Page 54 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)
Chapter Thirty-Two
Darcy’s heart hammered in his chest as his hand closed on the door’s latch. A subtle nod to the men behind him, and he shoved it inward with all the force he could muster.
The hinges screamed, the lantern light spilling into the room in jagged strokes. His eyes swept the space in a single, desperate glance—and fixed instantly on her.
Elizabeth .
She was seated on a rickety chair near the center of the room, her hands bound before her, a filthy handkerchief stuffed cruelly around her mouth.
Her hair had come partially loose from its pins, a dark curl falling over her shoulder.
Behind her stood a tall, unkempt man with hollowed cheeks and wild black hair streaked with gray.
One hand gripped a fistful of Elizabeth’s hair, yanking her head slightly back, and in the other was a long, wicked-looking knife pressed to the pale skin of her throat.
Darcy froze where he stood, every muscle straining, his instincts screaming to lunge forward—but he knew one wrong move could end her life in an instant.
He was dimly aware of Mr. Bennet stepping up at his side, and behind them, the others—though Bingley had already slipped from his view, melting into the shadows to one side.
The man smiled—not warmly, but with a mocking tilt of his head. “Well,” he said, his voice coarse but deliberate, “it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, cousin. Allow me to introduce meself. I am Malcolm Bennet the Third, the rightful heir to Longbourn.”
The words struck the air like flint on steel. Darcy saw Mr. Bennet’s brows lift slightly, though his voice remained steady, calm.
“I am afraid you are mistaken,” Mr. Bennet replied evenly. “I am the rightful heir to Longbourn. Perhaps you can explain your…misconception.”
Malcolm’s dark eyes gleamed with something between pride and mania.
“It’s no misconception. My grandfather—Malcolm Bennet the First— was master here before you were even born.
He had a son, Malcolm Bennet the Second—my father.
Grandfather died before I came along, and Da…
Well, he passed before I’d seen eight summers.
My mother, God rest her, kept Grandfather’s journals.
Everything I needed to know was in there.
My blood runs Bennet through and through, and I’ve come to evict the you-suppers from my house. ”
Darcy’s gaze flicked to Mr. Bennet, who was studying Malcolm with sharp intelligence.
“I believe the word you are searching for is usurpers ,” Mr. Bennet corrected mildly. “And I am nothing of the kind.”
Malcolm’s lips twisted. “I have evidence enough to prove my lineage.”
“I have no doubt,” Mr. Bennet replied, his tone still maddeningly composed. “In fact, I should easily think you are my distant cousin. You bear a striking resemblance to the first Malcolm Bennet. His portrait is safely stored now—since my own was defiled.”
Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “Then you do not deny Longbourn is mine by rights?”
“Longbourn,” Mr. Bennet said, his voice firming, “is not yours by rights. After Malcolm—the first Malcolm—fled, having set fire to the manor in a fit of carelessness, his father disinherited him, as was his legal right. To further protect the estate, my own father—the second-born—agreed to create an entail to last three generations. By its terms, the estate may only pass to legitimate Bennet male heirs.”
Color rose high on Malcolm’s cheeks. “My father was respectable—”
Mr. Bennet’s eyes sharpened. “Was he? And was he born within wedlock? What of you?”
Darcy saw the moment the barb struck home. Malcolm’s jaw tightened, his eyes went flat, and his grip on Elizabeth’s hair drew her head back another fraction. The knife at her throat gleamed sharper in the candlelight.
“It doesn’t matter,” Malcolm snarled. “I’ll take what I want, anyway.”
Darcy’s chest tightened, a rush of panic nearly breaking his careful control.
He forced his breathing slow, his gaze locking on Elizabeth’s.
She was pale but calm, her eyes locked to his with an intensity that said she trusted him utterly.
Still, he saw the faint flutter of her pulse where the knife lay too close.
From the far edge of the room, movement—a shadow gliding between piles of old furniture and stolen objects. Bingley. Darcy did not look directly, but he caught the barest flicker of his friend’s pale cravat in the dim light.
Mr. Bennet spoke again, his voice deliberately even. “I am certain we can come to some arrangement. But antagonizing the family is not only foolish—it is criminal. Every item you have stolen from this house is evidence enough to see you locked in debtor’s prison for years, if not worse.”
Malcolm’s eyes darted between them, suspicion and fury warring in his expression. He shifted his stance, the knife pressing tighter against Elizabeth’s throat. Darcy’s heart lurched; he took a small step forward, willing himself not to startle the man into violence.
“And you think prison frightens me?” Malcolm hissed. His lips peeled back from his teeth in something like a grin—but there was nothing of humor in it, only madness.
In that instant, Bingley moved.
He rose from behind an old chest, something heavy and dark raised high above his head—a piece of wood, perhaps part of a broken bedframe. Without a word, he stepped forward on silent feet. Darcy held his breath, every muscle locked, praying Elizabeth would remain still.
Bingley brought the improvised club down hard.
The sound was a sickening, solid crack. Malcolm’s eyes went wide, the knife slipping from his grasp. His hold on Elizabeth vanished as his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground in a heap, his head striking the floorboards.
Darcy was already moving, catching Elizabeth as she fell forward, his hands firm around her arms. She was trembling, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. He tore the gag from her mouth, searching her face for any sign of injury.
“Elizabeth,” he said softly, his voice rough with relief.
Her hands were still bound, and he drew his knife—small but sharp—and cut through the fabric bonds, his fingers brushing her skin. The instant she was free, she clung to him, her forehead pressing briefly to his shoulder.
Behind them, Bingley stood over the unconscious Malcolm, his chest heaving, the broken timber still in his hand.
Darcy tightened his arm around Elizabeth and murmured, “It is over. You are safe now.”
But as his eyes lifted to the shadowed corners of the room, taking in the piles of stolen items, the extinguished candles, and the narrow doorways leading deeper into the old passages, he knew it was not truly over. Not yet.
Darcy kept his arm firmly about Elizabeth as the others closed in.
“Is she hurt?” Mr. Bennet asked sharply, striding forward. His usually mild countenance was sharpened to a blade’s edge, his eyes raking over his daughter with barely contained fury.
“No,” Elizabeth said, her voice unsteady. “Only frightened—and grateful.”
Darcy felt her fingers tighten on his sleeve. She was pale, but her chin was high, her gaze steady now that the immediate danger had passed. He wanted nothing more than to spirit her away from this wretched place and put her somewhere warm and safe.
Bingley crouched beside the prone Malcolm, checking his breathing. “Alive,” he reported, straightening. “He will have a headache that could fell an ox, but he is breathing.”
“Bind him,” Mr. Bennet ordered, his voice brisk, leaving no room for argument. “We cannot have him waking and causing more mischief.”
One of the footmen—summoned in haste when they had entered the servants’ passages—finally appeared and hurried forward with a length of rope.
Darcy guided Elizabeth to a seat against the wall, then rose and assisted in rolling Malcolm onto his stomach so the man’s hands could be tied behind his back.
His hair fell forward in greasy tangles, hiding his face, but the rise and fall of his shoulders was steady.
Mr. Bennet’s mouth tightened. “I want him watched until Sir William arrives. No one—and I mean no one —is to be alone with him. He is dangerous, and half-mad besides.”
The footman nodded and dragged Malcolm towards the door, another servant following with a lantern.
Darcy returned to Elizabeth, offering his hand to help her rise. “Let us be out of here,” he murmured.
They left the narrow room and retraced their steps through the twisting servant’s passage.
The lantern light played over crumbling plaster, soot-stained beams, and warped floorboards that groaned underfoot.
Somewhere behind them, the sound of the rope scraping as Malcolm was hauled along echoed through the confined space.
Elizabeth glanced up at him as they walked, her voice low. “You found me quickly.”
“I would have torn down the entire house brick by brick if I had to,” Darcy said simply, his voice rough with the truth of it.
She did not reply, but her eyes glistened in the lantern light, and she pressed closer to his side as the corridor narrowed.
When they reached the kitchen passage, Mrs. Hill and a cluster of maids stood waiting, their faces pale. Mrs. Hill’s hands fluttered at her apron. “Oh, Miss Lizzy—thank heavens! We’d feared—”
“I am quite safe,” Elizabeth interrupted gently, though her voice trembled at the edges. “Thanks to Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley.”
“See to her comfort, Mrs. Hill,” Mr. Bennet said from behind them. “And call two footmen to act as guards. I will not have her without protection until this business is concluded.”
Elizabeth hesitated, glancing at Darcy as if reluctant to part from him. He inclined his head towards the stairs. “Go. Rest. I shall see that this man is dealt with.”
When she nodded and allowed herself to be led away, Darcy felt a peculiar emptiness settle in her absence. He turned back to Mr. Bennet, who was already speaking in low tones to Bingley.