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Elizabeth felt the man stiffen and shudder, so presumed Darcy was mentioning some place from their childhood.

She had no idea what his game was, but a careful look at his relative position showed he was powerless to attack the man with anything save his voice.

She assumed he was softening the scoundrel up with the only weapon at hand, waiting for a chance to strike.

She gulped and hoped the villain would not notice it. “Unlike you—Mr Darcy is a man of his word. You may release me right now and you will get your money with no more risk to yourself. I would take it and run if I were you.”

She heard the man chuckle grimly. “Perhaps Darcy is as honourable as you say… but his cousin is another matter entirely. No, my dear, I will need a bigger head start than that, and you are my ticket.”

Elizabeth noted Darcy had crept forward until Wickham said, “Far enough, old sport. Would not want to make me nervous, would you?”

Darcy stopped, and whispered, “Lydia.”

She was still muttering to herself, but his voice got her to desist, and he held out his hand.

She came at once, and huddled behind him, peeking around his very tall shoulder, which Elizabeth thought was his design so he could protect her while clearing the field between him and Wickham.

It was obvious he was waiting for a chance to take advantage of any lapse with the knife.

Elizabeth looked into her lover’s eyes, saw pure unbridled terror, and suspected she showed the same in hers.

She noticed whenever Wickham talked, he moved the knife away from her throat, calculating that a drop of blood would cause his life to end quickly and painfully right then and there.

“Out of curiosity, what makes you think Mr Darcy owes you anything, Mr Wickham?”

He let out the story he had been dying to relate the night at Aunt Philips’ house, and she wondered if he had known who she was at the time.

It seemed unlikely but possible, she supposed.

She let him speak his fill while watching the knife like a hawk as it moved back and forth between being pressed against her throat or her collarbone, and a spot half a foot away—far enough to be slightly less threatening, but too close to make an escape.

He talked… and he talked… and he talked; whining about the fact that his godfather had given him too much, as far as Elizabeth could tell from the story.

In a break in the man’s ceaseless whining, she asked innocently, “Lydia, are you well?”

“She is fine,” Wickham snapped, clearly getting increasingly nervous by the minute.

“I am so sorry, Lizzy!” Lydia said despairingly.

“Do not be! You were trying to protect me. You could have gone about it more sensibly, but your motives were pure. You should feel no shame.”

“AAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhh…. Are the two of you not touching. I believe I may cast up my accounts,” Wickham sneered in a voice Elizabeth hoped would be ripped from his throat eventually.

She ignored him to the extent she could with a knife at her throat. “This reminds me of Antonia. Do you remember her, Lydia?”

She saw her sister scrunch her face in confusion, then finally say, “I understand.”

“Understand what?” Wickham said, waving the knife around threateningly.

Darcy saw the knife move away from her throat and thought the distraction was for the good, so he threw his two pence in. “I must admit to some curiosity myself, Lydia,” he said, hardly noticing he had omitted the ‘miss.’

At that moment, things happened quickly… very-very quickly.

“ Now Lydia! ” Elizabeth yelled, and her sister let out a scream that would wake the dead from three counties away. It was enough to make Darcy jump at least two feet and sent chills down his spine, especially since it occurred a foot from his head.

Wickham startled alarmingly at the scream, which made the knife move away from Elizabeth’s head even more and pointed slightly away from her.

She had been watching and waiting for exactly that scenario.

Like a snake striking, Elizabeth, careful to avoid the point, reached down with her head and bit his thumb hard enough to draw blood; and simultaneously stomped on the instep of his foot as hard as she could.

She was wearing dancing slippers which were not nearly as efficacious as walking boots for stomping, but in a contest between heel and instep, the heel emerged the victor every time.

Such a direct hit was bound to hurt like the devil—boots or no.

Wickham dropped the knife and started screaming like a banshee to go along with Lydia.

A couple seconds later, when the knife fell to the ground, Elizabeth shot across the ten yards separating the groups, turned around to face the threat, and ended up ploughing her back into Darcy’s chest at a dead run.

Darcy wrapped his arms around and held her tightly, just as he heard, “Darcy, what the devil is going on?” from the hedge behind him.

In a flash, Elizabeth saw red streak across the gap between them, and no more than a blink later, she found Colonel Fitzwilliam standing over Wickham, laying on the ground with a sword at his throat.

The tableau froze for several seconds, nobody quite believing that such a foolhardy plan had worked.

Elizabeth finally said, “Well done, Lydia.”

Lydia still sounded on the verge of crying. “Do not praise me for helping fix a problem I created.”

“Enough of that… you did well… better than well,” Darcy said softly.

The colonel spoke gently, feeling that a valuable lesson had been learnt cheaply. “We will discuss propriety and safety n some detail later, young lady, but you did what you had to do when you had to. Accept the victory! ”

There was still no word from Wickham, much to Elizabeth’s delight.

Fitzwilliam said, “I daresay I missed most of this drama. I only came in at the end, so may I enquire of something that puzzles me exceedingly?”

“Of course,” Elizabeth replied.

“I saw you bite his thumb, and I saw you stomp his foot… all well done, by the way…”

“Thank you,” she replied.

She was certainly distracted, but with her racing pulse returning to something akin to normal, she was mostly preoccupied by the feeling of Darcy’s arms around her chest and his fingers tightly interlaced with hers.

It felt… it felt… well, wonderful seemed such a weak word, but it was the best she could produce on short notice. The feeling was extraordinary.

Unaware of her preoccupation (or more likely engaging his soldier’s instinct for self-preservation), he continued, “…how the devil…” then he looked slightly embarrassed until Lydia giggled softly.

He continued, “…I mean, how did you knock him out. He is dead to the world.”

Elizabeth sighed, looked down at Darcy’s hands, and gave them a squeeze.

She thought about separating herself to restore some semblance of propriety, but they were facing a hardened criminal (though, unconscious on the ground at the moment), so she reckoned she could disregard the normal rules.

Not only that, she quite liked the sensation and was loath to give it up.

She finally sighed. “If I tell you, will you promise no consequences?”

“That I cannot do,” Darcy said softly, then chuckled when she stiffened in his arms, assuming he would pay later. He continued quickly, “I can promise no retribution , but a reward is a consequence, and if someone helped you, they will most certainly be rewarded handsomely.”

She laughed at his joke and was nowhere near as annoyed as she might have been with his little prevarication. “Simon, you may come out. I suppose you have Jenny with you.”

“Yes ma’am,” Simon said, and stepped out.

“How?” Darcy and the colonel asked at the same time.

Simon said, “That reward should go to Jenny, sir. She beat me to the mark this time.”

“No need to be stingy. You are both owed a debt and will be handsomely rewarded. That said, an explanation might stop the colonel from chewing his collar in agitation.”

Simon seemed disinclined to speak, and Jenny even less so; but he nudged her, and they both held up leather slings.

“Miss Lizzy taught us to read. When we got to David and Goliath, she read half and made us work out the rest. We loved the story so much we practiced with slings until we were deadeyes. Now we carry them everywhere we go. It comes in handy from time to time with ruffians.”

Darcy laughed lightly, while the colonel bellowed with laughter, stepped over to the pair and slapped Simon on the back. “Well done, you, well done! Darcy, you should take them to Derbyshire with you.”

“If they will go, they could take the Wainwright cabin.”

Simon and Jenny nodded enthusiastically, and Darcy said, “Come speak to me tomorrow.”

They smiled vigorously, assuming a Mr Darcy would pay better and more reliably than a new-money fellow like Mr Bingley.”

Jenny looked nervously at Wickham. “Is he dead?”

Fitzwilliam gave a wicked chuckle. “No… not yet at least. Of course, he attacked a woman with a knife, wearing the King’s uniform, under observation by an officer and a gentleman of high standing. His fate is sealed.”

“Will he be hanged?” Lydia asked with a level of enthusiasm Elizabeth was not certain she approved of.

“Most likely. He will be court marshalled of course. They will either hang him or draft him into a penal battalion for use as cannon fodder on the continent. You will certainly never see him again.”

“Good riddance,” she said emphatically.

Fitzwilliam looked askance at Darcy, who still held Elizabeth tightly clenched in his arms. “Are you engaged? I am indifferent to the propriety myself, but we may have little time before someone comes to investigate Miss Lydia’s scream.”

Elizabeth laughed. “They will come from Hatfield, I fear.”

Darcy reluctantly replied, “We are not engaged.” Then he leaned down closer to Elizabeth and added, “Do not rush yourself. If and when we become engaged, it will be at a time and place of your choosing.”

“Has he already asked?” Jenny inquired, then ducked her head in embarrassment.