“It seems there is quite a commotion. Mr Wickham has just arrived, and he does not look pleased. There is smoke everywhere, and it is causing a great deal of chaos.”
Darcy’s heart sank. This was the worst possible timing. He glanced at the open door, then back at Mr Jones. “You need to leave. Now. And make sure no one sees you.”
“But Mr Darcy—”
“Go, Jones,” Darcy snapped, his voice low but firm. “Do not let Wickham see you. Get out of here while you still can.”
The apothecary hesitated for a moment, then nodded, slipping quietly out of the room and closing the door softly behind him. Darcy listened to the faint sound of his footsteps receding down the hallway, then turned his attention back to the noise outside.
The commotion outside reached his ears first—voices raised, the hurried steps of servants, and then the unmistakable burn of smoke in his eyes. Darcy’s grip on the armrest tightened as he heard the distinct click of footsteps approaching. Wickham’s footsteps. Darcy’s stomach twisted. The door swung open, and there he stood, wet from the rain, his expression dark and furious. Wickham’s eyes darted around the room, then fixed on Darcy, a sneer forming on his lips.
“Darcy,” Wickham said, his voice steady but edged with irritation as he stepped into the room. “Did you really think sending me to Longbourn would keep me away for long? You underestimate me, as always. I know every trick you would try to pull—by now, I would have thought you’d learn that.”
Darcy forced himself to sit straighter, every muscle protesting. He had no intention of letting Wickham see his weakness. “Obviously, you did not know as much as you thought you did,” he replied, his voice steadier than he felt. “But it kept you away long enough, did it not?”
“Long enough for what, Darcy? You are still here and in worse shape than before, if that sickly sweat on your brow is any indication. What did you hope to gain?”
Darcy swallowed, trying to force his vision back to singularity, but there was nothing he could do about the tremor in his hand. “Little enough, I suppose.”
“Where is Bennet?” Wickham stalked closer, towering over Darcy’s chair. “You know—you must know. Where have you sent him, Darcy? Off on some errand to undermine me with the neighbourhood?”
Darcy’s breathing eased a little. So, Wickham still did not know that Mr Bennet and Elizabeth had been in his carriage. They remained safe. “How should I know? I scarcely know the man, and I am certainly not his keeper.”
Wickham’s sneer deepened, but before he could respond, a servant rushed in behind him. “Mr Wickham, there’s a fire in the scullery! We’re trying to contain it, but the kitchens are almost entirely blocked!”
“A fire?” Wickham’s eyes flashed with irritation, then suspicion. “Who started it?”
The servant looked uneasy. “I—I don’t know, sir. It was an accident…”
Wickham dismissed the servant with a curt wave. “See that it is handled,” he snapped before turning back to Darcy. “I suppose you had something to do with this as well?”
Darcy managed a faint smile despite the pounding in his head. “I have been here the entire time, Wickham, incapacitated as you see. I hardly think I could orchestrate a fire from this chair.”
Wickham opened his mouth to retort, but before he could speak, another figure appeared in the doorway—Sir Anthony Mortimer. Darcy’s heart sank further.
“Well, well, Darcy,” Sir Anthony drawled, his tone dripping with false civility. “You’ve been quite the busy man. It seems we’ve found some unexpected guests of yours.”
Darcy’s breath hitched.Guests?His mind raced. They could not mean—
His stomach lurched as the door swung open wider, revealing Elizabeth and Mr Bennet standing just outside the threshold. Elizabeth’s face was taut with worry, her eyes darting between him and Wickham. Mr Bennet, on the other hand, wore a bemused expression as though he found the whole situation mildly entertaining. Darcy’s heart sank. How had they been discovered? They should have been well on their way to safety by now.
Wickham’s eyes widened with surprise, the confident mask slipping for just a moment before he regained his composure. “Well, well,” he said slowly, his tone sharpening as he assessed the situation. “What have we here?”
“They were hiding in Darcy’s carriage,” Mortimer replied. Darcy’s hair stood on the back of his neck at the way Mortimer’s eyes were raking down Elizabeth’s body. “Surprised you did not find them yourself, Wickham. And the lady here thought to make for the window when the servants reported smoke. I only just caught her as she was climbing out.”
Wickham’s gaze snapped back to Darcy, then he rubbed his jaw and began to pace round the Bennets. “Darcy,” he murmured, “I confess myself humbled. You yet have the capacity for surprise. So, Miss Bennet and her esteemed father, hiding in Darcy’s carriage like thieves in the night. I must admit, this is quite the unexpected reunion.”
He forced his expression to remain neutral, though his insides were churning. “Wickham,” Darcy said, his voice steady but edged with warning, “leave them out of this. They have nothing to do with our dispute.”
Wickham’s eyes narrowed, the wheels visibly turning in his mind. “Nothing to do with it? I find that hard to believe, Darcy. Why else would they be here, hidden away in your carriage? Unless…” He turned a calculating gaze toward Mr Bennet. “Unless there’s more to this than meets the eye.”
“It appears Mr Bennet might have publicly changed his allegiance, don’t you think, Wickham?” Sir Anthony asked. “And as for Mr Darcy, well, perhaps Miss Bennet is even more… persuasive than you thought.”
Elizabeth’s face flushed, but she held her ground, her chin lifting defiantly. “You know nothing of the circumstances,” she said, her voice calm but firm.
Wickham’s gaze flicked to Elizabeth, then back to Darcy, his mouth curling into a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Oh, I think I know enough,” he drawled. “You fell for Darcy—heaven only knows why, for I thought you utterly despised the man. Unless you are fonder of coin than I had given you credit for— and your father did whatever you wished him to do.”
Mr Bennet’s lips quirked into a small, ironic smile. “I assure you, Mr Wickham, I am no one’s pawn. Not Darcy’s, nor my daughter’s, nor yours. And I came here of my own accord—more for the entertainment, I dare say, than any political machination.”
