand. “Hold on. The doctor is coming.”

But Darcy could see that Lady Catherine was beyond hearing.

Her breathing had become shallow and irregular, her eyes unfocused, staring at nothing.

The froth at her mouth had taken on a distinctly reddish hue, bubbling with each laboured breath.

Around them, the guests had fallen into horrified silence, the only sounds Lady Catherine’s rasping breaths and Mrs. Jenkinson’s quiet sobbing.

With a final, shuddering gasp, Lady Catherine’s body went still. Lord Matlock pressed his fingers to her neck, then looked up at Darcy, his face ashen. “She’s gone,” he said simply, closing his sister’s staring eyes with a gentle hand.

The first clear sound to break the horrified silence was Anne’s soft gasp as her consciousness fled.

She crumpled, her knees buckling beneath her.

Mr. Hislop reacted with admirable swiftness, catching her before she struck the floor and lifting her slight form into his arms with evident concern.

“She has fainted,” he announced unnecessarily, his voice unnaturally loud in the hushed room.

“Take her to the blue sitting room,” Darcy directed, his voice steadier than he felt. “Elizabeth, perhaps you might...”

But he could not bring himself to finish the sentence, could not bear to send his wife away with Anne when every instinct screamed that she must remain within his sight, within his protection.

The realisation that someone had deliberately poisoned tea served in his home, tea that Elizabeth had poured, struck him with renewed force.

Had she been the intended victim rather than Lady Catherine?

Elizabeth seemed to read his thoughts in his face, for she shook her head slightly. “Georgiana and Kitty will attend Anne,” she said softly. “I should remain here until the magistrate arrives.”

His relief at her decision was profound and immediate. Georgiana and Kitty moved forward at once, following Mr. Hislop as he carried Anne from the room. Mrs. Jenkinson looked torn, glancing between her deceased patroness and her charge with undisguised distress before hurrying after Anne.

“My lord,” Darcy addressed Lord Matlock, who still knelt beside his sister’s body. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable in the library while we await the authorities?”

Lord Matlock rose slowly, his usual aristocratic composure shattered by grief and shock. “I cannot leave her lying here alone,” he said, his voice roughened with emotion. “It would not be fitting.”

“Of course,” Darcy agreed at once, understanding his uncle’s sentiment. “Then allow me to have a screen brought, and perhaps a chair for you to sit more comfortably.”

While these arrangements were made, Darcy turned his attention to the remaining guests, who stood in clusters around the room, their faces pale with shock.

The Barringtons clung to each other, Lady Barrington openly weeping into her husband’s shoulder.

Lord Shandly stood awkwardly near the pianoforte, his usual theatricality replaced by distress.

Mr. Townend had retreated to a window seat, his hands clasped so tightly that his knuckles showed white.

“I must ask that no one leave until the magistrate arrives,” Darcy announced, keeping his voice level with considerable effort. “I realise this is deeply distressing for all concerned, but given the circumstances, we must follow proper procedure.”

Lady Matlock stepped forward, her aristocratic bearing serving her well in crisis. “Naturally, we shall all remain as required,” she said, glancing around the room with quiet authority. “Perhaps some brandy might be appropriate, Darcy? For medicinal purposes.”

Darcy nodded gratefully, relieved that his aunt had taken charge of the guests’ immediate comfort. “Harrison, please arrange brandy for any who wish it.”

As the butler moved to comply, Darcy drew Elizabeth slightly aside, positioning himself between her and the rest of the room. “Are you well?” he asked quietly, searching her face for any sign of distress beyond the obvious shock of the situation.

“I am unharmed,” she assured him, correctly interpreting his concern.

He took her hand in his and squeezed it. Public displays of affection had never been his habit, but at this moment, the need to establish physical contact, to reassure himself of her safety, was overwhelming.

Harrison approached with quiet efficiency. “Mr. Hargreaves has been sent for, sir. He is expected within the hour. Dr. Winters has also been notified and should arrive momentarily.”

“Thank you, Harrison,” Darcy replied. “Please ensure that Lady Catherine’s teacup is preserved exactly as it was when she collapsed. No one is to touch it or remove it until the magistrate gives permission.”

“Already done, sir,” Harrison confirmed with the slightly affronted air of one whose professional competence has been questioned. “I have instructed the footmen to guard the tea service and allow no one to approach it.”

Darcy nodded, acknowledging the butler’s efficiency despite his own distracted state. His mind felt strangely divided, one part attending to the immediate practical matters while another circled around the horrifying reality: murder had been committed in his home. Twice. Under his very nose.

The drawing room door opened to admit Dr. Winters, his medical bag in hand, his expression grim but composed. He moved directly to Lady Catherine’s body, kneeling to make a brief examination before rising with a sombre shake of his head.

“I can only confirm what you already know,” he said quietly to Darcy. “Lady Catherine is deceased. From what Harrison has told me, the symptoms closely match those of Lord Joseph’s tragic end, though the coroner will need to give the official verdict.”

“Arsenic?” Darcy asked bluntly.

The doctor nodded. “Almost certainly. The characteristic froth at the mouth, the convulsions, the rapid progression... all consistent with a substantial dose of arsenic poisoning.”

“Administered via her tea?” Elizabeth asked, her voice steady despite the terrible implications of her question.

“Most likely,” Dr. Winters confirmed. “The speed of onset suggests she ingested a significant quantity. Tea would effectively mask both the appearance and taste of the poison.”

Darcy felt cold fury building within him as the doctor’s clinical assessment confirmed what he already knew.

Someone among their circle, perhaps someone still present in this very room, had deliberately added deadly poison to his aunt’s tea.

The same person, he felt certain, who had murdered Lord Joseph in identical fashion weeks earlier.

His gaze swept the room, studying each face with new suspicion.

Who among them had reason to wish both Lord Joseph and Lady Catherine dead?

What connection existed between the enthusiastic poet and the imperious dowager?

They had moved in different social circles, shared no obvious enemies or rivals, and so far as he knew, they had never even met.

The brandy Harrison had ordered was being distributed, and Darcy watched how each guest accepted or declined the offering.

Lord Matlock sat rigidly beside the hastily arranged screen that shielded his sister’s body, accepting a generous measure which he downed in a single swallow.

Lady Matlock moved among the remaining guests, gently providing what comfort was possible under such circumstances.

Harrison approached once more, his voice pitched for Darcy’s ears alone. “Sir, Mr. Hargreaves has arrived. He awaits your instruction in the hall.”

Darcy nodded, torn between relief at the magistrate’s prompt arrival and dread of the inevitable investigation that would follow. “Show him in. And arrange for a footman to stand at the door. No one is to enter or leave without my express permission.”

As Harrison withdrew to carry out these instructions, Darcy turned to Elizabeth. “I fear our home will once again become a scene of investigation,” he said quietly. “The authorities will be even more thorough this time, with two deaths so similar in nature.”

“As they should be,” Elizabeth replied, her eyes meeting his with unwavering resolve. “Whoever has done this must be found, Fitzwilliam. Not just for justice, but for our safety.”

Her use of his given name, rare in company, underscored the gravity of the moment.

Darcy felt the weight of responsibility settle more firmly on his shoulders: for his guests, for his young charges, for his beloved wife most of all.

Someone had transformed his home into something sinister, and he would not rest until that person was identified and removed from society.

“Mr. Darcy.” Mr. Hargreaves entered the drawing room, his grave expression indicating that Harrison had already briefed him on the situation. “I understand there has been another unfortunate incident.”

“Unfortunate is hardly the word I would choose,” Darcy replied grimly. “My aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, has been poisoned in precisely the same manner as Lord Joseph Sturt. I believe we are dealing with the same perpetrator.”

The magistrate’s eyes narrowed, taking in the screen that concealed Lady Catherine’s body, the shaken guests, the guarded tea service. “Then we must begin at once,” he said simply. “Every moment that passes diminishes our chance of discovering the truth.”

As the magistrate moved to examine the scene more closely, Darcy placed himself protectively at Elizabeth’s side.

The evening that had begun with the tension of Lady Catherine’s unexpected arrival had transformed into something far darker: a second murder, a confirmation that someone in their circle was a calculating killer who had struck twice and might yet strike again.

The sanctuary of their home had been violated, and with it, their sense of security.

Whatever it took, Darcy silently vowed, he would discover who had brought death into their midst, and ensure they faced the fullest measure of justice.