“Although you are all woman, my Love, you are not the type of female to have feminine whims.” Darcy smiled at her, but Elizabeth’s face said she doubted his sincerity. “Please, Elizabeth. I must know your mind. I concede my own bafflement. I have dwelt on what is happening in this house, and I can see no end to it.”

“My supposed insights will not solve the mystery, my Husband.” She allowed her index finger to trace the outline of his lips.“I simply saw the fault of your suppositions.”

“Then come.” He took her by the hand and led Elizabeth to a chair near the fire. He sat and brought her to his lap. Pulling her close, he settled his wife in his arms. “Tell me what you saw that I did not.”

“It-it is nothing of genius,” she stammered. Elizabeth paused, feeling somehow inept in her husband’s presence, but when Darcy remained silent, she continued.“Take young Lawson. Even without Georgiana’s story, I knew that he had not committed suicide.”

“And how is that?” An eyebrow shot up as he weighed what she had said.

Elizabeth shifted her position so that she might command her husband’s full attention. “Let us look at the facts,” she stated. “First, in order for Lawson to plunge from the window, he would have needed to step up to the opening, catch the shutters, and step back. Then Lawson would have had to take another step forward, undo the latch, and open the window. Then he would have had to walk a few paces back, turn, run toward the window, and fling himself to the ground. Do you not see the ludicrous position in which you found Lawson? A man set on suicide would not plunge from a window if he literally had to step up three times to throw himself from the opening. A man’s nerve would not allow him to step forward, step back, step forward, step back, and then step forward again in order to jump.” Excitement now filled her words.“Besides, even if Lawson would have had the nerve to jump from the third floor, he would not have been found lying face down and spread out like an eagle in flight. A man, no matter how desperate—even desperate enough to take his own life—would fight for that same life as he fell through the air. He would not simply spread his arms and legs as if he were a bird and welcome the impact that might kill him. He would have split-second questions about whether he did the right thing. He would try to stop the outcome he had chosen. Such a man would not be so positioned. He would need to be unconscious and pushed from the window in order to be found in the position in which you described Lawson.”

“Really? Anything else?” Darcy questioned, awestruck.

“Actually, there is one more important fact that you overlooked.”

“And what is that?”

“Well, Mr. Darcy,” she said with sarcasm, “you forgot that Lawson was a devout Catholic.The boy would have considered the act of suicide more damning to his soul than the theft of a few household items. He could have offered retribution for the dishonor of the thefts,” she declared with certainty. “However, no absolution could be offered for the taking of his own life.”

Darcy sat perfectly still, Elizabeth’s assumptions weighing heavy on him. “You saw the scene with clearer eyes than I,” he muttered.

Elizabeth hid her triumph.“Men and women see life and death differently.Women always see the emotion associated with each act. It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us.Those emotions give us a different perspective.”

“What else?” he asked impulsively.

“Mrs. Jenkinson’s death,” she said.

He caught Elizabeth’s hands in his; he rubbed his over hers, trying to warm her slender fingers. “What of the lady’s demise?” Darcy asked quietly, steeling himself for embarrassment.

She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed the palm. “I love you, Fitzwilliam.” She held his hand to her cheek in quiet devotion. “Maybe we should simply find some sleep.You are exhausted, my Husband.”

“I would hear your opinions first, if you please, Mrs. Darcy.”

Elizabeth let out a sigh of exasperation. “If you insist, Mr. Darcy.” She regretted the implanted tone as the words escaped her lips; she recognized the tenuous grounds upon which she stood. She would be a fool to prove her husband inept-a fool to destroy her marital happiness just to prove a point.“Although I believe,” she began slowly,“that the stranger you seek was in Mrs. Jennings’s kitchen the afternoon of the poisoning, I cannot imagine the phantom footman placed arsenic in one cup of cider and let Fate guide it to Mrs. Jenkinson’s lips.”

“But the man threatened the lady.” Darcy played the devil’s advocate.

“Exactly.” Elizabeth waited for him to draw the same conclusions as she, but when her husband did not follow her thoughts, she offered up a few hints. “It is not logical, Fitzwilliam.” She waited again. “This is the same man who stole a complete set of bedding under your servants’ noses.” Still silence. “Whoever this man may be, he would leave nothing to chance. If he wanted to specifically kill Miss de Bourgh’s companion, he would devise a practically foolproof plan to do so. He evidently has access to this house’s many chambers. Poisoning would not be his mode for murder. He is too ingenious to let Fate guide his hand.”

A deeper silence filled the room.“Then you think there is more to the lady’s death than a reported threat from our mysterious staff member?”

“I cannot say what all the fuss might be. I have made no assumptions. But the facts do not equal such a neatly packaged death. If you recall, Mrs. Jenkinson offered me the poisoned cup before she drank it herself. If Fate had taken a twist, it would be I in that cold attic right now.”

A shiver ran down Darcy’s back. “Do not even speak such words,” he cautioned. “I could not live without you, Elizabeth.”

“Of course, you could.You would remain the master of Pemberley.”

Darcy brought her to him, needing to feel her closeness. “Breathing is not necessarily living, Elizabeth. I never truly lived until you defiantly breezed into my world.”

“Nor I you,” she whispered close to his ear.“I should never have fought you.”

“On that point, I would agree.We wasted valuable time that we should have spent loving each other.”

Elizabeth teased him. “I am ashamed that women are so simple to offer war where they should kneel for peace, or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway, when they are bound to serve, love, and obey.”

“Ah, The Taming of the Shrew.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Shakespeare is correct. Neither a man nor a woman should claim dominion over the other. I should listen not only to my heart but also my head.” He stood suddenly, lifting Elizabeth in his arms. “Will you permit me to carry you to our bed,Vixen?”

“I thought you would never ask, Mr. Darcy.” She laced her arms around his neck. Resting her cheek against his chest, Elizabeth sighed contentedly.

Nearly at the top of the stairs’ first flight, Darcy paused long enough to nuzzle behind her ear. “I need to limit all those cups of chocolate you have devoured of late,” he murmured teasingly as his tongue circled Elizabeth’s ear.

“What is wrong, my Husband? Married life making you soft?” Elizabeth taunted.

He renewed his efforts and turned toward their private quarters. “I might offer you the same criticism, my Love.Your sweet tooth has grown demanding of late.” His words struck a chord, and Elizabeth squirmed to release his hold, but Darcy tightened his embrace. He leaned against the inside wall’s painted brocade to steady himself. “Elizabeth, it was a poor attempt at humor.” He whispered so as not to wake his guests.

“Put me down, Fitzwilliam,” she insisted in hushed tones.

“Do not…do not pull away from me,” he pleaded.

“Put me down, Fitzwilliam.” Elizabeth repeated.

Slowly, he lowered her to the floor. “Elizabeth?”

But his wife turned and walked purposely away from him, closing and locking her chamber door behind her.

The moment of passion had died—killed by an unwise remark. He rushed to his own door, sending his valet away with just a nod of his head. Darcy did not pause; instead, he traversed the distance between his and Elizabeth’s shared dressing rooms and entered her quarters without knocking. “Eliza—”The sight of her froze Darcy in mid stride. She was stretched out across her four-poster, wearing nothing but a smile and her waist-length auburn hair draped about her shoulders.“I-I thought you angry with me,” he stammered. His eyes drank their fill.

“Men are so obtuse!” she declared.“I came to my room because what I have to say to you could not be said in a hallway with Pemberley footmen every twenty feet.”

Darcy edged closer. “And what would that be, Mrs. Darcy?”

“I do not have a sweet tooth, my Husband.” She rose to her knees, and Elizabeth lightly rested her fingers on her stomach.“But your child certainly does.”

Darcy’s smile disappeared, and a serious frown wrinkled his brow. Elizabeth watched-pure discontent testing her resolve. Darcy’s eyes rested on her fingers; he saw nothing but the way her hand cupped a very slight bulge below her waist. “Fitzwilliam?” she rasped, “did you hear me?”

A nod of his head was all Darcy managed. His eyes remained on Elizabeth’s body—the rise of her stomach and the swell of her breasts. He slept beside her each night and had not noticed! “How is it possible?” he murmured.

Elizabeth chuckled. “Surely you do not need for me to explain the mechanics of the act, my Husband.”

Darcy snorted. “I meant…I should have realized.”

Elizabeth giggled. “This is surreal, Fitzwilliam. I assumed that you would be more demonstrative.”