Chapter 22 #2
Elizabeth was in the upstairs music room, wiping dust from a high shelf while Darcy swept the hearth. The windows were open to let in air, and the scent of coal smoke drifted faintly on the breeze.
Then came the shout.
“Fire!”
Elizabeth’s cloth slipped from her hands. Her heart jolted.
Darcy shot upright. “Stay here,” he ordered, already halfway to the door. “I will find out what is happening.”
He disappeared through the door, leaving her alone. She returned to her work, her thoughts consumed by what could be happening below.
I do not smell any smoke; perhaps it is just something near the stables or in the kitchen.
And then she heard it.
The sound of the latch.
She turned. Too late.
Wickham.
“There you are,” he said. “I have been wondering where you were hiding.”
Elizabeth’s blood ran cold. “Sir, I was only—”
He stepped into the room and shut the door with a deliberate click, his hand twisting the key with a snap. The key vanished into his coat pocket.
“It is amazing, is it not,” he said lazily, his lips curling. “how quickly the threat of fire will clear the corridors.”
Elizabeth backed toward the window, the air suddenly too thick to breathe, though there was no actual smoke.
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice low and tight, then immediately chastised herself. Do not provoke him, Lizzy!
Wickham chuckled. “A moment alone. We have hardly had the pleasure.”
“You are drunk.”
“And you are lovely,” he said, stepping closer. “Even prettier in this light. No need to tremble, little maid. I only want a kiss.”
He reached for her with a swaying step, and the scent of brandy hit her like a wall. “I must say,” he murmured, reaching out as though to touch her cheek, “my wife has been very selfish. Keeping such a pretty thing locked away.”
Elizabeth moved, putting a chair between them. “Do not come any closer.”
“Oh, come now.” His voice dropped. “Your husband is not here to protect you. And I doubt he is half the man you need.”
Her mind raced. The door was blocked. The bell pull was on the far wall.
Her eyes locked on his. “I will scream.”
He laughed. “And bring the house down? Why not? Let everyone know how your heart races when I walk into the room.”
Her hand found the edge of the side table. “You are a coward,” she said, coldly now. “You prey on women because you are too weak to face a real man.”
His eyes darkened. “Careful, darling.”
“I am not your darling.”
She gripped the table. Wickham stepped closer, his hand reaching toward her shoulder—
A sudden sound cut him off.
The crash of wood. A shout. The door behind him burst open with a splintering crack.
“Get away from her!”
Darcy.
∞∞∞
Darcy tore through the corridors toward the front door, the cry of “Fire!” still ringing in his ears. If he stood outside, he might be able to see which room had smoke coming from it.
But the moment the frigid air hit his face, however, he realized something was wrong.
There was no smoke.
His eyes narrowed. No, Wickham would never… would he?
A cold dread gripped him.
He frantically searched the windows, the irony not escaping him, hoping to see flames or smoke, for the alternative was worse.
“Blast!” he swore. “Elizabeth!”
He turned, sprinting back the way he had come.
“William, what in heaven’s name—?” Mrs. Reynolds protested as he tore past her in the foyer and made for the room where he had left Elizabeth.
He ignored her.
Skidding to halt in front of the door, he reached for the knob.
Locked.
“Eliza—Beth?” he called, too loudly, panic rising in his chest. “Beth, are you there?”
No reply.
He stepped back and slammed his shoulder into the door. Once. Twice. On the third, it burst open with a splintering crack.
The scene that met him turned his blood to ice.
Elizabeth was pinned between a chair and the wall, her eyes wide with terror. Wickham stood over her, unsteady on his feet, a sickening leer on his face. One hand was extended—reaching toward her cheek. His coat was open, cravat half-untied, and the heavy stench of brandy filled the air.
Darcy saw red.
“Get away from her!” he roared.
Wickham turned, just as Darcy crossed the space and slammed into him, fists clenched. The first blow sent him staggering into the sideboard. The second knocked the brandy flask from his hand.
“You dare touch her?” Darcy snarled, grabbing Wickham by the front of his coat and dragging him from the room. “You dare?”
Wickham shoved back, throwing a wild punch that barely grazed Darcy’s jaw—but it was enough to ignite the fury in full. They crashed into the corridor, limbs locked, struggling like beasts. Wickham slipped on the stone floor, nearly going down, but caught himself on a windowsill.
A door creaked open. Then another.
Servants peered out, eyes wide. Mrs. Wells appeared from the kitchen, a rolling pin in her hand. John emerged behind her, having run from the stables with a pitchfork. Mrs. Reynolds stood like stone at the far end of the corridor, face pale, lips pressed into a line.
Georgiana descended the stairs, bracing herself on the banister so as to not lose her balance. “George, what have you done?”
Ignoring his wife, Wickham snarled and shoved Darcy away, panting. Blood dripped from his nose.
“That is it,” he spat. “I will have you arrested for assault. You think you can strike your master and walk away from it? You are nothing. A servant.”
No one moved.
He turned, pointing at the assembled household. “Go! Someone fetch the constable! Now!”
Not a single footfall answered.
The silence was deafening.
Wickham’s eyes darted about the corridor, his bravado crumbling. He looked to Mrs. Reynolds. “You—”
She raised a brow. “I do not take my orders from a man who cannot control himself, especially not if he is so into his cups that he most likely will not remember giving them.”
A beat of silence.
Then Wickham barked a mirthless laugh. “Fine. I shall go myself.”
He straightened his coat, spitting blood onto the stone floor before casting a hateful glance toward the gathering crowd. “You will regret this,” he slurred. “Every last one of you.”
No one answered.
He stormed toward the stairs but paused at the bottom of the staircase, where Georgiana stood trembling beside Mrs. Reynolds, her pale hands clutched around the banister.
“And as for you,” he sneered, pointing a shaking finger at her, “once I’ve had my fill of that uppity servant and the maid who thinks she’s above her station, it will be your turn to act like a proper wife.”
Georgiana flinched violently, tears springing to her eyes.
“You always were a weak, pathetic little thing,” he muttered with disgust.
She lowered her head, covering her ears with her hands.
“Maybe I shall be lucky,” he drawled, looking her up and down with a cold smile. “Perhaps you’ll die in childbirth like your mother did. Then I will be free to find a real heiress.”
Georgiana gasped aloud, a broken, strangled sound. Mrs. Reynolds put her arms around her protectively, holding her upright.
Darcy’s entire body vibrated with restrained violence.
His hands ached, his heart thundered, and his stomach turned with the what-ifs that clawed through his mind.
He took a step forward, fury rising—but Elizabeth’s hand tightened around his, anchoring him.
The tension in her arm betrayed the force it was taking to hold him back.
Without another word, Wickham turned on his heel and stormed out into the cold. A few moments later, the pounding of hooves echoed through the frosted air, fading into the distance.
Only when it was silent again did anyone dare to breathe.