E lizabeth lay on her side, her cheek pressed against the cool floorboards, the air sharp with smoke. She had placed Benjamin beside her, curled close to his tiny, heaving chest, and tried to breathe in what little clean air still came through the cracks of the far door.
She had planned to wait until someone came to find her and would distract him, then she could slip out the second door. But he had known. Somehow, he had known. While she had been focused on calming Benjamin and covering them with a blanket to hold off the smoke, he had moved.
Now he stood at the door she had meant to flee through. She could see the shape of his boots under the crack, could hear his calm, maddening voice.
“Still alive in there?” he drawled. “You have a stubborn constitution, Mademoiselle Bennet.”
She coughed violently in response, unable to summon the breath to reply. Benjamin whimpered, his small frame racked with trembling sobs and rasping barks. She held him tighter.
“You know,” Le Corbeau said lazily through the door, “there is a kind of poetry in it, is there not? You rescued the child from a fire, only to now be consumed by flames.”
Smoke was beginning to trickle through the seams of the second door now—the one he had been blocking. She heard him curse under his breath.
“Ah. I see the flames have grown greedy.” His voice was harder now. “Too late for you, I am afraid. There is no exit left, Mademoiselle. None that does not end in ashes.”
Elizabeth coughed again, eyes streaming as she buried Benjamin’s face in her neck. Her muscles trembled. Her throat ached. She could hardly tell if the heat on her skin was from the fire or her own rising fever of panic.
“Farewell,” came the final words through the smoke. “I shall think of you fondly when I reach warm shores and kinder winds.”
Then silence.
She waited.
Nothing.
Is he gone?
She stared at the door, unsure if she dared try it. But her body was shaking, her breath failing. She did not have long.
Then—her name. Shouted hoarsely, ragged with coughing.
“Elizabeth!”
Darcy.
She scrambled to her knees, the sound pulling her like a rope through the haze of pain and fear. Unlocking the latch with numb fingers, she threw open the door.
The hallway was awash in smoke and flame. A figure stood just beyond the frame—tall, staggering, one hand braced against the wall as if the mere act of standing were a trial.
“Darcy!” she screamed.
He turned at the sound of her voice, his face pale beneath soot, his lips parted with another violent cough. He took a step toward her, but his knees buckled.
She flew to him.
“I have you,” she said, one arm curling around his waist as she slung his arm over her shoulder. “We are getting out of here.”
Benjamin whimpered in her other arm, pressing his hot face into her collarbone.
Together they moved, step by agonizing step, through the smoke. The floor trembled beneath them. The beams groaned above their heads. Elizabeth’s eyes burned, her lungs felt shredded with each breath.
They reached the stairwell—but she could barely see through the thick, rolling smoke. Her foot missed the first step.
They fell.
She screamed as gravity yanked them forward, and instinct took over. She twisted her body midair, curling protectively around Benjamin as they tumbled down the steps, over and over. Her shoulder struck the railing. Her hip slammed the edge of a stair. Her back hit another with bruising force.
Darcy fell alongside them, rolling head-over-heels until they reached the bottom. He hit the ground, the wind knocked out of his fragile lungs. He gasped for air, one hand reaching blindly toward her as she lay shielding the child with her body.
For a moment, there was only the thud of her pulse, the baby’s faint cries, and the thunder of fire above them.
“Darcy,” she gasped, trying to sit up, her bruised body aching everywhere. “We have to get up.”
He tried. He truly did—but his body gave out beneath him, another coughing fit tearing through his lungs. “Darcy, come on! I cannot carry you both!”
“Leave me,” he gasped out.
“What? No!”
He shook his head, eyes closing in pain. “Go,” he rasped. “Save him. Save yourself.”
“No—please—”
He opened his eyes again, the agony in them nearly undoing her. “I love you,” he said between heaving coughs. “Go.”
“I love you,” she whispered. “I cannot—”
“You must!”
“I cannot do this—” she sobbed, trying again to lift him while still holding Benjamin. “Do not make me choose between him and you.”
“Choose to live , Elizabeth! Go, before it is too late.”
He could scarcely speak between gasps for breath, and she closed her eyes, fighting back the tears streaming down her cheeks, mingling with sooty ash.
I have to. God forgive me, but I have to go .
She rose to her knees, holding a prone Benjamin in her arms. Turning from Darcy, she began to crawl, attempting to stay down below the smoke. But then, through the haze in front of her—a figure.
Red.
A soldier.
No! How is he still here?
She turned back to Darcy, shielding Benjamin again with her body. Through the roar of the fire above, she heard a faint call.
“Darcy! Miss Elizabeth!”
It was Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Not Le Corbeau.
Another man moved beside him—Wickham.
“Oh, thank God,” she sobbed.
Wickham gently took Benjamin from her arms. The colonel hauled Darcy upright with a grunt of effort.
“You are all right?” Fitzwilliam asked, his voice sharp with concern. “Can you walk.”
Elizabeth nodded, too choked to speak.
“Come,” he said. “This way.”
And through the smoke, they went—together, alive.
Once through the door, she blinked against the bright sun just peeking over the horizon to the east. She nearly collapsed, but Wickham held her tighter. “Just a little further now. We are nearly there.”
But Le Corbeau is out here. Benjamin!
“It was him,” she choked out. “Le Corbeau. They are twins.”
“We know,” the colonel said behind her, staggering under the weight of Darcy’s frame. “The fool did not anticipate that I would already be here when he left the house. Wickham and I were able to apprehend him just as he reached the edge of the garden,” the colonel finished grimly, his voice hoarse with smoke and fatigue. “He will not be going anywhere now.”
Elizabeth stumbled again, and Wickham adjusted his grip to keep her steady, the baby still cradled against his chest. “Easy now,” he murmured, “You did it, Miss Elizabeth. You kept him safe. You kept both of them safe.”
The words nearly undid her. Her knees buckled, but she forced herself upright. Benjamin whimpered softly, still buried against Wickham’s shoulder, his small face blotched with soot.
Colonel Fitzwilliam lowered Darcy gently onto the dewy grass. The tall man slumped back, his eyes closed, chest heaving with shallow, labored breaths.
“Darcy,” Elizabeth whispered, sinking to her knees beside him. She reached for his hand—it was warm, but his face was pale, and each wheezing inhale sent a spike of fear through her.
“I need a physician here now!” the colonel bellowed toward the cluster of servants and townsmen who were pouring water onto the smoking remains of the barn. “Where is Mr. Jones?”
“Gone to retrieve more supplies,” someone shouted back.
Elizabeth pressed the back of her hand to Darcy’s cheek. “You are safe,” she murmured. “You are safe now, Darcy.”
His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, but then they locked on hers. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You are all right?” he rasped.
She nodded, tears spilling freely now. “Yes. We are all right.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam straightened and turned to look down at her, his face grim and smudged with ash. “Le Corbeau—the one with blue eyes—is bound and under guard near the stables. Sir William and Colonel Forster are already en route. The second twin—the one at Netherfield—is locked up as well. I never thought…” He shook his head. “Twins.”
Elizabeth stared at him, still struggling to process the full weight of what had happened. “He said it was his last job. That he would disappear after it.”
“He nearly succeeded.” Fitzwilliam’s voice was low. “But you stopped him.”
“I did not,” she said quietly, looking down at Benjamin’s sooty curls. “We did. All of us.”
From across the lawn, Mr. Bennet came running toward them, his face lined with worry. Behind him trailed Jane, her skirts muddy, and behind her—Mrs. Bennet wailing, “My poor baby, my poor Lizzy!” though she made no move to approach.
Elizabeth met her father’s eyes, and his steps slowed.
“I knew you would save them,” he said, voice rough with emotion as he reached her side. He dropped to his knees and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I knew.”
She closed her eyes, letting herself finally lean against him for just a moment.
Then Wickham handed her Benjamin, who whimpered and clung to her as though he might never let go. The tiny noise he made was the sweetest sound she had ever heard— evidence that he was still alive.
“It is over,” she whispered hoarsely to him.
But even as she said it, she knew it was not. Not entirely.
There would still be questions. There would be aftermath. The threat had been stopped—but not without scars.
Still, the sun had risen.
And they had survived.
∞∞∞
Darcy stirred, the dry rasp of breath against his throat pulling him from sleep. His chest ached, his head throbbed dully, and the air in his lungs felt like it had been dragged across sandpaper. He coughed—a shallow, grating sound—and winced.
A flurry of motion came from the corner of the room.
“Oh, thank heavens, sir! You have woken!” cried Bates, his valet, bustling forward. The man’s usually stiff composure had cracked with visible relief.
Bates turned and flung the chamber door open. “Tell them Mr. Darcy is awake,” he barked into the hallway, then shut the door behind him with a sharp click.
Darcy’s lips parted. “Eliz—” His voice broke on the first syllable, dry and cracked beyond recognition.
“Do not try to speak, sir,” Bates urged, hurrying to his side. “You must be parched.”
Darcy moved to sit p, but then realized he was already half-reclined on a large stack of pillows. He shifted into a better position as Bates took a glass of water from the bedside table and held it to his lips.
“Small sips,” he instructed.
The first swallow burned. The second was only marginally better. Still, the moisture eased the burning in his throat.
“What happened?” Darcy rasped after a few moments.
“You took in a fair amount of smoke, sir, and struck your head during the fall down the stairs,” Bates explained. “You were brought back to Netherfield in a cart yesterday morning and lost consciousness along the way. You have been asleep ever since, though you were coughing quite a bit in spite of not being sensible to the world.”
Darcy's brow furrowed. “Elizabeth?” he managed.
“She is well, sir,” Bates said quickly, anticipating the question. “She and her family are staying at Stoke Estate. The fire destroyed most of Longbourn, I regret to say.”
“And the child?” Darcy asked hoarsely.
“The babe is safe as well, sir.” Bates hesitated at Darcy’s skeptical glance. “Well, all three of you have had rough coughs, but they are improving steadily—thanks to Miss Elizabeth’s herbal blend. Mr. Jones is rather astonished at the recovery. They are being kept upright as much as possible, though, to prevent a buildup of fluid in the lungs. And though none of you should speak more than necessary, there is every reason to believe they will continue to improve.”
Darcy leaned back slowly, letting the words settle over him. The ache in his ribs still pulsed with every breath, but the tight fear in his chest began to ease.
The door banged open.
“Well, well,” came a familiar voice, brimming with amusement. “The great Mr. Darcy has finally deigned to wake up.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam strode into the room, his coat thrown over one shoulder, his cravat askew. His face was streaked with soot that looked like it had been smudged off in a hurry, and his eyes gleamed with exhausted relief.
“You lazy dog,” he continued. “Lying about like a Roman emperor. Another day or two and I might have stolen Elizabeth out from under you.”
Darcy’s smile was faint, but real. “You would have had to carry her over my dead body.”
The colonel flopped into a nearby chair and propped his boots on a stool. “It would not have been that hard, considering you were almost a corpse yourself.”
Darcy’s eyes sharpened. “Is she truly safe now? All of them?”
The colonel’s grin faded. “Yes. The danger is over.”
Darcy narrowed his gaze. “The twins are in custody, I am assuming. What if they escape?”
“They will not.”
Darcy frowned. “You sound too certain.”
The colonel’s expression grew grim. “They are both dead.”
A sharp breath escaped Darcy’s lips. “What?”
“Apparently,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, with a grimace of distaste, “each brother had a pair of vials hidden on their persons. We did a full search after capture—believe me, more thorough than I ever wanted to conduct—but they must have concealed them in places best not spoken of in polite company.”
Darcy’s face twisted. “I think I can imagine.”
“The vials were harmless on their own,” the colonel continued. “But together—when their contacts were mixed—they formed some sort of fast-acting poison. It killed them both in their cells before we could stop it.”
Darcy let out a long, shuddering breath and pressed a hand to his chest. “Then it is truly over.”
The colonel stood and stretched with a grunt. “It is. You can finally stop worrying.”
Darcy looked skeptical.
“Come now,” the colonel added with a smirk. “You have a wedding to look forward to. Once I submit my report, I suspect word will spread like fire in London. You will be more popular than ever at every soirée.”
Darcy groaned softly and dropped his head back against the pillows. “Spare me.”
The colonel chuckled. “Cheer up. At least you will have Elizabeth to shield you from the matchmaking horde. That woman would sooner bite than let a matron paw you.”
Darcy’s answering smile was slow and full of affection. “Yes,” he murmured. “I believe she would.”
And for the first time in many weeks, he allowed himself to rest—knowing the woman he loved was safe, the danger had passed, and the future—uncertain though it might be—belonged to them.
∞∞∞
Two days later, however, Darcy was sick of resting. The light streaming through the windows felt too bright, his limbs ached, and his throat was raw from coughing. Worse still was the stifling frustration of being confined to his bed like a child with a winter cold.
“I can sit in a chair,” Darcy muttered as Bates entered the room with a fresh cup of willow bark tea. “Or walk to the study. I am not an invalid.”
“Of course not, sir,” Bates replied neutrally as he set the cup on the table. “Shall I carry you or fetch a bath chair from the village, perhaps?”
Darcy shot him a glare.
“Forgive me,” Bates added, not entirely managing to hide the amusement in his tone.
Darcy exhaled heavily and rubbed his temple. “I apologize. This confinement has made me short-tempered.”
A bark of laughter came from the doorway.
“Now that sounds familiar.”
Darcy turned his head. Wickham leaned against the doorframe, grinning. “You were the exact same way when you were twelve. It is a relief to see that even the impeccable Fitzwilliam Darcy has a flaw or two.”
Glaring, Darcy hurled one of his dozen pillows towards his old friend. The throw was weak, and Wickham was able to easily avoid being hit.
“Now, now—is this the thanks I get for coming to cheer you up?” Wickham smirked, sauntering into the room and producing a familiar deck of cards from his coat pocket. “I am not as lovely as the fair Miss Elizabeth, I will admit—but I have been told I am moderately good-looking and quite good at cards.”
Darcy gave a soft huff that could almost be called a laugh. “Your modesty remains unchecked, I see.”
“Never had any use for it.” Wickham pulled a chair close to the bed, sat down, and began to shuffle the cards. “And besides, I needed something to do during my liberty now that I am not playing the part of a suspect.”
They played in silence for a few moments, until Darcy looked up and asked quietly, “Are people treating you any differently now?”
Wickham’s eyes did not leave the cards. “Some are. Word has begun to spread that I am not a murderer after all. But most people still give me a wide berth. Reputation, once spoiled, does not wash clean with a single rinse.”
Darcy nodded, absorbing that. “And what will you do now?”
Wickham shrugged. “I am not much of a soldier. I have always preferred ledgers to rifles. I miss clerical work. London, the noise of the docks—making sense of other people’s chaos.”
“Do you think you might go back to your old post? Have you had any word about your former employment?”
A humorless smile touched Wickham’s lips. “It seems that many of the insurance companies have run out of funds. The barrister for whom I worked is no longer in business.”
Darcy hesitated. Then he said, “I could hire you.”
Wickham’s head shot up. “What?”
“You are clever. Capable. You understand trade, and I have been ill too long. My affairs need careful tending, especially if my recovery is… prolonged.”
“I do not need charity,” Wickham replied. “I am hardly destitute, as you well know. I still have nearly the entirety of your father’s bequest.”
Darcy met Wickham’s eyes evenly. “This is not charity. It is an offer.”
“You would trust me? After everything?”
“You have earned it,” Darcy said simply. “You protected Elizabeth and Benjamin. That cannot be repaid, but I can offer you honest work.”
Wickham looked away, blinking rapidly. “I will think about it,” he said gruffly. “It would be… nice. Honest work. Being useful again.”
They returned to their cards, and as the morning wore on, the tension between them softened, replaced by familiar rhythms and quiet laughter.
And for the first time in years, Darcy did not hear his father’s reprimands echoing in his ears.