In Want of a Suspect (A Lizzie & Darcy Mystery #1)

Eleven

In Which Mrs. Bennet’s Dinner Party Is Most Rudely Interrupted

“JANE, ARE YOU WEARING the pink ribbon or the blue?” Mrs. Bennet asked.

“Blue, Mama.”

“Wear the pink. It makes your cheeks look rosier. And, Lizzie! Why are you not dressed yet?”

Lizzie looked up from the book she had brought home from Longbourn, her mind lingering on the legal precedents involving cases of arson. She was dressed only in her shift and her hair fell across her shoulders and back, unbound. “I’m sorry?”

Mrs. Bennet crossed the room and wrenched the book from Lizzie’s hands, snapping it shut. “Elizabeth! Do you mean to send me to an early grave? Mr. Bingley shall be here within the half hour, and if everything is to go perfectly, you need to be dressed and downstairs and ready to play your part!”

“I’m sorry,” Lizzie said, knowing that apologizing was the only course of action when Mrs. Bennet was this worked up. “I’m almost ready.”

She reached for a cream-colored dress, only for Mrs. Bennet to cry out, “Not that one! It is too lovely for tonight—Jane must shine!”

“How about you see to preparations downstairs, and I’ll make sure Lizzie is dressed and presentable?” Jane asked.

Mrs. Bennet took a steadying breath. “Fine. But, Lizzie, you better be ready in ten minutes. And I don’t want to see that dog all evening!”

From his position on the bed, Guy cocked his head.

“We’ll both be on our very best behavior tonight, Mama,” Lizzie promised.

“My nerves, Lizzie, have compassion for my nerves! This is one of the most important nights of my life, and that dog isn’t helping!”

And with that, she swept from the room.

“One would think she’s the one about to be proposed to, not you,” Lizzie said, reaching for her second-best dress, the brown-and-green-striped satin, and pulling it on.

“Yes, well... she’s worked hard to make this evening come together.” Jane began to remove the blue ribbon from the trim on her white lawn dress.

Lizzie laid a hand on her sister’s, stilling it. “Leave the ribbons. It’s your night—you ought to wear what you like. You look beautiful either way, and besides, I don’t think Bingley will be noticing the color of your ribbons when he can scarcely take his eyes off your face.”

Jane looked up at her. “Do you really mean that?”

“Of course,” Lizzie said. “Have you not realized? The man is mad about you!”

“I’m surprised you’ve taken the time to notice Mr. Bingley’s feelings,” Jane said, and the rebuke was so mild that Lizzie couldn’t have felt worse if Jane had offered her a cutting word instead.

“Janie.” Lizzie reached out and took her sister’s hands. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a rotten sister lately, haven’t I? It’s just this case... I’ve let it get to my head.”

“You’re not a rotten sister,” Jane insisted, although Lizzie noticed she didn’t refute Lizzie’s claim that the case had been going to her head. “You’ve been very busy.”

Lizzie had been consumed, but she could have asked Jane how she was feeling this morning, or made a point to come home sooner to help her get ready. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I promise this evening shall be about you, and not about my case. I won’t breathe a word of it!”

Jane hugged her. “Oh, Lizzie. I’m so nervous, I don’t know how I can expect to eat a thing!”

“I think the only thing expected of you tonight is to say yes when the question is asked,” Lizzie said. “But surely you don’t doubt Bingley’s feelings for you?”

“It’s not that,” Jane said. Lizzie struggled to recall the last time she’d seen her sister look so distressed—perhaps when Wickham had kidnapped Lizzie. “I suppose it’s silly, but I was hoping for something rather more romantic.”

“It’s not silly,” Lizzie insisted. “Perhaps Mama’s manipulations don’t exactly feel romantic now, but think about how happy you’ll be.”

That seemed to encourage Jane, and she grabbed hold of both of Lizzie’s hands. “I want you to be happy, too.”

Lizzie smiled brightly. “I’m incredibly happy.”

“Yes, but you and Mr. Darcy...”

“We aren’t talking about me this evening, remember?”

Lizzie didn’t want to talk about yesterday and how embarrassing it had been to stand in her own drawing room and fend off her mother’s rather obvious attempts at pressuring Darcy to propose marriage. Maybe she ought to have enjoyed it. After all, Darcy was quickly becoming one of her favorite people, alongside Jane. And he was a gentleman. There was nothing preventing a union between them. Nothing, except the undercurrent of fear and anxiety when she thought about giving up everything she’d worked for.

“Oh dear, it’s as bad as that?” Jane asked.

Lizzie shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Now, help me fasten my dress and let’s go downstairs before Mama has a fit!”

Darcy was late.

Lizzie was unsurprised when Mr. Bingley arrived first, and then Charlotte. The gathering was a pleasant one, especially since Caroline and Louisa weren’t present, and the conversation was lively as the minutes ticked by. But when the clock struck quarter past and Darcy had still not arrived, Lizzie had to start pretending not to see Mrs. Bennet’s sharp, questioning looks. And when it was half past and dinner was announced, Mrs. Bennet shot Lizzie an accusatory look.

“No Mr. Darcy? I do hope that he is all right.”

“He must have gotten caught up in court, Mama,” Lizzie lied. She felt compelled to salvage his reputation before her mother, despite her own questions.

Mr. Bennet gave her a curious look, for he understood that no court would convene this late, but didn’t contradict Lizzie’s explanation. “Let us eat, and hope Mr. Darcy has a riveting explanation when he arrives.”

Dinner was as carefully choreographed as a ballroom dance, with Jane and Bingley as the principal players. Lizzie was seated next to Bingley, and Jane was placed directly across from him, next to Charlotte. Her assorted sisters flanked them, while Mr. and Mrs. Bennet sat at either end of the table. Guy had slipped under the table when Mrs. Bennet wasn’t looking, and Lizzie wasn’t about to say anything as long as the dog stayed quiet. As the honored guest, Bingley was placed to the right of Mr. Bennet, and Mrs. Bennet was practically leaning into her soup in order to orchestrate the conversation from the other end, quizzing him on his latest social engagements and whether or not he had plans to visit his country estate that summer.

“I hear the countryside is lovely in June,” Mrs. Bennet said, not allowing Mr. Bingley a chance to reply. “Not that we’ve been in quite a long while, of course.”

That was accompanied by a pointed look at Mr. Bennet.

“Yes, well, I’m afraid that criminal activity only increases in the summer months,” Mr. Bennet said, oblivious to his wife’s attempts to steer the conversation. “It’s the heat, you see. Drives most people mad.”

“You avoid criminal cases,” Lizzie pointed out.

“But they don’t always avoid me.”

“The weather would drive any sane person to commit heinous acts,” Mr. Bingley agreed. “My sisters usually go, but as of late I’ve been far too busy to get away myself.”

“When was the last time we were in the country, Mr. Bennet?” Mrs. Bennet asked, louder than necessary. “Why, it must have been for my brother’s wedding! And what a lovely wedding it was! Summer weddings are always the height of fashion, in my opinion.”

Lizzie would have laughed, if not for Jane practically swaying in her seat, looking ready to swoon from embarrassment. She cleared her throat and asked, “How is the shipping business, Mr. Bingley?”

“Well, thank you—not without its challenges, but much improved from this time last year.”

Lizzie ignored her mother’s dagger stare. “I am so glad to hear it.”

“What challenges?” Mary asked. When her sisters glanced at her, her shoulders drew up defensively. “I’m just curious! I thought Lizzie took care of the pirate problem.”

“We’ve had no trouble since my, ah, pirate problem, as Miss Mary put it.” Bingley was quick to reassure the Bennets. “This time, it’s France—Napoleon is determined to hobble us all when it comes to trading with the Continent. But the navy has been keeping up the good fight!”

“How awful,” Mr. Bennet said. “I hope you haven’t lost any more ships.”

“None, thank goodness,” Bingley said. “The waters have been a little bit safer as of late, thanks to Miss Elizabeth.”

“I’m happy to hear it,” Lizzie said. Clearing Mr. Bingley’s name of murder the previous spring had been a winding case that involved tracing an insurance scam to a pirate by the name of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She’d managed to evade Lizzie and Darcy in the end, but Darcy’s contacts at the Royal Navy had assured them she wouldn’t get far.

“Have you ever seen a pirate?” Lydia asked, directing her question at Mr. Bingley.

Mary tsked. “Don’t be daft, Lydia—if he had, he’d not likely be telling us about it.”

“Why not?” Kitty asked. “Are pirates indelicate topics?”

“No, silly, because if he’d encountered a pirate, he’d be dead .”

Jane looked pained at the direction this conversation was taking. “I hardly like to think about how dangerous Mr. Bingley’s job must be without you bringing pirates into the mix.”

“You’re forgetting that I met a pirate and lived to tell the tale,” Lizzie said. She didn’t point out that Lady Catherine might have shot her, too, because that did seem indelicate for a dinner party.

“The lady one,” Lydia said with great disdain. “Not a handsome, dashing—”

“Lydia!” Jane admonished, cheeks now distinctly pink.

Lizzie sneaked a glance at her father, to see if he had any sort of reaction to Lydia airing her fantasies at the dinner table, but he was too busy sneaking a tiny piece of roast chicken to Guy.

“None of you must worry about my safety,” Bingley hastened to reassure them. “The navy is doing its job, and I am in talks with a factory in Scotland to outfit Netherfield’s ships with carronades.”

“Are those like canons?” Mary asked.

Jane gasped. “Is that wise? Will you not become a target?”

“Don’t worry, Miss Bennet—these carronades are for defense only. They’re much smaller than the canons the navy uses, and we’d only use them in the event of an attack.”

“I’ve read about these carronades in the paper,” Charlotte said. “A good number of merchant ships are installing them.”

“Yes, indeed,” Bingley agreed. “One blast from a carronade and deadly damage is done to any privateer that might try to board, which allows the captains to steer our ships to safety.”

“You’ll get these carronades installed soon?” Jane inquired anxiously. “Before you set sail on another business trip?”

“As soon as I am able,” Mr. Bingley promised.

“Sounds costly,” Mr. Bennet observed.

“You can’t put a price on safety. Besides, the carronades themselves will be easy to procure—finding cannonballs is the true challenge. They’re in short supply, and all being requisitioned for the war effort.”

“Why, that’s just silly,” Kitty said. “Why don’t they make enough to shoot all the French and stop the war?”

Lizzie might have rolled her eyes at Kitty’s simplification, but Mr. Bingley took her question in earnest. “It’s not quite that easy, Miss Kitty. Cannonballs require certain materials, and they’re hard to come by. Lead, iron, graphite...”

“I was reading in the papers that the French don’t have enough graphite of their own,” Charlotte added. “They’re desperate for our supply. With such advantages, we can surely hope for a quick British victory.”

Graphite . Why did that sound familiar?

“Indeed, England has some of the best deposits of graphite in all the world,” Mr. Bingley agreed. “Now that it has become so dear, the Crown guards its supplies closely.”

Lizzie gasped. Mr. Hughes owned a graphite mine! But what had he said about it? The vein had run dry, and now his mining days were over.

Jane looked at her, worried. “Are you all right, Lizzie?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” She took a sip from her glass, and then said, “And where are these cannonballs made, Mr. Bingley?”

“Oh, I don’t know precisely—but I believe there is a munitions factory here in London.”

“Are you taking an interest in firearms, Lizzie?” Mr. Bennet asked. “I admit, I would prefer it if you chose less dangerous hobbies.”

“I’m just curious about the graphite,” she said, casting a glance at her older sister. She had promised Jane that tonight would be about her, and yet she couldn’t help asking Mr. Bingley, “Is all the graphite in England controlled by the Crown?”

“Yes,” Mr. Bennet answered instead. “Smuggling it is a felony.”

Lizzie dropped her fork, which held a small bit of boiled potato, so great was her surprise. It clattered onto the floor, whereupon the potato was quickly claimed by Guy.

“Are you quite all right?” Jane asked.

Mrs. Bennet glared at her. “Lizzie! Is that dog in my dining room?”

“Sorry, Mama,” she murmured. And then, “Oh, look, here comes the pudding!”

That was enough to distract the dinner party, and by the time everyone had been served and compliments were given, the conversation moved on. But Lizzie was still thinking of graphite, and carronades, and most of all, she was thinking of Mr. Hughes.

Mr. Hughes owned a graphite mine in the Lake District that was supposedly defunct.

Darcy had not been able to obtain a search permit for the Mullins Brothers storehouse due to official Crown business.

Were these two things related? If Mr. Hughes was moving his graphite through the Mullins Brothers storehouse, it could explain the secrecy and danger. But surely such an operation had to be illegal. And if a tall, dark-haired young lady, who was either Josette or Leticia, had discovered that Mr. Hughes was selling his graphite to the French... well, that was a secret worth killing for.

But why would Jack Mullins hire her to find an arsonist if the Crown was investigating his storehouse?

Unless... their suspicions were true and Jack Mullins wasn’t aware of such an investigation.

A chill went through Lizzie then, and she missed Darcy fiercely. He would tell her if her imagination was running away with her. He would also be the first to tell her that the last thing they needed was to run afoul of the Crown if it was investigating felonies and possible treason .

Where was he?

“Shall we go through?” Mrs. Bennet asked, startling Lizzie out of her thoughts.

She looked around the table and realized that everyone was finished with their pudding, but Mrs. Bennet was not willing to wait on her account—this was the moment that she’d been waiting for all evening. She looked downright gleeful as she ushered the ladies away from the table, leaving Mr. Bennet and Mr. Bingley with their drinks.

Then Mr. Bennet said to Bingley, “It’s just the two of us—unless you desperately want a brandy, how about we follow them?”

“No!” Mrs. Bennet cried, spinning around.

Bingley and Mr. Bennet looked at her, startled.

“No,” she repeated, smiling. “Mr. Bennet, you simply must offer Mr. Bingley a drink! I will not have him saying that our hospitality is lacking!”

Beside Lizzie, Jane clutched at her hand. Lizzie squeezed it reassuringly, although she couldn’t help but feel a wave of sympathy for her father—for all her mother’s careful, diligent planning for this evening, she seemed to have failed to inform her husband to be prepared for any opportunity for Mr. Bingley to ask for Jane’s hand.

“Well, all right,” Mr. Bennet said. “But I have to warn you, this English brandy can’t hold a candle to the French stuff.”

“I shall happily receive it anyway,” Bingley assured, and Mrs. Bennet shooed the girls out of the dining room and down the hall to the drawing room.

“Honestly,” she seethed. “Your father is trying his best to send me to an early grave.”

The ladies sat in tense silence in the drawing room, not allowed to even converse. They could just make out the murmur of the gentlemen’s voices in the other room, but no amount of shushing or holding absolutely still rendered their voices audible enough to make out the conversation. Lizzie sat next to Jane, who had gone as pale as a sheet and was squeezing her hand tightly.

“It’ll be fine,” Lizzie whispered. “You know that Father won’t say no.”

“I know, but what if Mr. Bingley doesn’t even ask at all?”

“Shush!” their mother hissed.

“Mama, this is silly—there’s nothing we can do but wait. And besides, won’t it look rather suspicious if they join us here and we’re all just sitting in total silence?”

Mrs. Bennet seemed to consider this, then relented. “Mary, the piano.”

Mary rolled her eyes but dutifully took her seat at the bench and began to pluck out notes. Lizzie tried to hide her wince.

“What’s going on with you this evening?” Charlotte whispered from Lizzie’s other side.

“What?”

“First of all, you and I both know that Mr. Darcy wouldn’t still be in court at this hour, and you got a peculiar look on your face when Mr. Bingley began to discuss that business of carronades at dinner.”

“I did not,” Lizzie lied. She didn’t want to ruin Jane’s evening with talk about her case.

But Jane nodded. “You did.”

“Fine,” Lizzie relented. “But it’s probably nothing. Someone involved in our case owns a graphite mine, that’s all. And it got me thinking—”

But Lizzie didn’t get a chance to say anything more, for the drawing room door opened and Mr. Bennet and Mr. Bingley appeared, Guy trotting on their heels. That had to have been the quickest glass of brandy ever consumed, Lizzie thought. The gaze of every lady in the room turned to them, and Mary abruptly stopped playing.

“Er, hello?” Bingley said.

“Hello.” Jane was the only one to reply.

“What are you all staring at?” Mr. Bennet asked.

“Nothing!” Mrs. Bennet said. “Mary, why’d you stop playing?”

“I thought—”

“Never mind what you thought, keep playing!”

Mary picked up her shapeless tune once more and Mr. Bingley sat in the chair opposite the settee, where Lizzie, Jane, and Charlotte were seated while Mr. Bennet took his usual chair and, with a surreptitious look around, reached for his newspaper.

An inscrutable look seemed to pass between Jane and Bingley.

“Well, then,” Mrs. Bennet began. “What did you two speak about—”

But Mrs. Bennet’s matchmaking plans were abruptly cut short by the shattering glass that ripped through the drawing room.

At least four of the ladies screamed, and Guy immediately began barking, a high-pitched, alarmed yip that made Lizzie leap to her feet. Jane and Charlotte remained seated on the sofa, and Bingley had instinctively jumped in front of Jane, his arms raised protectively.

The drawing room window had been broken, letting in the cool night air. Glass littered the carpet, sparkling in the lamplight, and in the center of the room lay a heavy object—the projectile that had broken the glass. Beyond the broken window, Lizzie could hear the sound of running feet on the cobblestones outside.

Without thinking, she picked up her skirts and bolted for the front door, ignoring the ruckus behind her and the crunch of glass under her slippers. She flung open the front door and ran down the steps, eyes searching for any sign of the vandal in the night. Next door and across the street her neighbors were emerging from their houses, and she ignored their inquiries as she stumbled out into the street and looked left, then right.

Whoever it was, they were gone.

“Elizabeth!” her father called from the front door. “Come inside.”

“They’re gone,” she said, still looking about. Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, but she didn’t see anything amiss. Her exposed skin prickled in the early spring cold.

“We’ll send for the Runners,” he said. “But come inside before you catch a chill or your mother’s nerves do her in, whichever occurs first.”

Inside, Mrs. Bennet was working herself up to full-blown hysterics, attended by her daughters, while a maid nervously tried to clean up the glass and Bingley stood before the open window as if ready to defend the Bennets from any more projectiles. Guy was barking like mad, but Lizzie was relieved to see in the mayhem that he’d leapt up on Mr. Bennet’s chair, so at least she didn’t need to worry about him cutting himself on the broken glass.

“We’re under attack! Oh, who would do such a thing?” Mrs. Bennet wailed.

“Are we about to be robbed?” Lydia asked.

“No, you fool,” Mary snapped. “Does it look like we’re about to be robbed?”

“Someone threw a brick through our window—how should I know?”

“I am going to swoon!” Mrs. Bennet cried out.

“You sound quite alert to me, ma’am,” Mr. Bennet said, following Lizzie back into the drawing room. “Now, if you all would just be quiet!”

They all hushed, except for Guy. “Sit! Quiet!” Lizzie hissed at him, and to her surprise he sat obediently in Mr. Bennet’s chair.

“Right,” he said. “Girls, get your mother upstairs, then go to your rooms and stay there. I have to fetch the Runners and we’ll need to file an official report. Bingley, would you—”

“I’ll stay right here and ensure everyone is safe,” he promised, and Lizzie noticed him looking at Jane as he said it.

“Very well,” Mr. Bennet said, casting one longing look at his newspaper before saying, “Now!”

The younger Bennet sisters escorted their mother upstairs and Jane followed. Lizzie felt a pang of regret for Jane. Her poor sister! She thought she was getting engaged tonight, and now she’d likely spend the next three hours comforting their distraught mother. Charlotte sidled up to Lizzie and whispered, “I think you ought to look at the brick.”

Lizzie had been far more interested in the damage caused by the projectile and trying to catch whoever was responsible, so she was surprised by Charlotte’s grave suggestion. She took a step forward, glass crunching underfoot, and found the brick where it had landed on the carpet. It was an entirely normal-looking brick, as far as Lizzie was concerned, but already her thoughts were racing—why a brick? Bricks had value when a stone would have been free and done the job just as well.

“Miss Elizabeth, I don’t think...” Mr. Bingley began, but then seemed to think better of what he was about to say. Lizzie had gotten him cleared of murder charges, after all.

When she drew close, she realized that the brick had dark marks slashed across it. As her racing heart settled a bit, she stopped cold. “Does that say...”

“Yes,” Charlotte said. “Is that connected to your case?”

But Lizzie could not speak. Across the broad surface of the brick, someone had used a black, smudgy substance to scratch out the word STOP .

Bingley leaned forward to read it. His face drained of all color. “Stop? Stop what?”

Lizzie withdrew a handkerchief, embroidered with her own haphazard strawberries, and picked up the brick gingerly. Her heart was hammering in her chest now. Darcy , she thought. Where are you?

“I’m not sure, exactly, but I think I have an idea.”