His voice was quiet, but it carried.
“Release her, sir.”
Bingley shook his head violently, denying reason itself.
“You have no right—no right—”
And then Jane moved.
It was not the sort of thing a heroine planned in advance.
It was the reflex of a woman who had been raised to avoid scenes and found herself forced into one.
Jane’s free arm bent sharply, and she drove her elbow backward—not wildly, but with purposeful force—into the soft area beneath Bingley’s ribs.
It was a motion any woman might manage in close quarters without special training, particularly when restrained by a grip.
Bingley’s breath whooshed out in an involuntary grunt.
His hold loosened, just enough.
In the same moment, Jane lifted her foot, clad in a delicate evening slipper, and stamped hard upon the top of his boot, pressing her heel into the vulnerable instep with all the strength her slender frame could muster.
Bingley hissed instinctively and jerked backward.
Jane wrenched her arm free.
For a heartbeat, the entire room stood motionless, astonishment so complete that the silence seemed to acquire weight.
Then Jane moved swiftly—not toward Elizabeth, nor toward her mother’s frantic hands, but straight to Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Her instincts guided her directly to safety.
He received her at once—not in an embrace that might invite comment, but by placing himself between her and Bingley with the clean decisiveness of a soldier.
One hand settled lightly at Jane’s elbow to steady her.
His other hand remained visible and open, a quiet message:I will not touch more than is proper, but I will protect you.
Jane’s face was pale, but her eyes—usually so placid—burned with something fierce and contained.
She did not cry or swoon.
She simply stood beside Colonel Fitzwilliam, and by doing so seemed to restore the world to its proper alignment.
Bingley staggered, clutching his side, his eyes wide with disbelief and humiliation.
He looked around, plainly expecting sympathy, and found only horror.
Darcy spoke at last, voice low and deadly. “Have you lost your senses entirely?”
Bingley’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Then his expression twisted, and he surged forward again—only to be intercepted by two guards who had moved in with smooth efficiency. They grasped him firmly, one at each arm, holdinghim as he began to rant—words tumbling over one another, half accusation, half plea.
“You cannot do this,” he shouted, struggling. “You cannot! I will be ruined—ruined! Darcy, you must—Darcy, you owe me—”
Darcy did not answer.
His eyes remained fixed on Bingley, watching a stranger who wore a familiar face.
