Chapter 29

Sudbury House, London

The earl had always liked Kent. He had learned of the man first from Henry's letters, pleased to read his son had found an intelligent and efficient batman. This positive impression had been reinforced upon meeting him, and all the earl's encounters with Kent since had provided further reinforcement. He had been happy to use his influence on the man's behalf to secure him a position at Bow Street, confident he would make a good Runner.

He had summoned Kent to inquire after his investigation into Lord Neston, and was surprised by the look of him as he came in. Kent had always carried himself with a goodly confidence, and now it seemed that confidence was gone.

"Good day to you, Mr. Kent – please sit. I wanted to see if you had made any progress in your investigation."

Kent sighed, his shoulders slumping still further. "I haven't, my lord. I've found nothing. Not one thing."

Ah. The lack of progress was wearing on the young man's confidence, the earl thought. Kent was the sort of man who was accustomed to succeeding at whatever he attempted, and a lack of early success in this new position of his must have worn on him.

"Well, we have given you a very tricky case, Kent. It would not surprise me if it takes some time to find the first thread to pull, but soon enough you'll have the whole knot unravelled, I am sure of it," said the earl. "I cannot say I was well pleased to hear you were leaving my son's service, but I am glad to have someone with your intelligence and your discretion on this."

Rather than appearing reassured, Kent looked still more discomfited. He said nothing.

"Mr. Kent, what is the matter? Something I just said did not sit right with you, and I would wish to know what it is."

"Well, my lord, none of us were well pleased by my leaving the general's service. Not you, not him, and not me. But I'm to wed, and he couldn't pay me sufficient to afford a wife, much less children."

"Oh – I had thought Bow Street was the career you wanted, not a necessity," said the earl, his mind racing. "If I had known, I would have increased my son's stipend so it was sufficient to afford your marrying."

"My lord, forgive me for speaking plainly, but it weren't so much his stipend now that was the problem, as what it would be in the future."

The earl sighed. He had never told Henry of the change in his expectations, somehow afraid that becoming the heir would corrupt his second son, just as it had his first. As a result, it seemed Henry had relinquished a valued employee rather than Kent's leaving by choice. If Kent wished to stay with their family and marry, the earl's mind had landed on what position he might fill: Faraby, Willicot's steward, was almost as long in the tooth as the earl, albeit of a healthier constitution. Kent would make a fine replacement if he wished to return to the Fitzwilliam family's employ.

He was about to ask Kent whether he would be interested in such a position when Adams came in with a letter, saying, "It came in the regular post, sir, but the sender wrote "urgent" above the address."

The earl knew by the hand that the sender had been Darcy, and he took the letter from his butler with deep concern. Darcy was not the sort to feign greater importance for a matter than was necessary. If anything, the earl thought, his nephew was more the opposite.

He slid his thumb under the wax and unfolded the paper, reading quickly until shock prompted him to drop the letter on his desk and whisper, "Henry – no – my God."

"My lord?" asked Kent, concerned.

"My son – my – General Fitzwilliam has been attacked – badly wounded. He – they are not sure whether he will wake."

Kent appeared as shocked as he, the man's eyes filling with tears as he said, "No, no, he will wake. The general's a strong one."

"I must go to him," said the earl. Another trip north so soon might well be his last, but that did not matter. If it was the end of him – if he never returned to town – still, he needed to go. Henry needed him, and there was nothing more important in his life than Henry. "Mr. Kent, I would very much like for you to accompany me north. My son will need your help, at this time. I see no reason why Bow Street should not consider your going part of your investigation, although if you wish to remain employed with my family, there are possibilities we should discuss. Will you come with me?"

"Yes, my lord, I will."

The earl directed Kent to pass on his order that the carriage should be ready to depart at first light, and his things packed for a stay of some length at Pemberley. Looking deeply troubled, Kent departed, leaving the earl to solitary worry. It was not that he had never contemplated losing Henry before: it had been on his mind during the entirety of Henry's tenure in the army. He should have been safe, here at home in England. Safe at Pemberley, of all places. For some years it had seemed a certainty that the earl would die before his beloved son, and now that certainty had been snatched from him.

Henry. God, no, you cannot take Henry from me. I need him. The world needs him.

The earl laid his head in his hands and wept, his chest aching as poor Henry's must have ached, crying as he had not done since Eleanor had died. In the time since Darcy had posted the letter, Henry might have joined his poor mother. The earl sobbed at the thought, and felt a longing to join them.

Not yet, though. Henry might still live, and he needed to hope.

The earl raised his watery eyes to the chairs before his desk, recalling all the times little Henry would creep into the study and clamber up to a seat there. The boy had always seemed sheepish about his presence, as though expecting his father to order him from the room. The earl never had, though. He had always loved that Henry wished to be with him.

There were footsteps at the door, and then Ashbourne walked in. The earl wiped at his eyes and sighed.

"What is the matter, father?" Ashbourne asked.

"Henry – Henry was attacked, at Pemberley. He is badly wounded."

"Oh! Wounded? My God!"

"I am travelling there at first light, to see him."

"I will go with you, father. I have nothing pressing here in town."

The earl gazed at his eldest son. How long had it been since he had last seen Ashbourne? It had been days, the earl thought – it was not uncommon for Ashbourne to come and go as he pleased, and he had thought nothing of his son's absence.

"No, stay in town for now. I may need someone here to attend to matters of business."

"You have other men for that, papa. I should go with you," said Ashbourne. "My only brother has been stabbed – I should be there for him."

The earl felt a coldness seize his heart. He had told no one that Henry had been stabbed. Could Ashbourne have learned of the change in the earl's will? If so, he would have motive enough to try to kill Henry. The earl glanced down at the letter before him, searching for the name to confirm something: Wickham. The son of old Darcy's steward, the man serving as a clerk at the earl's solicitor. The man who might somehow have managed to access his will, to inform Ashbourne of what was within.

"No. Stay here," said the earl. "After all, you only just returned to town. Where have you been, anyway?"

"Out in Twickenham. Tom Hawley's villa."

The coldness crept up the earl's neck, a clammy sweat forming on his brow. He had seen Hawley at Boodle's two days ago. He watched his eldest son, forcing himself to keep the hatred and anger from his countenance. It was certain, now: the man before him had tried to take the dearest thing left in his life.

Ashbourne went to the brandy decanter and poured himself a generous glass. That decanter was likely the only reason Ashbourne had come into the study in the first place, the earl thought bitterly. The glass was quickly drained, and Ashbourne poured another.

"Let me know if you change your mind about my going with you to Pemberley, father," he said, exiting the study, glass in hand.

The earl exhaled, laying his hands down on the desk. Cain and Abel, in his own family. And it had been his fault. It had been right to change the inheritance over to Henry, but wrong to withhold it from him. Poor Henry had been brutally stabbed by his own brother, with no notion as to why.

And now Ashbourne must be dealt with. There was the proper route, the lawful route, ending with Ashbourne hanging from a silken noose and their family overcome by still more scandal. Or there was the quiet way. The earl knew as soon as he considered it that he preferred the quiet way.

Either way, at least one of the earl's sons would die. Ashbourne could not live. Not after what he had done. It would be better to leave everything to Darcy – if it came to that – than to try to keep one final heir alive. The earl prayed it would not come to that. He breathed deeply, summoning the strength for what came next.

The lowest drawer in the desk was locked; the earl carried the key with him always, for the drawer contained his most critical papers. Inside was a copy of his latest will, the one that had inadvertently condemned poor Henry. There was also a jar of arsenic. He had bought it last year during a particularly bad bout of illness, longing for a permanent escape from the pain. But he had not been able to bring himself to use it. Now, he wished he had. If he had died, no one would have suspected that something had hastened his end; no coroner would have ruled it self-murder. Henry would have inherited. Henry would be alive, hale, hearty.

The earl unlocked the drawer, and pulled out the jar. The cork was stuck and it took him some effort to withdraw it, his hands shaking violently as he did so. With effort, he rose and carried the jar over to the brandy decanter. Pulling out the stopper, he laid it upon the table and took a deep breath, willing his hands to be still. Now was the critical moment. Now was the most critical moment left in his life. The earl bit his lip and poured the arsenic into the decanter, a steady stream of powder. Some of it clung to the edges of the decanter, and he replaced the stopper and swirled the brandy around to remove any last traces of powder, mixing it into the liquid as he did so. Gazing at it, he determined the brandy looked no different than it had before, and studied the wood of the cabinet to see if any powder had spilled. It had not.

There was the empty bottle, to dispose of. He considered pitching it into the fire, but was not sure the glass would burn sufficiently. He could lock it back in the drawer, but if there was an inquest and he was suspected, they might search the study. So instead the earl carried it with him, first upstairs to his bedchamber, and later tucked away beneath his waistcoat, the lump largely hidden by his greatcoat as he gained the post-chaise the next morning. At Stony Stratford, he tossed it out the carriage window into the River Ouse, his heart still filled with hate towards his eldest son.