Chapter One
Derbyshire
September 1812
“Get your hands offme!” Broadshaw shoved his opponent hard enough to send the smaller man stumbling back. The other man, dressed in the fine but mud-streaked coat of Miles Stanton’s steward, recovered quickly, his face twisted with rage.
“You will regret this, Broadshaw!” the steward barked, lunging forward. “You think you can raise a hand to a servant of Miles Stanton and walk away? I will see you hauled before the magistrate before the sun sets.”
Broadshaw surged forward again, his fists raised, but another farmer stepped between them, his arms outstretched as though to hold them both back. “Stop it, Broadshaw,” he said. “Think of your family.”
Broadshaw ignored him. “You come ontomyland and accusemyson of poaching? My boy was out with the sheep on grazing land we have used for generations! You think I will let you put up fences where they do not belong and let you take what is not yours?”
The steward adjusted his coat and pointed a finger at Broadshaw. “Your son was where he had no right to be, Broadshaw. That land belongs to Miles Stanton now, and if the boy sets foot there again, it will not be the sheep we are hauling off to market.”
Broadshaw’s face darkened, his fists trembling at his sides. “Do not think you can scare us into giving up our rights, Stanton’s man. You put your fences where the law does not allow, and then you have the gall to come here and call us thieves?”
Darcy swung down from his horse, the reins slipping from his hands as he strode toward the commotion. His presence drew the eyes of several onlookers, but no one moved to intervene. Stanton’s steward squared his shoulders and jabbed a finger toward Broadshaw.
“This man struck me, Mr. Darcy,” the steward said, his voice ringing with indignation. “You saw it. I demand he be taken before the magistrate. Sir Frederick will not stand for this lawlessness.”
Darcy stepped into the circle, his gaze fixed on the steward. The man’s bravado faltered under Darcy’s stare, though his mouth pressed into a defiant line.
“Broadshaw, step back,” Darcy said, his voice steady. Broadshaw hesitated, his fists still clenched, but then took one slow step away. His eyes, blazing with fury, remained locked on the steward.
Darcy turned to the steward. “You will leave.Now.”
The steward blinked. “Leave? This man assaulted—”
“I saidleave.“ Darcy’s tone was calm, but there was steel beneath it. He took a deliberate step closer, forcing the smaller man to crane his neck to meet his eyes. “You are on my land, delivering threats to one of my tenants, and I will not have it. If you wish to report this incident, you may do so through the proper channels. But understand this: if you press charges against Broadshaw, I will personally ensure that every aspect of Stanton’s dealings in this county is brought under scrutiny.”
The steward opened his mouth to retort, but no sound came out. Finally, he gathered himself enough to speak. “Stanton will hear of this.”
“I am counting on it.”
The steward’s lips thinned, and he glanced around at the gathered crowd, as if realizing for the first time that he was outnumbered. He straightened his coat, muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and strode toward his horse, his boots sinking into the muddy path. Within moments, he was mounted and riding away.
Darcy turned back to the farmers. Broadshaw stood rigid, his jaw clenched, his chest heaving with restrained fury. The crowd remained silent, their eyes darting between Darcy and Broadshaw as though waiting for one of them to erupt. Darcy shook his head. “You have jeopardized your position. Had Stanton’s man pressed charges, there would have been little I could do to stop the magistrate from ordering your arrest.”
Broadshaw let out a bitter laugh. “And what does my position matter when Stanton is taking it all anyway? They fenceourgrazing fields and send their men to intimidate us when we protest. Do you think the law will save us, Mr. Darcy?”
“I think violence will destroy you,” Darcy said. “And if you persist in attacking Stanton’s men, you will lose the small ground you still have.”
“The law is not on our side! If it were, none of this would have happened.”
Another man, younger and leaner, stepped forward from the crowd. “They talk in the villages,” he said. “They talk about France and how it started. If Stanton pushes us too far, what choice will we have?”
Darcy felt the spark of those words, like the sizzle after a lightning strike, as they settled over the group. The murmurs that followed carried an edge that sent a chill down his spine.
“You think rebellion will solve this?” Darcy asked, his gaze sweeping the crowd. “Look to France, and you will see only ruin. Families torn apart, cities burned, blood spilled for generations.”
“And what would you have us do?” Broadshaw demanded. “Stand here until we are starved out? Do nothing while they take everything from us?”
Darcy exhaled slowly. “I will speak with Stanton’s steward. I will see what can be done.”
“You think he will listen? His men have been at our farms, marking fences like we are cattle for slaughter. They say the land is his now, that the grazing fields are closed. They even dragged my boy off when he tried to herd our sheep across the old paths.”
Darcy looked at the man he had shoved, Davies, who now stood silent, rubbing at the sleeve of his coat as though it pained him. Broadshaw’s words hung in the air, and several others murmured agreement. The muttered discontent spread through the small crowd like kindling taking flame.
