D arcy ran.
The smoke was thick—black, choking, and acrid. Each breath seared his lungs, each step a struggle. He stumbled through streets he half-recognized: Gracechurch Street twisted into some nightmarish corridor of fire and shadow. Every building burned. Every window shattered and rained glass down onto him. The streets ran with ash and water and panic.
Somewhere ahead, she was crying out.
“Help! Please, help!”
Elizabeth .
Darcy pushed forward, the weight of his own body unbearable. His coat felt like lead. He tried to yell, to tell her he was coming—but the moment he opened his mouth, a violent fit of coughing seized him. His knees buckled.
He fell, wheezing against the ground, his vision spinning.
“Help me!”
Her voice was closer now—so close, in fact, that when he looked up, he could see her through the smoke just in front of him. He could hear the child’s sobbing…but there was something wrong. It was too low. Guttural.
Did the smoke damage the babe’s lungs?
“Help me,” she begged him, reaching out to him.
He tried to rise, to take a step, but he was again brought to the ground, coughing so violently he could sense the copper metallic taste of blood.
“You are useless,” she told him angrily. “If you were a real man, you would be able to do this. Why are you so weak?”
“No, Eliz—” His protests were lost once more as his lungs betrayed him.
She turned her back on him, and the blanket fell away from the baby, revealing its face. He recoiled in horror as—instead of the round, delicate features of a newborn—the sharp, pointed visage of Mr. Smithson appeared.
The hideous creature gave him a malicious smirk, then somehow, impossibly, its tiny hands revealed a knife. There was a flash as flame reflected on silver, which turned red as the blade buried itself in Elizabeth’s back again and again.
She gasped, then staggered and fell.
He tried to shout her name, to reach out to her—but again, the coughing. It ripped through him like a storm. He gagged, doubled over, unable to get air.
And then she turned those wide, pained eyes back to him. Her lips moved, barely audible:
“Why did you not save me?”
He could not scream.
He could not breathe.
Elizabeth!
∞∞∞
Darcy woke with a violent start, sitting bolt upright in bed. His breath came in ragged, rasping gulps, his heart pounding in his chest.
The fire was gone.
The baby was gone.
Elizabeth was—
Alive.
He clutched a hand to his chest, trying to steady his breathing. The room was cold, the sheets soaked beneath him. Sweat clung to his skin, and a tremor shook his limbs.
It was just a dream. It was just a dream.
But the images lingered like smoke: the knife, her voice, that terrible moment when she looked at him and found him lacking.
“Bates,” he croaked hoarsely, reaching for the bellpull.
Moments later, his valet appeared, alert despite the early hour. “Sir?”
“Herbs,” he rasped, fighting back a cough, “Stronger… than usual.”
“At once, sir.” Bates rushed from the room, concern for his master apparent in his uncustomary haste.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Darcy swung his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet on the rug. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.
It was only a dream. A grotesque, twisted dream—but not real.
Still, the echo of her voice— Why are you so weak? — left a bitter taste.
He sat in silence until the tea arrived, inhaling the steam with careful, measured breaths. The scent of thyme and licorice root filled the room. He took it slowly, the double-strength infusion burning a little as it went down.
After several minutes, the tightness in his chest eased—just enough.
He debated dressing for a ride, but a glance at the frost-furred windows and the low groan of wind through the eaves changed his mind. Not today. His lungs would not thank him.
Instead, he rose to his feet and, with Bates’s help, began to dress for the day, all the while replaying his vision from the night before.
It was completely absurd - Elizabeth attempting to save an infant, but then was in danger from a monster with Mr. Smithson’s face… and yet, was it truly so far from reality? After all, she had held a man’s life in her hands yesterday, watching him slowly bleed to death in front of her. Her cries of help, while they had been answered, were not enough to fight off inevitable.
And when Darcy had found her, she had been covered in blood. When she collapsed against him, he had never known fear like that in all his life.
Not when his father died, nor even when his mother passed when he was but a youth.
In that moment, when he had thought she was lost, he realized—with a clarity sharper than any blade—that there could be no world in which he would survive her loss.
She mattered too much to him now.
He made his way down the stairs to the breakfast room in a daze. Pouring himself a cup of coffee and taking a plate of ham, eggs, and toast from the sideboard, he sat down at the table, his movements slow and stiff.
He ate without much thought, trying to shake the remnants of the dream.
Elizabeth’s face lingered anyway.
She had been brave. Braver than he. Holding pressure on Smithson’s wound with her bare hands, refusing to let go even when he begged her to stop.
What kind of man sees a woman like that and walks away?
What kind of man sees a woman like that and does nothing?
Not I.
He was just finishing the last of his meal when the door creaked open and a footman stepped inside, clearing his throat.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but there is a caller for you.”
Darcy lowered his cup slowly. “At this hour?”
The footman hesitated. “He would not give his name, sir. But he insisted the matter was urgent.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. He set his cup down with care and stood.
“Very well,” he said, brushing his coat smooth. “Show him into the front parlor and remain with him. I will be there shortly.”
He took his time crossing the hall, understandably wary of uninvited guests. His steps were measured, shoulders tense. But when he pushed open the parlor door, he stopped short at the sight of a man in a red coat casually warming up by the fireplace.
Colonel Fitzwilliam looked up with a broad grin. “Darcy! Excellent—you are already awake. Though I expected you to be brooding in your study, not skulking about in the front hall like a common butler.”
Darcy blinked. “Fitzwilliam?”
“No, the other cousin that comes to scold you,” the colonel replied cheerfully. “Yes, it is me.”
“What on earth are you doing here?”
“What? Am I not allowed to pay a visit to my favorite cousin?” he said innocently.
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Then I suppose you’ve taken a wrong turn on your way to Rosings Park. Anne will be devastated.”
The colonel barked out a laugh. “Careful, or I will send you to Kent myself to keep her company. Perhaps she will make you read her sermons over breakfast.”
Darcy gave him a dry look. “Then you did not come merely to visit.”
The colonel’s smile faltered slightly. “Ah… well, let’s say I was already in the neighborhood. Soldiers do like to keep an ear to the ground for strange happenings in the kingdom.”
Darcy folded his arms. “I take it this means you received my express, then?”
Fitzwilliam’s eyes twitched, and he glanced briefly toward the footman, still hovering near the doorway. “Perhaps we should sit. Something hot to drink would not go amiss either. The wind is cutting today.”
Darcy did not move. “Fitzwilliam,” he said warningly.
The sighed and waved a hand. “Yes, yes, I received your blasted letter. And yes, I rode half the night. I would like breakfast and a bed, in that order.”
“I do not believe you were given an invitation,” Darcy said. “Perhaps Bingley does not want to put up with you.”
The colonel gave Darcy a dubious look. “Bingley puts up with everyone—even you. And his sister will be thrilled to play hostess to any family member of yours, especially if said family member is also the son of an earl.”
“Fair point. But before I summon the housekeeper, I insist upon knowing: is this in relation to Mr. Smithson’s murder?”
The colonel glanced at the door, then back to Darcy. “You must promise me what I say remains between us. At least for now. No word to your steward, your tenants—or your lady friend with the sharp eyes and sharper mind.”
Darcy narrowed his gaze. “You mean Miss Elizabeth.”
“Whatever her name is.” The colonel waved an errant hand. “Oh, do not look so scandalized. It is clear you care for her.”
“Stop trying to change the subject, Fitzwilliam. Why are you here?”
“Then promise me.”
Darcy hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. “Very well, you have my word.”
The colonel leaned forward, all levity gone now. “Good. Because what I am about to tell you is not just confidential—it could be dangerous.”
∞∞∞
Elizabeth awoke with a jolt, her heart hammering in her chest, the echo of a cry still ringing in her ears.
The image from her nightmare clung to her mind like fog—Benjamin in her arms, bleeding, and no matter how hard she pressed her hands to the wound, the blood kept pouring. His little cries had echoed like Smithson’s last gasp, and her hands were slick and red and useless.
She pressed her palms to her eyes. It was a dream. Only a dream. But it felt as if she had lived it again, as if the weight of yesterday had not fully left her body.
By the time she had bathed and dressed, it was well past breakfast. The sun was higher in the sky than it should have been, and the house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of floorboards above.
In the kitchen, the cook looked up in surprise. “Miss Elizabeth! You gave us all a fright yesterday.” She quickly wrapped a muffin in a cloth and passed it over. “I am glad to see you up and about.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth accepted it gratefully.
The cook hesitated. “Will you be walking today?” Then her eyes widened, and she flushed. “Oh—begging your pardon, miss, I did not mean—”
Elizabeth gave her a tired smile. “It is quite all right. Nothing short of murder could keep me from walking.”
The joke fell like a stone.
She left before the silence became too heavy, retreating to the back staircase and eating the muffin slowly as she walked.
The idea of going for a walk filled her with unexpected dread. Her mind flashed to the path through the trees, the sound of branches cracking, her own screams. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
You’ve walked these hills a hundred times. More. You’ve never feared them before.
But still—perhaps not today. There was a murderer who had not been caught yet, and even she knew better than to tempt fate again.
Instead, she went upstairs and retrieved Benjamin from the nursery. The baby was cooing in his cradle, his dark hair curling over one ear, his cheeks flushed with sleep.
“Oh, you dear little thing,” she murmured, lifting him into her arms. His head lolled briefly against her shoulder before he looked up at her and grinned.
The warmth of him in her arms, the soft weight of him nestled close—it was more healing than anything she had felt since yesterday. His snuggles, his gummy kisses against her cheek—it reminded her of life, of gentleness, of hope.
She carried him downstairs into the parlor. A maid informed her that Mrs. Bennet had taken Lydia and Kitty into Meryton to “pay calls”—which Elizabeth could only interpret as sharing the tale of her daughter’s trauma in as many drawing rooms as possible. Mary was tucked away in the music room, practicing a particularly moody section of Beethoven.
Elizabeth did not mind the solitude. The quiet allowed her to breathe.
She was bouncing Benjamin gently on her lap when Mr. Hill entered the room carrying Jane in his arms. Her sister’s smile wavered as soon as she saw Elizabeth.
“Oh, Lizzy.” Jane held out her arms, and Elizabeth went to her at once, carefully shifting Benjamin to one hip so she could lean into the embrace.
“I am all right,” Elizabeth whispered.
“I did not know what to think. I heard only bits and pieces before they brought me down.” Jane’s eyes filled with tears. “To think that you—oh, Lizzy, someone was murdered.”
Elizabeth’s jaw clenched. “I know.”
Jane shook her head slowly. “I cannot fathom it. Surely no person in their right mind could do such a thing. Perhaps—perhaps it was an accident. A scuffle that went too far. And they ran, in fear and shock.”
Elizabeth said nothing. She returned to her seat, holding Benjamin closer and kissing the top of his dark curls. Smithson’s words swirled in her mind: Tell the raven… it was the crow.
She would not worry Jane with them. Not yet. After all, they made no sense.
Footsteps echoed in the entry hall, followed by the murmur of voices.
“Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, and Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Hill announced from the doorway.
Elizabeth turned, startled. Darcy entered first, followed by a man with a warm smile and easy gait—Colonel Fitzwilliam, she presumed. He bore a striking resemblance to Darcy, but his manner was far more jovial.
“My mother is out,” Elizabeth said as she rose, “but you are most welcome.”
Darcy bowed. “Miss Elizabeth, allow me to introduce my cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.”
The colonel bowed over her hand with practiced ease. “It is a pleasure to meet the heroine I have heard so much about.”
Jane, from her seat, smiled brightly. “Do sit down. I will ring for some tea.”
Bingley was already beside her, asking in hushed tones how she was faring and adjusting her cushions.
Elizabeth led the gentlemen to the settee, settling Benjamin in her lap once more. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam took the seats beside her, and for a moment, there was a comfortable hush in the room.
And then Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to her, still smiling—but with a new kind of sharpness in his eyes.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said lightly, “tell me about this delightful child in your arms. A nephew, perhaps?”
Elizabeth raised her chin, adopting a haughty pose, and adjusted Benjamin slightly so he was in a sitting position. “Allow me to introduce you properly, Colonel. This is Mr. Benjamin Bennet, resident philosopher, connoisseur of soft blankets, and our current ruler by popular acclamation.”
She gave a small bow of her head. “Benjamin, this is Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
The colonel chuckled. “A charming introduction. Please to meet your acquaintance, young Master Bennet. With his surname, is he perhaps your…brother?”
“No.” Elizabeth’s tone was light, but her grip on Benjamin tightened slightly. “He’s been adopted into the family since the fire in London. We had to call him something.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s brows lifted. “Adopted? So… his parents—?”
Elizabeth’s expression sobered. “We found him just after the fire. There was a girl—Meg—” she paused, then corrected herself, “—a woman of the night. She had the baby with her and said she was watching him for her neighbor. That neighbor had left him alone in the apartment at one point.”
“She left the child alone?” he said with a low whistle. “What kind of—?” He stopped himself.
“She did not come back,” Elizabeth continued. “I carried him to Hyde Park, and Meg followed until she was found by a man. She said she was still trying to find Deena to return the baby, but the man—her keeper, I suppose?— said Deena had perished in the fire.”
“Deena.” Colonel Fitzwilliam repeated the name slowly, and for just a fraction of a second, something flickered in his eyes—sharp, knowing, grim. Then it was gone, replaced by an expression of idle curiosity.
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “Do you recognize the name?”
“No,” the colonel said quickly. “No, I do not believe so. I have been stationed here and there these past few years, and when in London, I rarely spend time on that side of town.”
He leaned forward slightly, eyes on Benjamin again. “Still, it is possible the child has family somewhere. One hears stories, after all—lost heirs, long-lost children identified by a mole or scar…”
Elizabeth stiffened. “Yes, there is a birthmark. However, I do not see how that is any of your concern, Colonel Fitzwilliam—unless you intend to claim him as your own? In that case, you would know its shape and location, would you not?”
The words hung in the room like ice.
Fitzwilliam’s eyebrows shot up. “My dear Miss Bennet, that is not… I mean…”
“Forgive me,” she said coolly, “but you’ve taken rather a keen interest in a child you’ve only just met.”
The colonel stood and moved toward the window. “Only admiring the view,” he said over his shoulder. “The hills here are quite different from the southern coast.”
Elizabeth frowned. He is too interested in Benjamin. Just like Smithson was. I do not trust him. She turned to Darcy and gave him a severe glare.
“Do not be afraid, Miss Elizabeth.” Darcy’s voice was intense. “This is my cousin; I have known him all my life. He is completely honorable.”
She turned her face away. “So was Smithson, once, I imagine. He wore a gentleman’s coat and used a gentleman’s voice. That did not stop him from breaking into my uncle’s home and trying to enter the nursery.” Her voice dropped. “I tried to save his life, Mr. Darcy. I held his blood in my hands. I screamed myself hoarse for help.”
Darcy’s expression folded with grief. “I know.”
“I am not sure I know anything anymore,” she whispered. “And as for you—how long have I known you, truly? A month? Less? Why should I trust your judgment any more than my own?”
That struck something in him. She saw it in the twitch of his brow, the subtle pull of pain at the corner of his mouth.
She looked away, ashamed. “I am sorry. That was unfair.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It was honest.”
“I do not know what your cousin is hiding,” Elizabeth said. “But until I do, I think it is best he does not visit again. And that Benjamin not be present if he does.”
She rose slowly, her back straight, her arms curled tightly around the boy in her lap. Benjamin whimpered and buried his face against her shoulder.
“I am taking him upstairs.” Her voice was final.
Darcy stood as she passed, but he did not speak. The tension hung between them like fog, thick and heavy, clouding all certainty.
And for the first time since the fire, Elizabeth wondered whether anyone could truly be trusted with what—and whom—she had to protect.