“Until last week I had no fortune with which to do business.”

Elizabeth could see Darcy’s frustration mounting. Though Frank Churchill answered the queries willingly — or at least, gave the appearance of doing so — his replies provided no leads to follow. Why was he not more forthcoming, with his own safety at stake?

Darcy released an exasperated breath. “Mr. Churchill, it is very likely that someone murdered your uncle, and has attempted to murder you. Are you telling me that you have not the faintest idea why, or who that individual might be?”

“Believe me, sir, I wish I did.”

Darcy sat back and studied Frank, who shifted self-consciously under Darcy’s silent brooding. Then Darcy looked at Elizabeth, glanced at Jane Churchill, and met Elizabeth’s gaze once more. Without his having said a word, she understood.

Perhaps Frank Churchill knew quite well why someone might want to kill him. And perhaps it involved something, or someone, he would rather his new wife not know about.

“Mrs. Churchill,” Elizabeth said, “I have need of Mrs. Knightley — she is somewhere in the house with Mrs. Weston. Might I impose upon you to help me locate them?”

Though comfortable and well appointed, Randalls was not a very large house. Elizabeth estimated that she had five minutes — ten if she were very lucky — in which to both invent a reason for seeking Mrs. Knightley and elicit as much information as she could from Jane Churchill before their discovery of the other two ladies’ whereabouts put an end to this spontaneous interview.

“Mr. Darcy and I found ourselves ensnared in a murder plot within a fortnight of our wedding,” Elizabeth said as soon as they had quit the drawing room and entered the hall. It was not an elegant or subtle opening, but it had the desired effect: Jane Churchill regarded her in amazement — and lost some of the defensiveness from her posture. “So I sympathize with your current circumstances,” she continued. “This might not be the most auspicious manner in which to begin a marriage, but we are proof that one can endure it.”

Jane turned her head away, focusing her gaze on the central staircase that dominated the entry hall through which they passed. “Was the murderer caught?”

“Yes, by Mr. Darcy — and me. We were relieved when the matter was finally resolved, and we could at last retreat to Mr. Darcy’s home in Derbyshire. Just as I imagine you are anxious to reach Enscombe.”

“Indeed, yes. I wish we were there now.” Jane led her past the staircase and down a corridor. Paintings lined the walls — a few landscapes, including one depicting Randalls, and portraits of the Westons and Frank.

“Will your friends, the Dixons, travel there with you?”

“No, they return to Ireland on Friday next.”

“So soon? Mr. Thomas Dixon will no doubt be disappointed to leave Highbury before the transformation of your aunt’s apartment is complete.”

At the mention of Thomas Dixon, Jane stiffened. “Perhaps he can visit some other time.”

“He seems a kind gentleman — generous with his time and attention. One wonders why he has never wed.”

Mrs. Churchill directed her gaze towards the portrait of Frank as they passed it. “He was a younger son, and remains dependent upon his relations.”

“But surely a man as handsome and affable as he could charm an heiress,” Elizabeth said. “Is that not how most men in his situation secure their independence?”

Her companion stopped short. “Perhaps he has not the inclination.”

They had arrived at an open doorway that led into a bright parlor. Female voices carried from within. “I believe we have found Mrs. Knightley,” said Mrs. Churchill.

“So we have,” Elizabeth replied.

Both of their smiles were forced.

“So, what did you ask Frank Churchill about, once his wife and I left the room?”

Darcy reached for his cravat. They had returned late from Randalls and had little time to dress for dinner, a process hindered by the fact that he had dismissed his valet so that he and Elizabeth could talk freely. “Can you not guess?”

“Disappointed debutantes? Rejected lovers? Discarded mistresses?” Elizabeth adjusted the short sleeves of her gown to give the white sprigged silk more puff, then left the glass to Darcy.

“All of the above. He claims to have none. Also no natural children.”

“Any previous wives or legitimate children?”

“Not this time.”

She sat down on the chaise longue to don her slippers. The set of rooms they had been given at Hartfield — a bedchamber and dressing room — was smaller than what they had enjoyed at Donwell, but more comfortably appointed. Elizabeth preferred the relatively slender furniture to some of the older, heavier pieces that had dominated their chamber at the abbey.

“Not even a scandalous ancestor lurking in the family tree? What about the uncle?”

“To hear Frank tell it, both he and Edgar are the dullest victims we have ever investigated.” He lifted his chin to tie the neckcloth.

“We can only hope that the poisoner has a more interesting past, though I presently favor Jane Churchill, whom everybody else seems to consider beyond reproach. It is always the quiet ones, you know.”

Darcy looked at her askance. “In our experience, it has never been the quiet ones.”

She contemplated that for a moment. “I suppose you are right. Oh, well — then it is time for a quiet one. And poison is a quiet weapon.”

“That does not mean Jane Churchill is the one who used it. I confess myself very nearly persuaded by the Knightleys regarding her. They know her character better than we do.”

“I thought you were asked to aid this investigation precisely because you do not harbor preconceptions about the principals’ characters.”

“So I was. Regardless, Mrs. Knightley makes a good point about Jane’s not needing to kill Frank. As the new Mrs. Churchill, she already has everything she wants.”

“You assume that she wants to remain married to her husband.”

Darcy muttered something indistinguishable under his breath. He had pulled one end of the neckcloth too far and had to begin the entire process anew.

“Why would she not?” he said. “Frank Churchill seems a decent, amiable fellow, her own age, with a comfortable home and generous income. Were I choosing a husband for my sister, I would prefer a more serious gentleman, but many young ladies marry worse.”

She rose and went to the dressing table, where Lucy had laid out her long kid gloves. She slid them on until they reached past her elbows. For once, she had completed her preparations before Darcy.

“Perhaps Jane Churchill is in love with somebody else.”

“Thomas Dixon?” Both Darcy’s tone and expression reflected his disdain for the gentleman. Mr. Dixon was too frivolous to ever earn Darcy’s esteem.

“They seem to be on unusually familiar terms, and you witnessed how the mere mention of his name provoked Frank Churchill. When I tried to coax her into speaking about Mr. Dixon while we were alone, she hedged.”

“Why would any woman of sense — which Jane Churchill appears to be — choose Thomas Dixon over Frank Churchill? He may be charming, but he has not a guinea to call his own.”

“If she were a wealthy widow, he would not need a shilling.” At his dubious look, she continued. “Imagine, Darcy: They meet at Weymouth — a watering hole devoted to pleasure. Patrick Dixon is courting Miss Campbell, Jane’s dearest friend and near-sister. She and Thomas Dixon, constantly in company together, fall in love but cannot marry because neither has the means. Then along comes Frank Churchill with an offer of marriage and the promise of a fortune. All Jane need do is marry Frank, ensure his aunt and uncle predecease him, then wear widow’s weeds for a twelvemonth.”

“And murder her husband. You omitted that part.” He adjusted the cravat a final time and reached for his coat.

Elizabeth helped him into it, smoothing the black wool across his shoulders. “Well, yes — that, too. I never said it was an admirable plan. But murder plots seldom are.”

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