Darcy’s mouth went dry. “She is not with you now.”
“I believed she had already come out while I gathered the others.” Mr. Bennet looked back toward the house, and for the first time, uncertainty crossed his face. “She must be here. She would not have stayed inside, would she?”
“We need to find her! She could be—” Darcy’s voice broke off as the coughing fit he had been fighting back threatened to take control.Blast this smoke and cold air!
“But what brought you here so quickly?” Mr. Bennet asked, turning toward the others, confusion etched on his face. “It is far too soon for my messenger to have reached Netherfield.”
“We reached the same conclusion she did,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, his tone tight with fury. “There is an accomplice.”
Darcy had barely heard. His eyes scoured the crowd of servants and the smoke-streaked lawn again. “Where is Elizabeth?” he cried between coughs. “Where is she?”
A high-pitched scream pierced through the smoky haze.
They all turned. Smoke now billowed from one of the second-story windows, curling out like an omen. A second scream followed, louder than the first, filled with desperation. Darcy’s heart stopped.
“That is Elizabeth’s room!” Mr. Bennet shouted, his voice raw.
“The accomplice must be here,” the colonel said, drawing his pistol. “The fire outside was a distraction.”
Another scream rang out—hoarse and desperate.
Darcy did not hesitate. “Elizabeth is still in there,” he said, already moving. “We have to save her!”
He ran for the door.
Behind him, he could hear Colonel Fitzwilliam shouting orders, Wickham calling for buckets, but none of it registered. He saw only the smoke. Heard only her scream.
If he lost her now—
No.
He would not lose her.
Not tonight. Not ever.
Taking a deep breath, fighting the tightness in his chest, he entered the house.
Dear Lord, let her be alive. Help me find her.
Chapter 29
Elizabeth lay on her side, her cheek pressed against the cool floorboards, the air sharp with smoke. She had placed Benjamin beside her, curled close to his tiny, heaving chest, and tried to breathe in what little clean air still came through the cracks of the far door.
She had planned to wait until someone came to find her and would distract him, then she could slip out the second door. But he had known. Somehow, he had known. While she had been focused on calming Benjamin and covering them with a blanket to hold off the smoke, he had moved.
Now he stood at the door she had meant to flee through. She could see the shape of his boots under the crack, could hear his calm, maddening voice.
“Still alive in there?” he drawled. “You have a stubborn constitution, Mademoiselle Bennet.”
She coughed violently in response, unable to summon the breath to reply. Benjamin whimpered, his small frame racked with trembling sobs and rasping barks. She held him tighter.
“You know,” Le Corbeau said lazily through the door, “there is a kind of poetry in it, is there not? You rescued the child from a fire, only to now be consumed by flames.”
Smoke was beginning to trickle through the seams of the second door now—the one he had been blocking. She heard him curse under his breath.
“Ah. I see the flames have grown greedy.” His voice was harder now. “Too late for you, I am afraid. There is no exit left, Mademoiselle. None that does not end in ashes.”
Elizabeth coughed again, eyes streaming as she buried Benjamin’s face in her neck. Her muscles trembled. Her throat ached. She could hardly tell if the heat on her skin was from the fire or her own rising fever of panic.
