Frustration coursed through Elizabeth. Every instinct screamed at her to run to Darcy, to be at his side. But Mrs Nicholls’ warning stilled her. She glanced at Sir Anthony, who was pacing by the window, muttering under his breath. He had not yet figured out the exact nature of her connection to Darcy yet, but she could see the calculating look in his eyes as he glanced her way, as if piecing together a puzzle.
Finally, Sir Anthony turned his gaze fully on Mrs Nicholls. “You, there… housekeeper, whatever your name is,” he barked, his tone sharp and commanding. “Where is Mr Darcy? If he is still somewhere in this house, I demand to speak with him.”
Mrs Nicholls gave a small curtsey, her face composed, betraying nothing. “I regret, sir, that Mr Darcy is not well enough for visitors,” she said calmly, but Elizabeth could see the subtle shift in her stance, a protective determination beneath her servant’s demeanour.
Sir Anthony’s eyes narrowed, flicking between Mrs Nicholls and Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s pulse quickened, her mind racing. She needed to find a way to reach Darcy, but she couldn’t act rashly—not yet. She took a deep breath, her gaze locking onto Mrs Nicholls, silently pleading for a chance to slip away.
Mrs Nicholls straightened, her eyes darting toward the hallway where more commotion could be heard. “If you’ll excuse me, sir,” she said with another curtsey, “there appears to be a disturbance in the scullery. I must attend to it.”
Elizabeth’s eyes followed Mrs Nicholls as she moved toward the door, her mind whirring. The housekeeper was up to something—she had to be. And if Elizabeth had any hope of reaching Darcy, she needed to seize the opportunity.
As Mrs Nicholls slipped out of the room, Sir Anthony’s gaze sharpened, fixing on Elizabeth with a cold, calculating stare. He took a step closer, his lips curling into a thin smile. “Miss Bennet,” he began, his tone deceptively smooth, “it strikes me as rather curious to find you and your father in Mr Darcy’s carriage. And at such an inconvenient time. What exactly is your connection to Mr Darcy?”
Elizabeth straightened, trying to maintain her composure under his scrutinizing gaze. “Mr Darcy is a friend of the family, sir,” she replied evenly, willing herself to stay calm. “We were merely returning from a… visit.”
“A visit?” Sir Anthony’s eyes narrowed, his scepticism clear. “And does this visit have anything to do with your father’s recent interest in the election? Or perhaps you have been led to believe Mr Darcy has intentions toward you?”
Mr Bennet, who had been quietly observing the exchange, interjected with a dry laugh. “Ah, Sir Anthony, always quick to the point, I see. As for my interest in the election, it is no secret I am fond of a bit of political theatre. Though I must confess, your particular act has grown a touch stale.”
Sir Anthony’s expression darkened, but he turned his attention back to Elizabeth. “And what of Mr Darcy’s intentions? I would think a gentleman of his standing would have better things to do than meddle in local politics unless there is something—or someone—keeping him here.”
Elizabeth bristled at the insinuation, but before she could speak, her father cut in again, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Ah, intentions! A word that can mean so much orso little, depending on the context. I would wager Mr Darcy’s intentions are far nobler than yours, Sir Anthony. But then, that would not be saying much, would it?”
A flash of anger crossed Sir Anthony’s face, and he stepped closer to Mr Bennet. “You mock me, sir, but you forget your position. I could easily have you arrested for trespassing—or worse. It is not your place to question my motives.”
Mr Bennet met his glare with a wry smile, unperturbed. “And yet, here I am, doing just that. You see, Sir Anthony, I have a remarkable talent for not knowing my place.”
Sir Anthony’s patience was wearing thin, and he turned his focus back to Elizabeth, his eyes narrowing. “Miss Bennet, you will tell me what I want to know. What is the matter with Darcy? Why is he so determined to meddle in matters that do not concern him?”
Elizabeth felt her pulse quicken, but she kept her expression steady. “I am afraid I cannot answer that, sir. Mr Darcy’s actions are his own.”
Sir Anthony’s face twisted with irritation. “Very well,” he snapped. “If you will not speak, perhaps your father will reconsider his position. It would be in your best interest to ensure that Mr Darcy withdraws his objections to Sir Anthony’s candidacy. I can be quite persuasive when I need to be.”
Mr Bennet’s eyes flashed with defiance, but he merely smiled. “Persuasive? Is that what they are calling it these days? I always thought it was called something else. Perhaps you should save your breath, Sir Anthony. I doubt Mr Darcy is inclined to take advice from someone like you.”
Sir Anthony’s eyes blazed with fury, but before he could respond, a loud shout echoed from down the hall, followed by the acrid smell of smoke. Servants began rushing past the open door, their voices raised in alarm. Sir Anthony cursed under his breath, his attention momentarily diverted.
Elizabeth’s heart quickened. This was her chance. She turned to her father, giving his hand a quick, urgent squeeze. They had to move, and they had to move now.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Darcy lay slumped ina chair in Wickham’s study, his breathing ragged, his vision hazy from the pain coursing through his skull. Every noise, every movement, sent a sharp throb to his temple, but so far, he had been able to force himself to remain aware, Mr Jones’ narcotic concoctions notwithstanding. He had to stay alert, to listen. Wickham would return any moment, and he needed to be ready.
Mr Jones, the apothecary, hovered nearby, his brows furrowed with concern as he poured a small amount of laudanum into a glass. “You should have summoned me weeks ago, Mr Darcy,” he said, his tone reproachful. “This condition of yours—whatever it may be—has clearly progressed. You cannot afford to ignore it any longer.”
Darcy clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing. “I am aware of my condition, Mr Jones. More than you could possibly imagine. But I need to remain alert, not drugged. I will not be carted off to Cambridge like some helpless invalid who cannot hold his head up.”
The apothecary sighed, placing the glass on the table beside him. “Then, at least allow me to advise you on how to make the journey safely. You must rest, keep yourself calm. And you need to keep well-nourished. The stress—”
“—is unavoidable,” Darcy interrupted, his voice sharp. “And if I am to remain alert, then there will be no rest, Mr Jones. Understand this: If I am not fit to handle myself, then I will not be making that journey at all.”
Mr Jones opened his mouth to argue, but before he could speak, the distant commotion in the hallway grew louder, followed by the pungent smell of smoke seeping into the room. Darcy’s head whipped toward the door, his pulse quickening despite himself. “What in the devil is going on out there?” he muttered.
Mr Jones crossed to the window, peering out cautiously before glancing back at Darcy. “There seems to be some sort of fire somewhere, sir. And the servants… they’re running back from the well with buckets, trying to put it out.”
“Go into the hall and see what else you can find out,” Darcy ordered, struggling to push himself upright. “But do not let them see your face. If Wickham knows you were here…”
The apothecary nodded, moving quickly to the door. He opened it just enough to peer out, his body blocking Darcy from view. The noise outside grew louder—the shouts, the sound of hurried footsteps—and Mr Jones turned back to Darcy, his expression tense.
