Page 28 of Love Among the Shadows
Sixteen
Colonel Fitzwilliam watched from the cover of shadow as Wickham reached his door and, with a furtive glance over his shoulder, disappeared inside. He had followed him all the way from Lucas Lodge, careful to keep his distance and to avoid drawing undue attention. Twice, Wickham had glanced back, suspicion flickering in his gaze, but each time Fitzwilliam had halted, melting into the darkness of Meryton’s quiet streets.
His mind had been restless throughout the pursuit. Some thoughts occupied him in turn, each demanding his attention. First, there was Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Darcy’s voice had betrayed more emotion than Fitzwilliam had ever heard when he spoke of her outside the ball. Darcy had insisted on returning to Longbourn to inform Mr Bennet of their plan, leaving Fitzwilliam to follow Wickham alone. The original scheme had been straightforward: they would shadow Wickham together, for if no attack came, it would all but confirm Wickham’s potential guilt. After all, a killer wouldn’t attack himself. They would then have crafted a way to get evidence against him. Perhaps, search his residence or something.
However, they had also agreed that if another shadow emerged from the night, intent on murder, they would protect Wickham and seize the true culprit. The element of surprise would have been theirs.
Yet, Darcy’s resolve had shifted the moment Elizabeth interrupted him at the ball. Her boldness, her defiance—it had struck a chord in him, something that even Darcy himself might not have fully understood. Fitzwilliam had seen it clearly,though. If he hadn’t known his cousin so well, he might have thought Darcy admired her—perhaps even more than admired her.
Perhaps he does,Fitzwilliam mused.Perhaps he simply hasn’t the luxury to pursue it, burdened as he is by murder and suspicion.
Still, it was unlike Darcy to be so affected by a lady’s words, let alone to remain tongue-tied before her. The Darcy Fitzwilliam knew would never be at a loss for a sharp retort, nor would he insist upon protecting someone if he did not, at the very least, hold them in great esteem.
Fitzwilliam slowed as he neared the house. Wickham’s door closed with a muted thud, leaving the street still once more. The colonel considered his next move. He could linger by the back door since Wickham’s house had two entrances. He had scouted it during their planning phase and knew it well. It would provide the best vantage point without risking discovery.
Just as he resolved to move, a sound reached his ears. Faint, almost imperceptible. It was a low grunt from within the house.
He froze, listening intently.
The night was otherwise silent. No footsteps, no clatter of pots or creak of floorboards to suggest Wickham had merely knocked something over. The grunt came again, followed by a groan, muffled but distinct.
His pulse quickened.The killer? Or something else?His instincts warred with caution. It could be nothing. Wickham could have stumbled, or some furniture might have fallen over. Yet, every muscle in Fitzwilliam’s body tensed with unease.
He edged closer to the front window and peered inside, but the room was cloaked in shadow. The hearth lay cold, and no lamp had been lit. Darkness swallowed the modest furnishings.
What to do?He pressed a gloved hand to the window frame, weighing his choices. He could leave Wickham to his own devices—perhaps it truly was nothing of consequence—or he could intervene, risking exposure if he was mistaken.
The groan came again, low and pained.
Fitzwilliam acted.
With a swift motion, he stepped back and drove his boot into the door. The wood splintered beneath the force, swinging open with a crash. His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom as he scanned the room—and there, in the midst of it, was a figure cloaked in dark garments.
The man stood motionless for a fleeting second before turning and bolting toward the back of the house.
“Stop!” Fitzwilliam barked, his voice cutting through the still air. He lunged forward, but the man was fast, disappearing through the shadows toward the rear door.
Fitzwilliam gave chase, his boots pounding against the floorboards. But just as he reached the threshold to head to the back room, a hand clutched at his ankle, sending him stumbling.
“Help me,” a weak voice rasped.
Fitzwilliam looked down to see Wickham sprawled on the floor, his face pale, his lips trembling. A dark stain spread across his shirt, and from his chest protruded the unmistakable hilt of a knife.
Time slowed for a moment as Fitzwilliam registered the scene. The blade was buried deep, and blood pooled beneath Wickham, soaking into the floorboards. His gaze darted toward the open door at the back. The killer was gone, already lost to the night.
Save Wickham, or pursue the murderer?
The choice loomed before him, each option weighted with consequence. If he followed the killer, he might yetapprehend him. But Wickham was fading fast—if he died, so too would any chance of identifying his attacker.
Better to save a life than lose both,Fitzwilliam thought grimly.
He knelt swiftly, removing his coat and pressing it firmly around the wound to staunch the bleeding. Wickham groaned, his eyelids fluttering, but he was too weak to resist.
“Hold on, man,” Fitzwilliam muttered. “You’re not leaving this world tonight.”
Once he had secured the makeshift bandage, Fitzwilliam rose. He needed help, and he needed it fast. His mind raced, recalling the stable boy he had seen earlier, slumped in sleep outside.
“A horse,” he whispered to himself. “I need a horse.”
