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

Twelve

In Which Darcy Finds Himself Unavoidably Detained and Receives Romantic Advice

“IF YOU INTEND TO be a dandy and keep a social schedule, why don’t you do all of us a favor and inform us now?”

Mr. Tomlinson’s voice rang out across the office as soon as Darcy arrived at Pemberley. Any stray conversations fell immediately silent. Darcy looked up to find his supervisor standing at the threshold of his office, staring at him with a smirk.

“My apologies,” Darcy said, keeping his voice even. “I had an early appointment.”

“What appointment?”

“That’s confidential,” he said.

Darcy was aware that all eyes were on him. Mr. Tomlinson had an audience now, and Darcy dreaded what he’d do next. “Randall had to step in for you at court yesterday,” his supervisor said, “seeing as you didn’t deign to show up to work.”

Leticia Cavendish’s lifeless face haunted his memory. “I sent a note explaining my absence. Which case?”

He looked around for Randall, but Mr. Tomlinson snorted. “Oh, you sent a note—well, you aren’t a schoolboy anymore. Writing a note doesn’t excuse your absences!”

Darcy spotted Randall at his desk, trying his best to appear as though he wasn’t listening to this very public dressing down. “Randall, which case?”

“The Covington case, sir,” Randall said, looking up.

“Don’t call him sir!” Tomlinson snapped. “He is not deserving of the title.”

No one in the office said a word. Darcy knew what they were all thinking—no one would dare speak to Darcy like that if his father were here. But his father wasn’t here.

“The Covington case shouldn’t have gone before the magistrate until next week,” Darcy said, failing to keep the frustration from his voice.

“The court date was moved up, sir,” Randall said, then gulped. “I mean... well. Yes. It was moved up.”

“And now do you see what happens when you’re off frolicking with that woman?” Tomlinson asked.

“She is a lady, and you’d best remember it,” Darcy shot back.

Tomlinson recoiled as if Darcy had slapped him. In all the weeks of underhanded slights and abuses, Darcy hadn’t once talked back to Tomlinson. But now he didn’t care—Tomlinson could disparage or humiliate him all he wanted in front of his father’s employees, but he wasn’t about to stand by and let him disrespect Lizzie.

“Get back to work,” Tomlinson finally sneered. “And if I catch you slacking off or sneaking away one more time, I’ll lock you in here myself.”

Darcy returned to his desk, stone-faced. He supposed that to all the men in the office, it looked as though he might be seething. In reality, he burned with shame. Because Tomlinson was not particularly wrong about one thing—Darcy had been shunning work in favor of assisting Lizzie on her case. He should have been in the office to receive word that the hearing had been moved up.

This was his job. His future. His dream.

So why was it that he was all too willing to throw it aside in favor of helping Lizzie at the drop of a hat?

Even now, as he spent the rest of the afternoon throwing himself vigorously into his work and getting caught up, he couldn’t let go of the case. Mr. Mullins was hiding something. Leticia Cavendish was dead.

And Josette—Josette was heartbroken.

He couldn’t help but think about her shock at seeing him for the first time in two years. It had almost been as great as his shock at finding her in mourning. Old Mrs. Cavendish had always been kind to him, and it felt wrong that she’d died and he hadn’t known. Despite how things had ended between him and Josette, he would have attended the funeral, at the very least. When people die, there are so many details to see to, and they can be overwhelming. He would have offered to help with the estate, the will... well, he supposed she had Mr. Hughes for all that now.

The will.

It came to him suddenly—who had settled Mrs. Cavendish’s will?

If Darcy hadn’t just been publicly scolded by Tomlinson, he would have leapt to his feet and gone straight to the records room. But he knew if he made the slightest motion away from his desk, Tomlinson would demand to know what he was doing; and some instinct told him that he needed to keep his questions to himself, at least for now.

And so he spent the next few hours at his desk, trying his very best to look the part of the busy, industrious worker. But really, he kept an eye out for Tomlinson. The man spent most of the time in his office, with the door closed while one of the clerks, Maxwell, scuttled in and out of the office, doing his bidding. Tomlinson stayed put all day, which meant that Darcy spent a long afternoon at his desk, catching up on the backlog of work and keeping one eye on Tomlinson’s office door.

He waited it out until the other solicitors stood and put on their hats to go home. He lit a lamp he kept at his desk, even as the last of his colleagues finally set down the pens for the night. Just go , he though impatiently.

Tomlinson watched him from his office door as he put on his coat and donned his hat. “Don’t think that you can make up for the last few days by staying late one night.”

“No, sir,” Darcy said, feeling a certain amount of satisfaction when Tomlinson finally took his leave.

He forced himself to wait ten minutes more before standing from his desk and stretching his aching limbs. Then he hurried to the records room and withdrew his key. Most junior solicitors were not allowed their own key to this room, but this was one advantage to being the son of the founding senior partner and heir apparent to the Pemberley legacy. Darcy let himself in and shut the door firmly behind him.

He could not come in here anymore without thinking of Lizzie. They’d been locked in this room together while working on Bingley’s case; and even now, with a lamp in his hand, he got short of breath thinking about the darkness pressing in on him, close and claustrophobic, and the feel of Lizzie’s hand taking his for the first time.

He felt himself shiver. Damn it all, Lizzie had ruined him for this room.

He was aware that he was cutting it close if he expected to arrive at the Bennets’ in time for dinner, but he pictured how happy Lizzie would be if he could procure another clue to this case. Maybe she’d be pleased enough to kiss him when no one was looking, even if it was just a quick brush of her lips against his cheek. He liked it when she took the liberty of initiating, and her eyes gleamed with a fierceness as she went after what she wanted....

Not now , he reminded himself.

Darcy wound his way through the files, starting at the B s. He got to Bitely, John before realizing that any files regarding Josette and her grandmother wouldn’t be under Beaufort , but under Cavendish , her grandmother’s name. Cursing his lack of focus, he moved on to the C s.

Of course, there were more than a few Cavendish case files, and none of them were labeled Cavendish, 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. Under Cavendish, 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 other Cavendish 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 near Cavendish, 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 any more 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. He heard 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?”

“But why—are you all right, sir? Should I call someone?”

“No need, I’m out now. The time, Randall!”

“Half past eight—sir, where are you going?”

Darcy had already pushed past him and rushed to his desk. He picked up his jacket and hat and turned to Randall. “I have an appointment!”

“But Mr. Tomlinson—”

“I’ll be back!” he called over his shoulder, bursting out of the offices. If Tomlinson was responsible for his night in the records room, then Darcy would deal with that later. Outside, he hailed a carriage and tried to straighten his appearance on the ride to Brower Street, where the Dashwoods kept a shop, and hoped that Lizzie still planned to meet him there.

The shop’s front was a perfumery, which allowed all sorts of clients to come and go discreetly. The bell above the door tinkled when he let himself in, and there was only one other customer at the counter, head bent over the perfume samples displayed against a stretch of shockingly pink velvet. The young lady wore a wide straw bonnet trimmed with pink ribbon, and she paid Darcy no mind as she continued her hushed conversation with the young lady behind the counter.

“Now, this one is floral, with deliberately light notes of vanilla and musk, and—oh, don’t worry, we can speak plainly.” Marianne Dashwood smiled broadly in his direction. “Mr. Darcy! We’ve not seen you in a while.”

“Good day, Miss Dashwood.” He bowed in her direction, and gave the young lady she was assisting a polite nod but said nothing to her as they were not acquainted. Blond ringlets framed her porcelain face from under her bonnet and she regarded him coolly but similarly held her tongue.

“Elinor, come see who’s here!” Marianne called out, then turned back to her customer. “Sorry about that, Miss Woodhouse.”

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account,” she said, casting Darcy a sidelong glance.

“Where’s Miss Bennet?” Marianne asked, peering behind him as if she expected Lizzie to pop out.

The door behind the counter swung open and the oldest Dashwood sister, Elinor, came bustling out, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mr. Darcy, hello,” she said, and smiled gently in his direction. Elinor was the more soft-spoken Dashwood sister; and while she was not prone to the same dramatic outbursts that Marianne was known for, her eyes held genuine warmth as she regarded him. “Oh—is Miss Bennet not with you?”

“That’s what I asked,” Marianne said. “He has yet to respond.”

“Well, give him a moment,” Elinor told her sister.

Miss Woodhouse, whoever she was, was watching this exchange with great interest.

“Good day, ladies,” Mr. Darcy said. “Is Lizzie not here yet?”

“I’m afraid not,” Elinor said.

At the same time, Marianne asked, “Is everything all right? I don’t think I’ve ever seen either of you on your own.”

“We do operate independently on occasion,” Darcy noted, with a trace of irony in his voice.

Marianne was unimpressed. “If you’ll excuse me saying so, you look dreadful.”

“Marianne!”

“Oh, Mr. Darcy appreciates honesty!”

As a matter of course, this was true, but he was not sure he appreciated this brand of honesty. “I’m fine, Miss Dashwood. I had a rough night.”

The sisters exchanged knowing looks, which immediately made Darcy suspicious.

“Is everything all right between you and Lizzie?” Marianne asked.

“What? Of course.”

“It’s just that this is highly unusual.”

“Everything is fine,” he insisted. “Except, well... our case has gotten complicated, and I went looking for information last night and found myself locked in the records room—it’s a long story—and I missed a very important dinner last night, so she’s likely a bit irritated with me at the moment. But once I explain the matter, it should be fine.”

“You were locked in a records room?” Marianne asked.

“What important dinner?” Elinor added.

“A dinner her mother hosted, for my friend Bingley—you know Bingley?”

“Accused of murder, the man who brought you together!” Marianne said. “And very sweet on Jane Bennet, correct?”

“Cleared of murder,” Darcy reminded them, more for the sake of Miss Woodhouse, who was watching this exchange with curiosity. “Mrs. Bennet is hoping Bingley will propose—which he absolutely will do, the man is lovesick—but to force the matter she hosted a dinner party last night. I was supposed to be there. Or rather, I think I was.”

“You think?” Marianne asked.

“Mr. Darcy, let me fetch you a cup of tea while we wait for Lizzie,” Elinor said. “And sit. You look absolutely wrung out.”

Which was how Darcy found himself sitting in a chair, sipping a bracingly sweet cup of tea, while the Misses Dashwood and Miss Woodhouse quizzed him about Lizzie. “Is this the first time you’ve missed an important social function?” Marianne asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “Although we don’t attend many. Important social functions, that is.”

“Why not?” Elinor asked.

“Well, we don’t often have reason to spend time together socially.”

The Dashwoods and Miss Woodhouse all exchanged looks. “Why not?” asked Miss Woodhouse.

He wasn’t sure he appreciated her interest in the case—she was a total stranger! But Marianne waved a hand. “Don’t mind Miss Woodhouse. She dispenses the best advice.”

Miss Woodhouse smiled. “I do.”

“Um, well...” Darcy glanced longingly at the door but was trapped. “I suppose it’s because we’re both very busy? I have my own work, which I’ve been neglecting lately, and Lizzie is London’s first female solicitor—she must always work twice as hard.”

“London’s first female solicitor! That’s impressive,” Miss Woodhouse said.

“But you must make the time,” Marianne protested.

“It is not for lack of interest! But it always seems...” Darcy hesitated to say anything more. It felt almost like a betrayal, speaking of his relationship with Lizzie with their mutual friends.

“It’s all right,” Elinor urged. “You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want.”

She gave her sister and Miss Woodhouse stern looks that seemed to say, Don’t press.

“It’s likely silly,” he finally admitted. “Except that I get the sense at times she doesn’t wish to socialize with me. She doesn’t even want me to walk her to her front door. And when her mother invited me to dinner, Lizzie seemed resigned.”

The ladies all gasped in shock.

“But you’re perfect together,” Marianne moaned.

“Have you asked her how she feels?” Elinor asked.

“Well... not exactly. But Lizzie is very straightforward. She wouldn’t hesitate to tell me how she feels.”

All three ladies gave him a look.

“Wouldn’t she?” Darcy asked.

“And how are things when you are working together professionally?” Miss Woodhouse asked. “Does she welcome your help?”

“Of course,” Darcy said. “I’ve been absent from my job more days than not this last week because of this case—her case! I care for her deeply. And I have to say, until recently, I never doubted her feelings either. It’s just that she doesn’t seem to want me anywhere near her parents!”

“Ah,” said Elinor knowingly. “So it might not be about you at all.”

Marianne and Miss Woodhouse were nodding knowingly. “Well?” Darcy demanded. “Are you going to explain it to me?”

“I suspect that it isn’t that Lizzie doesn’t care to spend time with you outside of your professional duties, but that she is struggling with the consequences of such a close arrangement,” Elinor said.

Marianne was much more forthright. “Her parents expect you to propose.”

This was not entirely shocking news. No one who’d ever met Mrs. Bennet would fail to realize that obtaining husbands for each of her daughters was her chief mission in life. That didn’t frighten him off like it might some young gentlemen—last night’s revelation that he loved her was no passing fancy. He smiled at the mere thought of her, despite the discomfort of this conversation. “Well, naturally I want to marry her.”

The Dashwoods let out identical squeals. “I knew it!” Marianne proclaimed. “Elinor, you owe me ten shillings!”

“You had a bet on whether or not I would propose?” Darcy was aghast.

“Not on whether or not you would,” Marianne said, triumphant. “That has never been in question. Just on how soon you would admit it.”

Miss Woodhouse was studying him. “Young ladies do not have the sort of freedom that you enjoy, Mr. Darcy. And enterprising young ladies such as your Miss Bennet must struggle with the constraints of society even more so than those who are content to stay close to home.”

“I know that,” Darcy said, a tad defensively.

“As long as most people believe we ought to be kept in the drawing room, stitching samplers and pouring tea, our lives will always be difficult,” Marianne grumbled. “The trick is to ask how you can make her life easier!”

Darcy felt he knew where this was going. “So I should... propose?”

All three ladies, including Miss Woodhouse, gasped—and not in a good way.

“What?” Darcy knew it was a bit of a hasty thought, but he didn’t think it warranted that level of amazement. “If we were married, then no one would be upset about how much time we spend together!”

“True,” Elinor said, “but marriage is a big step. Have you spoken with her about the matter?”

“Oh, well...” He’d always assumed that marriage was the logical next step—clearly, they were fond of each other, and if Mrs. Bennet knew about even one of the kisses they’d shared, she’d force a marriage that very week. But they’d never talked about it. He’d always just assumed that eventually they’d get around to it.

“I think that’s a no, ladies,” Miss Woodhouse said. “If I may dispense some advice, Mr. Darcy? Just because you admire her and you spend time together doesn’t mean she is obligated to commit her life to you. She is her own person.”

“I know that!” Darcy felt more condescended to in this moment than he had in the last three months of working with Mr. Tomlinson. “I like that she’s her own person!”

Miss Woodhouse continued, undeterred. “Good. Now, marriage can be very advantageous, but even with the obvious benefits there are some drawbacks. Personally, I don’t see the point of it. For example, could she still be her own person, if she were to marry you?”

“Of course!” Why, the mere notion that Darcy would control Lizzie if they were to get married was insulting. “She knows I would never force her to do anything she doesn’t want to do! If I were to marry her, it would be because it would make her life easier, so she wouldn’t be the subject of gossip!”

Marianne gave him a pitying look. “Yes, because that’s the sort of marriage proposal all young ladies dream of.”

Darcy opened his mouth to retort that Lizzie didn’t care about things like that, but then he shut it once more. He thought back to that moment in the drawing room with Josette—not this week, but two years ago. He really, really thought about it, which was something he generally avoided doing.

Oh.

Elinor bit her lip. “Mr. Darcy, I’m sorry—you shouldn’t listen to us. You really ought to talk with Lizzie herself.”

“No,” he said. “This has been... rather humiliating. But enlightening.”

“Good,” Miss Woodhouse said, clearly satisfied. “Miss Dashwood, Miss Marianne, I must depart—but thank you for your help.” To Darcy, she said, “Good luck.” She gathered her things and left promptly, the bell above the door tinkling as she departed.

“Pardon me,” Darcy heard a familiar voice say, and he turned to see Lizzie herself stepping past Miss Woodhouse to enter the shop, a market basket over one arm and Guy at her heels.

“Lizzie!” Darcy exclaimed, setting down his tea and standing. “There you are!”

His heart swelled at the sight of her. Her brows were furrowed, and her mouth was slightly downturned, which was common when she was worried about something. Even with the dark circles under her eyes and her drawn expression, Darcy thought her the most beautiful young lady in all of London.

But when her eyes landed on him, she didn’t light up with happiness. “ You! ” she shouted. “ Where were you? ”

Stunned, Darcy merely gaped at her. “I’m sorry about last night, I was detained—”

“You didn’t come! You didn’t send a note! And when I sent Bingley to your house, your butler said you hadn’t come home! We thought you were dead and dumped in the Thames!”

Darcy crossed the space between them and gathered her up in his arms. “I’m not dead! I’m all right! Someone locked me in the records room, I just got out this morning and came straight here.”

Lizzie held herself rigid for a moment and then relaxed into his embrace. Her arms came around him and squeezed tightly. “I am very cross with you,” she said into his jacket.

But now Darcy was truly alarmed, for her reaction to seeing him seemed awfully drastic considering he had missed one dinner. “Lizzie, did something happen?”

She inhaled one more time, then stepped back. Guy danced between them, clearly happy to see him as well. “Yes,” she said, and carefully withdrew a heavy object wrapped in a length of muslin from her basket.

Lizzie set it on the pink velvet counter and unwrapped it. At the center was a brick, with the word stop scrawled in black letters on its wide side. Darcy’s heart plummeted.

Lizzie looked at Elinor Dashwood. “Someone threw this through my front window yesterday evening, and I need to know everything about where it came from.”