Wickham’s eyes darkened, clearly irritated by Mr Bennet’s flippant tone. “You think this is a game, old man?” he hissed. “I assure you, the stakes are far higher than you imagine.”
Darcy tried to stay upright, his vision blurring as he swayed to his feet. The pain in his head had worsened, a relentless pounding that made every sound sharper, every movement more jarring. He could barely focus, but he had to. He had to protect Elizabeth and Mr Bennet.
Wickham clearly noticed the way Darcy swayed, his steps uncertain. “You do not look well, Darcy,” he said casually. “You ought to be resting. I am more than capable of seeing to the lady’s comforts.”
Darcy watched Wickham’s gaze flick to Elizabeth, and a cold dread settled in his stomach. Wickham’s expression softened, his lips curving into a smile that might have seemed polite to anyone who did not know him better. He stepped closer to Elizabeth, extending his hand as though to offer her assistance.
“Miss Bennet, forgive my earlier brusqueness. I only wish to ensure your safety, you understand.”
Darcy’s pulse quickened. He could see the calculated look in Wickham’s eyes, the way he was positioning himself. Elizabeth hesitated, glancing at Darcy for reassurance. Darcy wanted to shout at her to keep her distance, but his voice caught in his throat, a wave of dizziness nearly toppling him over.
Wickham’s hand moved suddenly, gripping Elizabeth’s arm and twisting it behind her back. Her gasp of pain cut through Darcy like a knife. He lurched forward instinctively, but his legs buckled beneath him. Wickham’s smile remained in place, his tone still deceptively smooth. “You see, Darcy, it is quite simple. You do as I say, and no one gets hurt.”
“Leave her out of this, Wickham!” Darcy growled, his voice hoarse with desperation.
But Wickham ignored him, pushing Elizabeth ahead of him. “Oh, I think not,” he said, his tone mockingly light. “You see, you and I are going to have a little chat, and she’s going to make sure you stay... cooperative.”
Darcy’s vision swam, and he fought to stay conscious. He could feel himself slipping, his legs weakening. He looked at Mr Bennet, who was already moving to support him, his expression grim. A male servant rushed forward to help, and together, they kept Darcy on his feet as Wickham forced Elizabeth toward the door.
“Bring him,” Wickham ordered over his shoulder. “I want to keep an eye on all of you.”
The room was filling with smoke, the air thick and choking. Darcy could barely breathe, his chest tight with panic and pain. He could see the fear in Elizabeth’s eyes, even as she tried to remain calm, tried to stay strong. Her courage only fueled his determination. He would not let Wickham win.
As they stumbled toward the door, the servants began to act, moving subtly, quietly, trying to create as much chaos as possible without drawing Wickham’s attention. Darcy could see Mrs Nicholls in the corner of his eye, directing the maids and footmen bringing in buckets of water, but… none of them were going towards the scullery, where the fire was supposed to be. She was up to something, he knew it, but what?
The shouts outside grew louder, frantic voices merging with the crackle of fire and the sharp, acrid smell of smoke that now filled the air. The commotion was intensifying, with servants rushing past the door, their faces smeared with soot, carrying buckets of water, their footsteps pounding against the wooden floors in hurried, erratic rhythms. Darcy could feel the heat building from the growing fire, a suffocating warmth that pressed against his skin and made it hard to breathe.
Wickham’s composure began to crack. He barked orders at the two workmen who had accompanied him, his voice rising above the din, but there was a tremor of uncertainty beneath his authoritative tone. The chaos was taking its toll on him, eroding the veneer of control he so desperately clung to.
Darcy could feel his own strength waning, the dizziness creeping up on him, threatening to pull him under. His chest tightened, and his breaths came in shallow gasps. But the sight of Elizabeth, her arm wrenched behind her back in Wickham’s grip, stirred a fury and desperation that cut through his haze. He could not let Wickham take her. He had to act, and quickly.
Darcy looked at Mr Bennet and the servant who stood beside him. “Help me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the noise, his eyes fixed on Elizabeth. “We need… a chance.”
Mr Bennet nodded, his usually indifferent demeanour is now steely with determination. Darcy saw a flicker of resolve in his eyes—this was not the time for his usual sarcasm or indolence. He understood the gravity of the moment and what was at stake. Mr Bennet shifted slightly, his body moving closer to the door, adopting a position that was deceptively casual yet poised to spring into action.
Darcy drew in a shaky breath, every muscle in his body tensing. His head swam, the pain throbbing in time with his heartbeat, but he forced himself to focus. This might be their only chance. He had to create a distraction.
Just as Wickham reached the doorway, yanking Elizabeth with him, Darcy let himself collapse forward in a controlled fall that scattered bodies ahead of him. Mr Bennet and the footman both stumbled as Darcy’s weight collided with the backs of their legs, their bodies crashing into the doorframe with a heavy thud.
“What the—” Wickham spun around, momentarily losing his grip on Elizabeth as he tried to make sense of the sudden chaos.
That brief lapse in concentration was all Darcy needed. With a surge of adrenaline, he hurled himself forward, colliding with Wickham, his shoulder slamming into Wickham’schest with enough force to knock him back against the wall. Elizabeth twisted free, wrenching her arm out of Wickham’s loosened grip, and Mr Bennet lunged forward, pulling her behind him. The servant rushed to Darcy’s side, steadying him as he swayed, the room spinning around him.
Wickham recovered quickly, his face a mask of rage. “You think you can make a fool of me, Darcy?” he shouted, his voice rising above the noise. “What do you think you stand to win? You are dying!”
Darcy’s vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges, but he planted his feet firmly, refusing to yield. “This is not about winning, Wickham,” he rasped, each word a struggle against the pain that threatened to overwhelm him. “It is about getting out of here alive.”
The smoke was thicker now, stinging his eyes and filling his lungs with every breath. Servants were dashing past, coughing and shouting, trying to keep the fire from spreading further. Wickham’s eyes darted around the smoke-filled hallway, his advantage slipping away with every passing second. “Very well,” he muttered, his voice strained, his composure cracking. “We are leaving. But Miss Bennet comes with me.”
Wickham lunged for Elizabeth again, but this time, Mr Bennet and the servant were ready. They stepped into his path, forming a wall between him and his quarry. Yet, Elizabeth was not content to merely stand by. Her eyes flashed with defiance as she stepped closer to Wickham, her chin tilted upwards, a sharp rebuke poised on her lips.
“Really, Mr Wickham,” Elizabeth drawled, her tone dripping with sarcasm that cut through the chaos like a blade, “is this your grand plan to prove your manhood? Bullying women and elderly men? How bold you are. Truly, the very model of a gentleman.”
Wickham’s face flushed with anger, his smug expression slipping as her words hit their mark. “You know nothing of what is at stake here, Miss Bennet,” he snapped, though his voice wavered ever so slightly.
Elizabeth arched a brow, her eyes narrowing with contempt. “Oh, I know plenty,” she retorted, a sharp edge to her voice. “I know you are nothing more than a bought man with a tremendous sense of your own inferiority, trying desperately to play the part of a gentleman. But do go on, Mr Wickham, show us how a true coward carries himself in a crisis.”
Wickham’s eyes narrowed further, fury sparking in his gaze as he glared at her. “I would watch my tongue if I were you, Miss Bennet,” he hissed.
