Chapter Forty

Darcy

D arcy strode down the hallway with a fierce determination, his mind focused on one goal, protecting everyone within these walls. Rather than head towards the staircase, he went in the opposite direction. The upper floor of Pemberley curved around the vast entrance hall with a balustrade overlooking the space, and corridors leading off to the east and west wings. By taking this route he could avoid the intruders and alert his footmen. He found two of his footmen patrolling the upper floor. He beckoned them over with a quick gesture, keeping his voice low but firm.

“There are intruders,” he informed them, his expression grim. “We don’t know how many, but they entered through the servants’ entrance. We must act quickly and quietly.”

The two men straightened, their eyes widening slightly before they nodded, their loyalty and determination evident. Darcy looked at one of the footmen—a young but steady man named Tate.

“Tate, go downstairs and rouse the male servants,” Darcy instructed in a low tone. “The women are to stay locked in their rooms, and we’ll need everyone prepared. Send Hastings to fetch the constable.”

Tate gave a sharp nod, turned, and darted down the hallway towards the servants’ staircase. Darcy and the remaining footman, a wiry, older man with a hard edge named Sommers, exchanged a look. Together, they headed downstairs using the west wing staircase. Once on the ground floor Darcy paused and listened, the house was silent. He gestured to the drawing room and Sommers opened the door. After ascertaining that the room was empty, Darcy grabbed the heavy iron poker from the hearth. Sommers followed his lead, hefting another poker with a grim, approving look.

“We shall search room by room,” Darcy said, his voice resolute.

The two men moved cautiously through the silent house, their senses heightened, every creak of the floorboards amplifying the tension in the air. Darcy’s grip tightened on the poker, his thoughts flickering briefly to Elizabeth and Maggie, safe in his chamber for now. But he knew the threat would only grow the longer it went unchallenged.

Down the hallway, the dim light cast shadows that seemed to shift and stretch, adding an eerie edge to the silence. There were no signs thus far of the intruders. Darcy and Sommers exchanged another glance, each nodding in silent acknowledgment. As they left the main rooms and headed towards the servants’ entrance a faint rustle and the low murmur of voices reached their ears. Darcy’s heart hammered, his grip tightening on the iron poker. He caught Sommers’s eye, and they exchanged a quick, grim nod before rounding the final corner.

There, in the dim glow cast by a wall lantern, stood three men. Two were crouched near the door, while the third—a hulking figure with a scar slashing down his cheek—stood guard, a glint of a knife visible in his hand.

The scarred man noticed them first, his eyes narrowing with a menacing smirk. “Well, well,” he sneered, straightening up and taking a step forward. “Seems we’ve got ourselves a welcome party.”

“Leave now, and I won’t pursue you,” Darcy commanded, his voice as cold and hard as the iron he held. “There’s nothing for you here.”

The bandit laughed, his companions joining him, their sneers flashing in the low light. “Nothing, eh?” the scarred man replied. “Looks like plenty worth taking to me. Although it isn’t your riches we are after. But you know this.”

“You will need to go through me, if you want what I think you want,” he said. Darcy raised the poker, his stance unyielding. Sommers took his position just behind him, his poker at the ready, his face set with a fierce determination.

“Leave. Now. This is your last warning,” Darcy growled, his eyes locked on the leader.

“I shan’t think I’ll be doing that,” the man said. “Men what do you say? Shall we go through him and his manservant?”

With that the leader scoffed and lunged forward, his knife glinting as he swiped at Darcy. Darcy dodged, the blade missing him by inches, and countered with a swift strike of the poker to the man’s arm. The impact echoed in the hallway, followed by a sharp curse from the bandit as he stumbled back, clutching his arm.

But the other two bandits sprang into action, one of them launching himself at Sommers, who met the attack head-on. They grappled, the footman’s strength holding firm as he used the poker to deflect the intruder’s wild punches. Meanwhile, the third bandit rushed at Darcy, catching him with a glancing blow to the side before Darcy pivoted and delivered a solid punch to the man’s shoulder, forcing him back.

The leader recovered, knife in hand once more, and charged at Darcy with a snarl. Darcy dodged again, swinging his poker in a broad arc that caught the man’s arm, the force of the blow dislodging the knife, which clattered to the floor. Without missing a beat, Darcy pressed forward, his movements quick and decisive, driving the man back with every strike.

As Darcy held his ground against the scarred leader, the bandit swung again with a fury, his fists moving with relentless force. Darcy parried the blows with the poker, but the man’s size and ferocity were wearing him down. A sudden, brutal jab caught Darcy’s shoulder, and he staggered back, pain flaring as he tightened his grip on the iron weapon.

Nearby, Sommers was struggling. The second bandit had managed to pull him down, grappling him against the cold stone floor, his fist driving into Sommers’s face with a sickening crunch. Sommers’s nose began to bleed, his breath coming in pained gasps as he wrestled beneath the bandit’s weight, the poker slipping from his grip.

The third intruder advanced on Darcy, a smirk curling at his lips as he circled, waiting for the chance to strike. Darcy glanced between his two opponents, his heart racing as he searched for an opening. Another swing came his way—a flash of iron followed by a glancing blow to his ribs. Darcy stumbled, his jaw was clenched in determination but he was beginning to feel the strain. Outnumbered and outmanoeuvred, he was close to his limit.

Just as the bandits seemed poised to finish the job, a loud creak sounded from the servants’ door across the hall. Darcy’s eyes flickered over in surprise, and relief flooded him as he saw several of his servants, led by Tate, pouring into the hallway, each clutching whatever weapons they’d managed to gather—a rolling pin, an iron skillet, a walking stick, and even a thick broom.

“Get off him!” shouted the footman, his face fierce, as he charged forward with the others. The sudden reinforcements threw the bandits off guard, and before they could react, the servants closed in on them, wielding their makeshift weapons with fierce resolve.

One of the bandits swung wildly at Tate, who deflected the blow with his walking stick and brought it down hard on the man’s hand. The bandit cried out, his grip loosening on his own weapon as a footman rushed in, landing a solid punch that sent the man sprawling. Another servant jabbed a broom towards the third bandit, keeping him off balance as he tried to evade the strikes, all while the cook, a Frenchman who had never been anything but the epitome of grace and elegance, took advantage, delivering a fierce blow with his skillet that sent him reeling.

Meanwhile, the scarred leader, finally realising he was outnumbered, tried to shove past Darcy and make a break for it. But Darcy swung the poker with all his might, catching the man in the side and sending him staggering into the waiting arms of the butler, who restrained him swiftly.

Within moments, the bandits were subdued, lying groaning on the floor, surrounded by Darcy’s loyal staff. Darcy released a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, dropping the poker as the tension finally broke.

He turned to Sommers, who was still on the ground, clutching his bloodied nose, his face bruised but a small, triumphant grin on his lips.

Darcy crouched beside him, offering a hand. “Good work, Sommers,” he said with deep gratitude, helping him to his feet.

Sommers wiped the blood from his nose, wincing slightly. “Just doing my duty, sir. Couldn’t let them take our home.”

Darcy gave a firm nod, his respect for his staff solidified more than ever. “Nor will they,” he replied, casting a look around at the assembled servants, each catching his eye with pride and a touch of shared relief.

“Thank you, thank you all,” he said as he sunk against the wall. “We must secure them. Is Hastings on his way to fetch the constable?”

“He is,” Tate said. “You heard the master, let us tie these scoundrels up like the pigs they are and stash them away for the constable.”

With that, the men set to work and Darcy turned and ran up the stairs for there was only one place he wanted to be right now. With Elizabeth.

***

As soon as Darcy threw open the door, Elizabeth flew into his arms, clinging to him as if she might never let go. He wrapped her close, feeling the unsteady rhythm of her heartbeat mirroring his own.

“Elizabeth,” he murmured into her hair, his voice thick with relief, “it’s over. The men have been caught.”

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her eyes wide and bright, still brimming with fear and relief. “I was so afraid for you, Fitzwilliam… I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to you.”

He rested his forehead against hers, taking her hands in his. “And I feared for you and Maggie every moment. The thought of them reaching you…” His voice broke, the weight of the night’s danger catching up with him. “I couldn’t live in a world without you, Elizabeth.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and he brushed it away gently with his thumb. “My servants—they fought alongside me,” he said, pride warming his voice. “They were heroes tonight. The men are arrested, and the constable will be here soon to ensure they’re taken away. You are both safe now.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes, overcome with relief, and when she opened them again, Darcy moved his hands up to cup her face, his fingers tender against her skin as he drew her closer.

“I can’t hide it any longer,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. “I love you, Elizabeth. I meant to say it at a better time, in a far gentler way, but tonight, all I could think of was you and how much I—”

Before he could finish, Elizabeth’s eyes lit up with a sudden, bright joy. “I love you too, Fitzwilliam,” she murmured, her voice wavering with emotion. “More than I ever thought possible.”

He held her gaze, his heart pounding as the words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them. “Then marry me,” he said, his voice filled with raw, unguarded hope. “I wanted it to be grander than this, to have a moment worthy of you. But I can’t wait another second to ask. Elizabeth, will you be my wife?”

A smile broke across her face, radiant and unrestrained. “Yes,” she whispered, her hands resting over his as he held her. “Yes, I will marry you.”

In the quiet that followed, he pulled her close, and with a tenderness that held all the love and fear of that night, he kissed her, sealing their promises as the first hint of dawn crept over the horizon.