D arcy slumped into one of the deep armchairs in Bingley’s study, cravat undone and waistcoat unbuttoned. His dress coat had been discarded over the back of a nearby chair, and his boots were scuffed from pacing. A glass of port rested on the table beside him, though he had not taken more than a few sips.
Across from him, Colonel Fitzwilliam looked no better—his usually impeccable regimentals had been stripped to shirtsleeves and braces, one cuff stained with something that might have been wine or blood or both.
They were both exhausted. And yet, neither of them could relax.
In the corner, Charles Bingley—still half in his evening wear, though he had at least changed his shoes—was bouncing on the balls of his feet, utterly oblivious to the tension still thick in the air.
“I still can hardly believe it!” Bingley said, beaming. “Jane said yes, and I could tell she meant it. I thought perhaps I ought to wait until the next day, but I saw her smiling at me, and I knew I would never forgive myself if I let the moment pass. And then when I found your father, Darcy, I thought he would make me write it out on paper before he gave me his blessing, but he just said—”
“You are going to be happy, Charles,” Darcy interrupted gently, managing a thin smile. “We are glad for you.”
Bingley’s grin widened. “Thank you, old fellow. And I cannot wait for you to join me in marital bliss, eh?” He winked.
Before Darcy could muster a reply, Miss Bingley swept into the room like a thundercloud edged with tulle. She stopped in front of the hearth, her cheeks blotchy with fury and her bodice rising and falling with angry breaths.
“I suppose,” she hissed at her brother, “that we are to offer congratulations for throwing yourselves away on a family so far beneath us they should be scrubbing our floors.”
“Now, Caroline, I know you are disappointed, but—”
“But nothing!” she shrieked. “Although I do not know why I am surprised; I should have expected such foolishness from you. But you, Mr. Darcy!”
She rounded on Darcy, who had been looking at the floor, wishing she would have saved her vitriol for a private moment. His head shot upwards as she continued her diatribe. “I am completely astonished at what I saw tonight. I simply do not understand why you would want such a… a… a trollop like Eliza Bennet!”
Rage filled Darcy’s chest, but it was not he who responded.
“Careful,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, swirling his port and not looking up, “you are starting to sound like a farmer’s wife who has just found her new neighbor keeps hens in the parlor.”
Caroline went rigid. “What did you say?”
“If Darcy wanted refinement,” Colonel Fitzwilliam continued smoothly, “he certainly would not have looked twice at a woman who dresses like a melted pumpkin, mocks his friends, and cannot hold her tongue.”
“You arrogant—!” Caroline sputtered. “Clearly your time in the army has addled your sense of propriety. I am not surprised you too have been taken in by that shameless little—”
Darcy rose to his feet, his chair scraping sharply against the floor. “Enough.”
Even Colonel Fitzwilliam had stopped smiling. He looked at her now with cold disdain. “Miss Bingley,” he said, voice like steel wrapped in silk, “I would caution you to mind your tongue. You are betraying your tradesman roots with every word. Do not presume that wealth alone makes a lady.”
“You—how dare you!” she squawked. She looked around the room to her siblings. “Charles! Louisa! Will no one speak for me?”
Mrs. Hurst shifted uncomfortably in her seat next to her husband, who was dozing on the settee. “Perhaps it would be best, Caroline, if we all got some sleep. We could resume our conversation in the morning when we are rested and refreshed.”
“You traitor!” Her face was a mottled purple, and Darcy began to genuinely fear she was going to suffer an apoplexy.
“I take it back,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said with a sigh. “Calling you a tradesman’s daughter was too generous.”
She blinked.
“You are acting more like a fishwife.”
The shriek Caroline let out could have shattered glass. She stormed from the room in a flurry of silk and indignation, Louisa rushing after her, attempting to calm the storm.
Hurst drained his glass and stood. “Well,” he said with a sigh, “at least the evening turned out less dull than expected.” He shuffled out without a backward glance.
The room fell silent. Darcy turned to Bingley and began to apologize for Colonel Fitzwilliam’s remarks, but Bingley waved a hand. “Do not apologize. I am only surprised neither of you said anything sooner than tonight about her behavior. She has been unbearable ever since I asked to court Jane.”
“Speaking of Miss Bennet,” Darcy replied hesitantly, “I think you may need to make a decision about what to do about Miss Bingley once you are married.”
“What do you mean?”
“He means that your harpy of sister will make your new bride’s life—and therefore yours—quite miserable.”
Bingley gaped, and Darcy hurried to explain. “What Colonel Fitzwilliam means to say” he gave his cousin a dirty look “is that it is doubtful Miss Bingley will be willing to graciously turn over hostess and mistress duties to Miss Bennet.”
Enlightenment dawned on Bingley’s face. “You mean it will become a power struggle.”
“More like a child getting trampled by a runaway carriage,” the colonel muttered.
“Miss Bennet is a kind, gentle lady,” Darcy said hastily. “Not unlike Georgiana. I imagine she will do everything she can to prevent conflict, even at her own expense, which will cause Miss Bingley to think she can do whatever she likes. As a husband, it will be your responsibility to protect your wife, to shield her from those who would upset her.”
Bingley nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. “Yes. Yes, I see. I must... be better.” He murmured something like a goodnight and wandered out, deep in thought.
The door clicked closed behind him. Silence fell again, broken only by the pop of the fire.
“Good riddance,” the colonel muttered, settling deeper into his chair. “Well. That was satisfying.”
Darcy glanced at him. “How do you feel?”
“Triumphant, obviously. The fishwife speech? One of my better ones, I dare say.”
Darcy gave him a look.
“Oh. About Le Corbeau?” The colonel leaned back, tossing one leg over his knee. “Uneasy.”
“I would have thought you would feel relief. You have finally caught your nemesis.”
“You would think so, would you not? But no, there is something about it all that causes me to feel…unsettled.”
“Why?”
“I do not know,” he admitted. “I was just so surprised that Le Corbeau turned out to be Carter. I could have sworn I had entirely eliminated him from our list of suspects. It is not like me to be so… erroneous.”
“You say that like it is the first time you have ever been wrong about something,” Darcy teased, trying to elicit a grin. When no smile was forthcoming, he asked, “What made you think it was not Carter?”
The colonel grimaced. “I cannot recall. There were too many blasted soldiers for me to remember them all.”
He pulled a small, worn notebook from his waistcoat pocket, and began flipping pages. Darcy moved to look over his shoulder, only to frown at the bizarre markings. “That is... gibberish.”
“It is my own shorthand,” the colonel said absently. “Home Office habit. Assume everyone is a spy, even your own valet… or batman, in my case.”
“You have trust issues.”
“You try chasing the world’s deadliest assassin for six years and not develop a few.”
Just then, the door opened and Wickham stepped in, still in his red coat but looking weary and pale.
“I was just relieved from watch,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Carter—or whatever his name is—is tied like a Christmas goose and sedated. “I thought I would check in with the two of you before heading back to the barracks.” He hesitated. “Something is just not sitting right with me. There is something… off.”
Darcy turned sharply. “Colonel Fitzwilliam just said the same thing. You feel it, too, then?”
Wickham nodded. “Carter just does not fit.”
The colonel’s head snapped up. “Aha!” he shouted, jabbing a finger at a line in his notebook.
“What?”
“Carter’s company was running all morning the day Smithson was killed. Thirty witnesses. I wrote it down.” He held it up like a prized relic. “He could not have done it.”
“But he attacked Elizabeth tonight,” Darcy protested, chest tightening at the memory. “Half a dozen guards saw it.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam closed the book with a sharp snap. “Then there is only one explanation.”
Darcy and Wickham looked at one another, then back at the colonel expectantly.
“An accomplice.”
For a beat, no one moved.
Then the three men bolted to their feet.
“We have to get to Longbourn,” Darcy said, already moving.
Please, Lord, do not let us be too late.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth rushed down the hall towards her father’s room, a sense of urgency filling her. Her dressing gown fluttered behind her as she knocked once, then flung open the door without waiting for an answer.
“Papa—wake up!” she cried, crossing to the bed. “We were wrong!”
Mr. Bennet stirred, blinking at the light she carried in her hand. “What is it? Has something happened? Is the baby—?”
“It is not Captain Carter,” she said breathlessly. “The man tonight—the one who tried to kill me—he had green eyes. But the man who broke into Longbourn before had blue. I remember it. I saw his eyes. It was not the same man.”
Her father sat up straight, suddenly very awake. “Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.” She met his gaze, her own steady. “I thought I was going mad, but I am sure of it now. Carter is not the only one. There are two of them.”
Mr. Bennet swung his legs out of bed. “Get Benjamin,” he said grimly. “I will wake the servants. We will let the rest of the family sleep until we know exactly what we are facing.”
Her heart thudded wildly as she reached the nursery. Inside, the room was still and dark. The nurse, roused by her entrance, stirred sleepily. “Miss Elizabeth?”
“There is no time,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I will take Benjamin. Go wake the staff and join my father. Quickly.”
The woman, startled by the urgency in her tone, obeyed without question. As she slipped out, Elizabeth turned to the cradle. Benjamin was sleeping soundly, bundled in his blankets, his soft breath even and warm.
Carefully, she scooped him into her arms, nestling him close to her chest. His warmth steadied her.
There is more than one assassin.
Dread coiled tightly in her chest. It was not logical, not truly—after all, the danger was not necessarily immediate. But something still felt wrong .
She stepped into the corridor, Benjamin cradled against her, and quietly shut the nursery door behind her. Quickly making her way down the steps, she hurried to her room. Her hand hovered over the knob, but something made her pause.
Then she smelled it.
That same scent.
Musky. Rich. Masculine.
Her stomach dropped.
She turned.
At the far end of the hallway, half-shrouded in shadows, stood a man in a red coat. His posture was too still. Too poised. And as he stepped forward, the light caught his face.
It was Carter.
But…it was also not Carter.
Peering more closely, she could see that this man’s eyes were blue, and his features were slightly different. But there was no mistaking that this man was just as much a danger as Carter had been.
“Papa!” she screamed. “He’s here!”
She turned and bolted into her room, shutting the door behind her with a loud slam and locking it. Benjamin stirred and gave a soft, confused wail as she backed away, arms trembling.
No one had answered.
She dashed toward the door to the changing room and stumbled into it, bolting it behind her—then rushed through to the connecting door into Jane’s chamber, which was empty. Jane must have slept with Mary tonight , she thought.
As she bolted for the door, she tripped on something on the floor. Her foot went one way as her leg went another, twisting her ankle painfully. She attempted to stand, but the shooting pain told her she would never be able to outrun Le Corbeau.
Limping to Jane’s door, she turned the lock. She then hobbled back into the changing room, locking the other door in there as well.
She was sealed in with Benjamin.
Moments later, the pounding began. Please, Lord, let the doors hold until someone can come .
Then a voice came low and smug through the wood. “You are clever. I admire that.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard and shifted Benjamin’s weight in her arms. “What do you want?” she demanded.
“The boy. That is all I have ever wanted.”
“You are not Carter.”
“No,” the voice said. “He is my brother.”
Brothers? Elizabeth blinked, her mouth going dry.
“Twins,” he added, pride evident in his voice. “Indistinguishable except for the eyes. We were raised together in Paris, sons of the Revolution. Our parents spared no expense to teach us to fight against those who would look down on us because of our station.”
“Then why do you sound like an Englishman?”
A laugh. “Our governess was English. She taught us your language and your ways. We were meant to be invisible.”
Her mind raced. “Why tell me any of this?”
“Because you are delaying,” he said, amusement curling in his voice. “But I am in a generous mood. I will make you a bargain.”
“I do not make deals with murderers.”
“I spared the nurse. I would spare you. Leave the boy and walk away.”
“Never,” she hissed.
His voice darkened. “You are beginning to irritate me.” Another hard shove against the door. “ Come out .”
Where is Papa? Where are the servants? Anyone? “Help me!” she shouted.
He laughed. “I am afraid they have been delayed… a distraction out near the stables should keep them occupied for a time.”
As he spoked, she could smell the faintest whiff of smoke. “Why are you doing this?” she asked in a whisper.
“Because it is my job,” he said simply. “My last job. As soon as the brat is eliminated, I retire. Some place warm—maybe Barbados. Or India. A man in my profession makes enemies. It is time to vanish.”
Suddenly, his voice cut off abruptly. She heard some scuffling, and hope rose within her breast. Perhaps someone has come.
“Hello?” she asked tentatively.
“Still here,” he said coolly, and her blood turned to ice as his new tone. “You will come out, one way or the other. The boy will die, one way or the other. The only decision you have to make is whether or not you will die with him.”
At that moment, a wave of smoke rolled under the door from Jane’s room, thick and choking.
“What have you done?” she cried.
“I told you, you will come out. Or you will die. Will you suffocate to death with the child, slowly burning as the fire I have set consumes you? Or will you come out, hand the boy over to me, and save your life?”
“You are a monster!” she screamed. “Somebody help us!”
“You will burn or surrender. It is your choice.”
Elizabeth coughed and looked wildly around the small closet.
There was no escape. Fire through one door, an assassin on the other.
She clutched Benjamin to her chest and screamed again, as loud as she could, praying someone— anyone —would hear.
The wood was warm now. The smoke thicker.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please come.”
∞∞∞
Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Wickham rode hard along the road that went from Netherfield to Longbourn. They reached the Bennet estate just as the first glow of dawn began to rise behind the trees. But it was not the gentle light of morning that met them—it was fire.
A fire roared in the distance, the stables fully alight, the orange glow reflecting off the house’s windows like hell’s own lanterns. Shadows danced along the gravel drive as servants dashed back and forth with buckets and wet cloths, fearfully shouting to one another as they fought the growing flames.
Darcy leapt from his horse before it had fully stopped, heart pounding. At the edge of the drive, Mr. Bennet appeared, ushering Mrs. Bennet and four daughters away from the house. Mary clutched Kitty’s hand, who was coughing into her sleeve. Lydia was weeping noisily, and Mrs. Bennet wailed that her nerves would never recover.
But it was not the absence of composure that struck Darcy—it was the absence of one face.
She’s not here.
He ran to Mr. Bennet with Colonel Fitzwilliam and Wickham close behind. “What has happened?” he demanded. “Where is Elizabeth?”
Mr. Bennet’s face was pale and grim. “She realized the man from the ball and the man in our nursery were not the same person. I told her to fetch Benjamin while I gathered some footmen. But as I woke servants, I saw the fire, so I also woke my family.”
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.