Page 78

“I was going to pay it back!” Wickham barked. “Once I had something solid. But the funds ran out. I’ve been sleeping in barns and inns since February. I needed something. Anything.”

“And this,” he said coldly, “was your grand solution? To steal from my house like a common thief?”

“I thought you were at Netherfield,” Wickham shot back. “Everyone said so. You were supposed to be gone.”

Darcy’s hand tightened around the poker. “And if I had been?”

“I’d have been gone already.”

Darcy stepped forward. “Then go now—before you make things worse.”

Wickham let out a bitter laugh. “Still playing the righteous man. You always did love having the high ground.”

“I speak only truth. You want pity? You will not find it here.”

“You never understood,” Wickham snarled. “You think life is so simple—choices and consequences, honour and disgrace. But you were born into safety. You never had to scrape for a living. You never had to scheme just to keep a roof.”

“No,” Darcy said quietly. “I never had to lie, cheat, and steal to excuse my own failings.”

With a furious growl, Wickham lunged.

The poker clattered to the floor as his weight crashed into Darcy’s.

They slammed into the desk, knocking over papers, sending the inkstand flying—black spilling across the ledger like blood.

Darcy struck first, a solid blow to Wickham’s ribs, but Wickham fought like a cornered animal—wild, uncoordinated, and utterly desperate.

His fists came fast, uneven, driven more by fury than skill. They grappled, stumbling into a chair, toppling a side table. A lamp went over with a hiss, snuffing out its light and leaving only the low flicker of the hearth.

“You’ve ruined everything!” Wickham snarled, shoving his shoulder into Darcy’s chest.

Darcy grunted, struggling to keep his footing. “You ruined yourself.”

A fist connected with Darcy’s jaw—white-hot pain burst behind his eyes—but he stayed upright. He retaliated with an elbow to Wickham’s gut, driving him back a step.

But then Wickham reached down, snatched the fallen poker, and swung.

The iron caught Darcy just above the temple with a sickening crack.

He collapsed.

The impact stole his breath. The room spun as he hit the carpeted floor, blood trickling warm and steady down his cheek.

Wickham froze, chest heaving, the poker shaking in his grip.

“Damn you,” he muttered, the bravado gone from his voice. Panic flickered in his eyes. He hovered for a heartbeat, then looked toward the door.

Too late.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs.

Colonel Fitzwilliam burst through the doorway, pistol drawn, eyes sweeping the scene. He took in Darcy’s still form, the poker in Wickham’s hand, the overturned desk.

“Step away from him.”

Wickham jolted at the command.

“I didn’t mean to—he wasn’t supposed to be here—I just needed—”

“I said step away. ”

Wickham hesitated, then let the poker fall. It hit the floor with a dull clang and rolled.

Fitzwilliam strode forward, fury barely contained. “On your knees.”

Wickham obeyed, shaking now, hands raised in surrender.

Without a word, Fitzwilliam kicked the poker aside and yanked the curtain sash from the window. He bound Wickham’s wrists with a soldier’s speed and force, then dragged him to a chair and shoved him down.

“You’ll stay there until the magistrate arrives,” he said coldly. “And you’d best hope Darcy wakes up to press charges—because if he doesn’t, you’ll answer to me.”

At that moment, footsteps skidded in the corridor and a young footman appeared in the doorway, eyes wide with alarm.

“Sir—!”

“Send for a physician at once,” Fitzwilliam barked. “And the magistrate. Then wake the butler and have a man posted to watch this one.” He jerked his head toward Wickham. “Do not let him move.”

“Yes, Colonel!” The footman vanished.

Then, the soldier disappeared—and the cousin remained.

Fitzwilliam was at Darcy’s side in an instant, kneeling, pressing two fingers to the pulse point at his neck.

“Darcy.”

Darcy’s eyelids fluttered. A low groan escaped him.

“Still breathing,” Fitzwilliam muttered, loosening his cravat and pressing it to the wound.

“Darcy. Can you hear me?”

A moment passed. Then—just barely audible—

“Elizabeth…”

And he went still.

Fitzwilliam’s breath caught. He pressed harder with the makeshift bandage, eyes fixed on the shallow rise and fall of Darcy’s chest.

“He needs a physician,” he muttered. “Immediately. And a damned miracle. ”

Fitzwilliam stayed kneeling, one hand steady against the wound, the other gripping the edge of the hearth for balance. Somewhere behind him, he heard the servants returning—the thud of boots, the clatter of someone running.

He did not look up.

Darcy had spoken one name. And that name meant only one thing.

He turned sharply to the footman. “Send a message to Mr. Bingley at Netherfield. Mark it urgent. Say only that Mr. Darcy is injured, and he must come at once.”

The footman hesitated, wide-eyed.

“Go.”

As the lad dashed off, Fitzwilliam looked back at his cousin. Still breathing—but barely. His features slack, skin pale against the blood-dark hair.

“Come on, Darcy,” he whispered. “Don’t make me explain this to her.”

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