Darcy House, London
Darcyreallydidkeepan excellent wine cellar. Wickham leaned back in the leather chair, savouring that last swallow. ‘99, he should think; a perfectly respectable vintage, even if it were not aged enough to be considered truly sophisticated. He held the glass up to the firelight, admiring the legs running down the curve.
It really was a pity that Darcy no longer liked him, for the man’s friendship was a rather convenient thing. If only he were not so odiously dull! What sort of gentleman left the house for a club night—or wherever he had gone—and expected another man to wait up for him like the house director from their Cambridge days? Fitzwilliam Darcy, that was the sort; the one man in the world who could make an indifferent gesture and have fifty leap at once to do his bidding. Oh, of course, Prinny had hundreds, and so did the assorted nobles of the land, but Wickham had never seen anyone else with Darcy’s casual air of command, nor the fervent loyalty of his staff—well, most of them, at any rate.
Wickham glanced up to the door of the study. O’Donnell stood there, facing discreetly away. On the other side, just out of view, was a second footman. As if he would try to go anywhere! He knew Darcy, and he was decidedly safer in this house than anywhere else in England. Fitzwilliam, he was less certain of. Now there was a man who delighted in keeping him guessing! Darcy would eventually prevail, however, and when at last they consigned him into the tender mercies of military justice, it would not be without some word and consideration in his favour. It might not be enough, but it was the best offer he was likely to get, and a far sight more generous than the viscount would have been.
He sighed and fingered his glass, then decided to pour a little more. To his dismay, the bottle contained only a drizzle. “O’Donnell,” he called out, “would you be a good chap, and ask for another bottle to be sent up? I’m bone dry.”
He saw O’Donnell glance to the left, at the other footman, but neither stirred from their place. Wickham frowned. Pity.
He adjusted his seat to look back into the fire and determined to satisfy himself with what little remained. A sharp clatter from behind him made him drop his entire glass. O’Donnell emitted a cry of surprise, and then Wickham saw him dashing toward a window outside the room, with the other footman in hot pursuit.What the devil?
Wickham stood up, listening to the grunts emitted by the straining footmen. Had someone just broken into Darcy’s house? Even in the middle of the night it was a fool’s errand, with so many vigilant servants about! He drew close to the door to watch the mayhem. Three men, with their faces covered, had broken through from the music room and were busily assailing the two footmen. More of Darcy’s servants came rapidly to aid their comrades, but they were quickly met with four more strangers surrounding them from all sides.
Wickham started to back toward the drawing room. This was not his fight. What could he do against so many? Best to secrete himself where none might trouble him, and see what came of it.
As he was stepping back, an arm wrapped firmly about his throat, with a blade tipped near his ear. “I’ve got ‘im!” a voice hissed. “‘E was in the drawing room!”
Wickham’s eyes went wild. They were afterhim? Or had they mistaken him for Darcy, dressed in fine clothes and sipping wine in the man’s house? He reached behind himself in panic, trying to dislodge the hand that held the knife. Another man came to face him, holding a miniature in his palm and comparing Wickham’s face.
“This is the wrong man!” he spat. “Kill him anyway, and find Darcy!”
Something snapped inside George Wickham in that instant. Whether it was fear of imminent death, insult at being presumed for Darcy, or merely the indignity of being tossed aside as of no account, his blood boiled over in rage. The arm round his neck tightened, but he used his opponent’s very strength as his own.
With a half-strangled cry of fury, he threw himself back into his assailant’s embrace and lashed out with both feet at the second man. The man went down, senseless for at least a moment, and Wickham felt a surge of exhilaration such as he had never known. The arm slackened in astonishment, and he dropped his weight against it and was free, then he turned gave a mighty shove against the other.
With space now to fight, he put up his fists and grinned. His attacker had somehow lost his knife when he had broken free, and now they were equally matched. Well… not quite equally, for Wickham knew the house. He feinted and dodged, ever advancing, until his opponent found himself backed into a small alcove made by an oddly placed support beam in the room. Wickham closed in then, and delivered the sort of punch Richard Fitzwilliam always used to knock him down with when they had been boys.
The man dropped most satisfyingly, and Wickham stood back, shaking his fist with a pleased little smile.Old boy, you’ve still got it!he congratulated himself.
Another crash behind him drew his attention back to the fight still going on in the corridor. He arched his brows and shrugged to himself. Why not? Either Darcy would hear how valiantly he had acquitted himself and exert his considerable power on his behalf, or he might find an open door and perhaps a ship ready to sail in the harbour.
Without a second thought, he charged into the fray. Boots and fists were flying, Darcy’s black-clad footmen straining against what still seemed to be an oncoming tide of assailants. Where the devil had they all come from? The only lunatic Wickham knew who might be both willing and capable of hiring enough men to storm Darcy house was… he gulped. The viscount!
There was a scream from above stairs, followed by what sounded like a vase shattering against a wall. Wickham jerked his head up and saw a commotion on the stair landing, and then there was another shriek. It was distinctly feminine… and terribly familiar. His face whitened in horror. Miss Darcy washere?
At some other point in his life, it is likely that he would have hesitated. After all, why should he put himself at risk for that spoiled little heiress? But on this night, his ire was hot and he had tasted the valour of the defender. In the next moment, he was flying up the stairs, dodging planters and sculptures that had been tossed at the attackers. Well did he know where her room was to be found, and there his steps carried him.
One brave footman had wedged himself in the door, but he could hear Georgiana Darcy struggling inside. She was not cowering behind the man, he could see, but trying to get beyond him, while he was attempting desperately to keep her safe from the men in the hall.
“Let me through!” came her irate voice. “I will not lie helpless in wait!”
“Please, Miss,” the footman was answering through gritted teeth. “You must stay inside!”
Wickham could not help a short laugh, even in the moment. So, Georgiana Darcy had at last found her Darcy backbone. He was not spared long, for another tried to force him back, away from Georgiana’s door. This man held a pistol, and it was leveled at his head.
Wickham backed, his hands held before him, as he cast about for some weapon to employ. Nothing, not even his own babbling tongue, was faster than the finger on the trigger. Surely, however, the man did not intend to waste his one bullet on him. It was, in all likelihood, destined for one Fitzwilliam Darcy.
“Don’t be a fool!” he implored the man. “Darcy is not even in the house, and look below! The footmen already have the upper hand.”
The pistol wavered slightly. Behind him, Wickham could see Georgiana Darcy throwing a heavy water basin through the door, just missing the man who tried to get through. The pistol drifted away… then snapped back, and the hammer cocked.
“Leave my husband alone!” came a savage cry, and then a fire poker slashed down on the hand holding the pistol.
His eyes widened and his mouth fell open.Lydia?What in blazes would she be doing here, of all places?
She wielded her poker with lethal intent, if not accuracy, slashing upward and then crashing it down on the man’s shoulders. Wickham was frozen in awe. Lydia, the girl he had seduced, abandoned, and… oh, bloody hell. She turned toward him, her face red and her hair wild, but it was her figure that held him mute.
