“Sir, please allow me to send for Dr. Thompson,” Bates begged.
“Absolutely not,” Darcy snapped, though his weakened voice carried little force. “There are many out there who are in need of a doctor’s assistance. I can manage until the disaster has passed.”
“Then at least let us prepare willow bark tea, sir.”
Darcy made to object, but the pleading look on his valet’s face caused him to sigh and nod reluctantly. “Very well, Bates; if it will quiet you on the matter.”
Bates snapped at a passing maid and issued the order. Knowing it would be a few minutes until it could be prepared, Darcy retreated to a guest room on the upper floor, where the east-facing windows provided are clearer view of the disaster unfolding on the city. He stood for a long while, watching the flames devour the area along the docks and creep towards Mayfair. The distant roar of destruction, combined with the criesof alarm and the urgent shouting of fire brigades, would not be a sound he would soon forget.
As the flames finally began to slow, Darcy maintained his silent vigil, his head bowed in silent prayer.Lord, forgive me. I should have stopped this. Have mercy on us all.
∞∞∞
It took almost an entire day for the fires to be quenched; the amount of smoke in the air was suffocating. It was not until the following morning that Darcy was able to leave his home and personally go to Hyde Park to see what needed to be done. Coughing lightly into his gloved hand, he surveyed the scene before him.
In a scant twenty-four hours, the area had been transformed into a refuge, no longer the pristine retreat of London’s upper class, but a sprawling encampment of makeshift tents and huddled groups. Fortunately, he saw evidence of order beginning to take shape amidst the chaos; white canvas shelters had been erected, and soldiers and city officials moved between clusters of displaced families.
The air was thick with smoke, along the stench of unwashed bodies and waste and the dull roar of wearied murmurs mixed with the occasional wail of a suffering child.
Darcy’s jaw tightened as he made his way through the crowd, several footmen and maids trailing behind him, handing out baskets of provisions.At least there is some organization, he thought, looking at a soldier placing up a barrier. The sheernumber of people seeking aid, however, made the relief efforts appear almost insurmountable.
A commotion ahead drew his attention, and he hastened his footsteps to ascertain the cause. Near a grouping of supply carts, a tense argument was unfolding. A soldier, his red coat dulled by soot, stood rigidly before a young woman who held her ground with unwavering defiance.
His breath caught as he approached close enough to take her in. She stood near a grouping of supply carts, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, the dark fabric of her gown streaked with ash and soot. Strands of chestnut hair had escaped their pins, curling wildly in the damp air, framing a face that was—
Magnificent.
It was not a word he had ever used to describe a woman before, but it was the only one that fit.
The world seemed to narrow around her. She was not simply beautiful—though she was, in a way that struck deep, past logic and reason. No, it was something more. The fire had left devastation in its wake, yet she stood amid it all like a force of nature, steady and unshaken.
And she was arguing.
The woman—who was decidedly not a servant, nor the sort of lady one typically found overseeing relief efforts—stood her ground, her posture rigid with defiance. She had rolled up her sleeves despite the morning chill, and her voice was firm as she looked up into the soldier’s face towering above her.
“You cannot expect her to move!” The woman gestured towards a huddled figure on blankets near the carts. “She is severelyburned, barely conscious, and in a great deal of pain. Where is your humanity?”
The soldier, his patience visibly fraying, squared his stance. “Miss, we need to clear this area for additional supplies. There is room in the tents—”
“He will not survive being dragged across the park like a sack of grain,” the woman countered, her chin lifting. “He needs careful handling, not rough hands and haste.”
The soldier’s jaw tightened. “Miss, I have orders.”
“And I have sense,” she shot back.
The corner of Darcy’s mouth twitched, despite himself. Her fire was unlike anything he had ever seen. Where most ladies of his acquaintance might shy from confrontation, she stood firm, unwavering. There was a fierceness to her that demanded to be acknowledged.
The soldier, however, was not amused. “This is not your decision.”
Before the conversation could escalate, Darcy stepped forward. “I believe the lady is correct.”
Both the soldier and the woman turned to look at him. The soldier stiffened upon recognizing the fine cut of Darcy’s coat and his air of authority. “Sir?”
Darcy inclined his head toward the injured woman. “If he is as badly burned as Miss…” He glanced briefly at the young woman.
“Bennet,” she supplied, her voice crisp.
“Miss Bennet claims,” he continued, “then moving him improperly could worsen his condition. Would it not be wiser to summon a physician before making that determination?”
