Wickham was on the ground, writhing. Blood had already crusted at the corner of his mouth, one eye swelling rapidly shut, and he cradled himself like a wounded beast. He let out a lowgroan that gurgled in his throat and rolled to his side, spitting two small teeth onto the rug.
Colonel Fitzwilliam let out a soft, admiring whistle. “Well done, Miss Elizabeth,” he muttered, glancing toward Elizabeth. “I take back every jest I ever made about ladylike fragility.”
He crossed the room and removed a tasseled curtain tie from the window, then began to loop it with quick military efficiency around Wickham’s wrists. “Do keep still, George, or you will make me tie this tighter.”
Pulling the knot with a sharp jerk that elicited another moan, Fitzwilliam gave a feral grin. “You always were slippery, but I think this time we shall keep you fastened down. I daresay your dancing days are over.”
Darcy barely heard him. His eyes were fixed on Elizabeth. She was leaning heavily against the hearth, her hand still clenched around the iron poker, her dress torn at the shoulder, her hair falling down in dark, disordered curls. Her chest was heaving, eyes too wide, lips trembling.
“Elizabeth,” he said gently, taking the poker from her. Her fingers resisted at first, then released it with a shudder. Without hesitation, he drew her into his arms.
She collapsed against him at once.
He wrapped her tightly against his chest and lowered his head to hers. She was trembling—every part of her trembling.
As he held her, her shaking form melted into his. Her hands clutched at his lapel, her forehead pressing into his shoulder. And then—slowly, quietly—she began to cry.
Darcy closed his eyes. “You are safe,” he whispered. “You are safe. I have you now.”
Fitzwilliam glanced over and snorted. “Charming. Truly. I should think we might find this painted on a tea tray one day. But unless your lady has developed the power of telepathy, someone ought to go for help.”
“I will go, sir,” came a voice from the doorway.
They turned. A footman stood just beyond the threshold, pale but resolute.
“I saw the two of you run down the corridor, and then I heard the shot. I came at once.”
Elizabeth stirred in Darcy’s arms and turned toward the door. “Thank you, Peter,” she said quietly. “Please fetch my father.”
“Yes, miss.” He bowed and vanished down the corridor.
He stared at her. “You know his name? I am not certain even I know it, and I have been living here!”
She smiled faintly. “He is the younger brother of Mrs. Crowley.”
“Who?”
“She was our housemaid before she married one of our tenant farmers. His sister used to walk him to Longbourn when he was little.”
Of course she would know. Of course she would remember such a thing. Even now, she was thinking of others. He held her tighter, and his lips brushed the top of her head. “Why did you go with Wickham alone?” he asked at last.
Her breath hitched. “A maid told me Georgiana and Lydia had arrived—and that one of them was hurt. I told her to fetch you and came immediately.”
“No maid ever found me,” Darcy said grimly.
“Then she must have been one of Wickham’s accomplices,” Fitzwilliam said, straightening from Wickham’s side. “He always had a way with the help. Silver tongue. Could charm a statue into a curtsy and a chambermaid into scandal. Or, in this case, treachery.”
Oh!” Elizabeth gasped, raising her head slightly, her eyes still glistening. “He is the one who has been writing you the notes.”
Darcy froze. “What?”
She nodded. “I realized it earlier. I was going to tell you during the supper set. I saw him watching you—not with hatred, but… longing.”
Fitzwilliam, who was stoking the fireplace for more warmth and light, swore softly under his breath.
Elizabeth looked between them, then went on. “He told me just now. He said he meant to kill me. That I was distracting you… that I would take you away from him.”
Darcy inhaled sharply. The very idea scorched through him like fire. He pulled her close again, his voice unsteady. “I almost lost you.”
