Chapter 48
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
D arcy’s stomach plummeted at the sight of his beloved Elizabeth in the grip of his erstwhile friend. Panic threatened to overwhelm him until he heard her sweet voice.
“Are you sure this weapon is real, Mr Wickham? It looks as if it belongs on the Drury Lane stage. It is quite the… work of art ,” Elizabeth uttered, trembling in fear, enunciating the last words with wide eyes trained on Darcy.
“Oh, it’s the real thing, Miss Elizabeth, I assure you. This weapon is the finest of its kind, straight from Davies Street. Perfectly balanced. A hair trigger. And just so blasted handsome. Wouldn’t you agree, Darcy?”
As Wickham spoke, Darcy inspected the pistol, recognising clearly that it was one of his father’s. Wickham must have taken it from Darcy’s study.
“A work of art, indeed,” was all Darcy could say. “Is this your next gambit, then? For someone who claims to hate me, it is becoming rather clear that you wish to become me. Wearing my clothes. Even appropriating my duelling pistols.”
“These should have been my pistols!” Wickham retorted. “Why would your father have shown me such devotion, provided for me a gentleman’s education, if he had not intended me to become a gentleman of means? He could have left me tens of thousands, and you would not have felt the difference. Your father loved me better than you, would have given me half his fortune if you had not poisoned him against me.”
“You did not even know my father. He would be sick to see the depths to which you have sunk. George Darcy would never have wished another person dead.”
“This pistol says otherwise,” Wickham said, his pitch rising with the colour in his cheeks.
Elizabeth’s hands gripped her captor’s arm so tightly her knuckles were white with the strain. Darcy was so proud of her; she was being so brave amid all this chaos.
He watched Wickham closely, noting Fitzwilliam’s outstretched arm in his periphery. Wickham’s eyes shifted from the weapon in Fitzwilliam’s hands to Darcy’s face. How was he going to get them out of this situation without anyone getting hurt? He looked to his cousin. Steadfast, faithful Richard Fitzwilliam, the one man Darcy had always trusted. Sometimes trust was more than merited.
Just then Elizabeth cried out, bringing Darcy’s attention back to Wickham. He had tightened his grip, and the barrel of the gun was digging into the flesh of her temple.
“If you do not want her blood on your hands, Colonel, I suggest you put down your weapon.” Wickham’s breathing was shaky. He must have known his situation was precarious.
“Do not do it, Fitzwilliam,” Darcy commanded with confidence. Fitzwilliam did not waver.
“Nigel, grab that gun,” Wickham shouted.
Without a second thought, Fitzwilliam swung his arm to point directly at Nigel. “I would not do that if I were you,” he warned.
“Go on, Nigel,” came a female voice near the door. “Richard here secretly hates violence. He just wants to hide away in a cottage with his bright star .” At that, she cackled heartlessly.
Clearly, Mrs Younge had deceived Fitzwilliam in her affections, and now she had the audacity to throw his own words back in his face. Darcy was disgusted. Would the colonel falter at her humiliation?
No. Fitzwilliam would stand for what was right down to the very death.
His flintlock still aimed at Nigel, Fitzwilliam glanced at Darcy as if to remind him of what was at stake. Darcy knew the stakes. He gave his cousin half a smirk and a shake of the head, after which he boldly grasped the second weapon from the case on the desk.
Lifting the pistol to Nigel and signalling Fitzwilliam to guard Wickham, Darcy ordered him to detain the harpy beside him.
“Nigel, you will do no such thing,” Wickham said sharply. “I am the one paying you, you stupid wretch!”
Fitzwilliam, never taking his eyes from Wickham, moved his head towards Nigel and argued coldly, “He cannot pay you if he is dead.”
Nigel hesitated, then clasped one meaty hand around Mrs Younge’s forearm. When she fought to free herself, the hulk wrapped both arms around her torso, effectively rendering everything but her devil tongue motionless.
This was the last straw for Wickham.
He began screaming curses, waving the weapon before him erratically, and promising, “I will marry Georgiana! And I will be master of Pemberley! And neither of you is going to stop me! Now, move !”
His grip on Elizabeth’s neck tightened and he pushed her towards the door, as if Darcy would just let him pass with her ensnared in his arms. The sound of Elizabeth’s struggling tore at Darcy. When he did not move out of their way, Wickham returned the barrel to her head.
Before he could make another threat, Elizabeth choked out, “Are you sure this is your father’s pistol, Mr Darcy?”
Darcy nodded. At that, Elizabeth lifted her left arm and thrust her elbow into Wickham’s ribcage so hard that he lost hold of her. Though he grasped after her, she made it safely out of his reach and into Darcy’s arms. Darcy took only a moment to squeeze her to him in relief before pushing her behind him to safety.
Wickham’s lips curled in unadulterated fury. Before Darcy could register what was happening, he saw his father’s pistol rising towards his heart, heard its soft click, then a deafening report in his left ear. His cousin’s hand held the smoking weapon steady, though it was clear from Fitzwilliam’s countenance that he had taken no pleasure in firing it. The putrid smell of spent gunpowder assaulted him just as Elizabeth’s cry of shock registered. As if time had slowed, George Wickham, his father’s favourite and his own boyhood companion, looked up at Darcy with astonishment in his eyes, then fell to the floor, a gaping hole in the middle of his chest.
“Wickham!” Darcy rushed over to him. On his knees at Wickham’s side, he took his face in his hands and shouted his name, as if the sheer volume of his appeal could somehow restore life to his former friend. He sensed but could not feel Elizabeth crouching next to him, her arms and face resting upon his back, whether in an effort to comfort him or to be comforted, he could not discern. He knew nothing in that moment but sheer grief.
He had not wished it to end this way.
All noises in the room ceased. At length, the blackness that had surrounded him began to dissipate, and he could perceive new voices—a booming baritone demanding to know what was happening, a lady enquiring the same before fainting with a shriek, and finally a small voice whose horrified gasp was enough to crush Darcy’s already groaning heart.
Georgiana .