Prologue

Darcy

Pemberley, Derbyshire

April 1809

"H elp! Get the sand at once!"

A piercing voice ripped through the darkness, jolting Darcy out of a peaceful slumber. He rubbed his tired eyes and blinked several times before realising his hand and pantaloons were soaked.

The culprit, a tipped-over whiskey glass, was wedged between his leg and the chair. He sighed, frustrated, realising he'd fallen asleep in his armchair again. He got up, to grab the glass, when his long-forgotten book thudded to the ground, followed by the glass, which shattered.

"Perdition," he cursed under his breath. He had to stop making a habit of falling asleep in the armchair in his study. This was the third time this week. He glanced up at the long case clock and shook his head. It was one in the morning, meaning he'd slept in his chair for two hours and—

"Fetch help!" a frantic voice came from the hall.

What in the world was going on outside? Had someone called for sand? Sandbags? What for? Was the river threatening to burst its banks? This had happened once before, and they'd lost much of Pemberley's lovely herb garden in the aftermath. He glanced out the window into the dark of night, expecting to see rain running down the windowpanes—but it was clear outside. Clouds had been moving into the area over the course of the afternoon, but nothing beyond a mild drizzle had fallen.

A second scream, this one more of a panicked screech than anything, echoed through the house, sending shivers down Darcy's spine. Something was wrong. He quickly got to his feet, his heart pounding.

As he stumbled towards the door, an acrid smell penetrated his nostrils, and when he grabbed the brass door handle, he jerked back as heat seared his palm.

His jaw dropped, and the taste of smoke filled his mouth, making him cough involuntarily. Heat radiated from the door handle as he reached for it, causing him to recoil with a gasp.

"No, no, no," he whispered hoarsely, as a crackling roar beyond the door drifted to his ears. With his sleeves pulled over his hands as a feeble barrier against the searing metal, he gripped the handle and flung the door open, revealing a wall of heat that washed over him.

"Not a fire, for heaven's sakes!" he said and flung the door open.

He knew his worst fear had been realised the second he stepped into the hall. The halls were thick with smoke, and the stench unmistakable.

"Sir," the familiar voice of Edward Lightower, his valet, came, followed by footsteps. His valet emerged from the hall to his right, his face already covered with smut. "We were looking for you. Sir, there is a—"

"Fire, yes. I gathered. We must get the sand buckets at once and alert the neighbours to come help," he said hastily. "Where is the fire?"

The man's lips parted, but for a moment, he said nothing.

"Lightower! Where is the fire?" Darcy demanded.

"Upstairs," Lightower replied. "In the west wing of the manor, near Miss Darcy's chamber…"

Darcy heard nothing more as his head rang and his heart raced. He grabbed Lightower by the collar, his eyes wide. "Where is Georgiana?"

"She must be in her chamber. The fire must have broken out near it because the hall was already on fire and we were unable to get to her. Sir, we just discovered the fire. We will get sand and…"

Darcy let go of the man's collar and turned, dashing down the hall just as a line of servants emerged from servant door. Most were clad in their nightgowns and caps and looked around, terrified.

"Where is Cogsworth?" He demanded as he ran, seeking his butler.

"He went to fetch the fire brigade," came Lightower's answer.

Good, at least something was going right.

"And Mrs Reynolds? She was to lead the servants out," he called, but Lightower did not answer.

Darcy grabbed onto the banister and swung himself around once at the staircase. He hastened up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Footmen had already formed a line, passing sand buckets up towards the source of the flames.

"Where is my sister?" he called to one of the footmen. Flames burst forth from the hall where the damask curtains had caught alight, an orange and yellow spectacle that burnt so bright it was as if it were daylight. He stopped, realising that the wing where his sister's chamber was located, roared with fire. It was eating its way down the stairs at shocking speed.

The paintings had caught alight already, and the ceiling appeared to bubble with a blackness beneath the yellow. Wood creaked under the strain, and somewhere, a thud announced the way with which the fire was eating into Pemberley's very structure.

"We've not seen her," one of the servants said. Then another, further down the line shouted up.

"Sir, Wentworth went to find her in her chamber, but he didn't come back," Darcy attempted to identify the man calling but the smoke had moved in, obscuring their faces.

Georgiana was in there, somewhere. He had to get her.

"Right," he said and shrugged off his jacket. "Right." He looked over his shoulder. "Lightower, make sure everyone who doesn't need to be here is out. Have them check the servants' quarters. Direct the fire brigade here, and have the physician come as well. And for heaven's sakes, find Mrs Reynolds," he barked.

Before anyone had a chance to stop him, he placed his jacket in front of his mouth and burst down the hall. The rugs had also caught on fire, and he was forced to walk pressed against the wall. From behind, shouts emitted, the men telling him to come back.

He wouldn't. Not without his sister.

As Darcy rushed towards Georgiana's door, he suddenly tripped over something on the ground. Looking down, he saw Wentworth, his coachman, lying on the floor.

"Sir…" the man gasped, reaching one hand up. "They're in… Miss Darcy's…" a coughing fit overcame him, and Darcy crouched down.

"Come, Wentworth. I'll get you out of here," he said and grabbed onto the man's arms, lifting him upward. Wentworth's weight pressed into Darcy as sweat ran down his face and back.

"I… Sir…" Wentworth mumbled, barely conscious. "The flames… I… Saw…" His words were cut off as he coughed and gasped for air. Darcy dragged the man down the stairs, avoiding the flames that seemed to have grown in only the last couple of minutes.

"Lightower," he shouted to his valet who stood at the front of the line, tossing sand onto the flames. Alas, it did little to quell them. "Take care of him," Darcy said, handing the coachman over. Lightower nodded, taking Wentworth by the arm.

"Cogsworth is back, the fire brigade will be here in a moment, and other gentlemen and their staff have arrived. We're forming a second line on the other…"

Darcy waved his hand and left Lightower standing where he was, unconcerned about the status of operations. He had to get to his sister.

As Darcy burst into Georgiana's room, the intense heat and billowing smoke assaulted his every sense. Flames engulfed every corner, devouring the furnishings, paintings, and the large bed. The ceiling groaned above, threatening to collapse at any moment. It was nearly impossible to see as he made his way into the room.

"Georgie?" He called out loud but there was no answer. Panicked, he pressed further into the room when he saw a shape to his right.

"Georgiana!" he bellowed against the roaring flames and fell to his knees.

He grabbed onto the shape and bent forward when his heart skipped a beat and he recoiled. This was not his sister. Instead, Mrs Reynolds, his trusted housekeeper, lay motionless on the ground. Her eyes were open, staring lifelessly into the inferno raging around them. Blood trickled from her forehead and a nearby beam told him just what had happened here. He glanced up, a lump in his throat. The ceiling would come down at any moment.

A cold realization settled over Darcy as he knelt beside the woman he'd known since his childhood days—he could do nothing for her.

Rising to his feet, Darcy stood, hands curled into fists. "Georgie!" He shouted again, desperation filling his tone, as the heat and smoke grew to almost intolerable levels. His mind swayed and he felt himself slipping away—air. He needed air. Desperate to replenish his lungs he stumbled to the window. The curtain swayed under heavy flames but perhaps, just perhaps he could manage to get a gulp, still.

"Geor—" he called her name again when a gasp escaped his lips. There she was, crouched beneath the window, her head resting on her chest as though she'd fallen asleep.

"Georgiana?" He shouted and slipped to the ground beside her on his knees. "Georgie?" he begged her as he lifted her head upward. Her eyes were closed and her chest did not move. He needed to get her out. He grabbed her by the waist and lifted her up. They'd make it. All he had to do was get out of this room, down the hall and—

A deafening roar made him raise his eyes upward at the flaming blaze just as debris crashed down all around him. Wood splintered and a rush of air and dust wafted through, only stoking the flames further.

"Not yet…" he groaned.

But then, before he had a chance to decided what to do the ceiling above him gave in, filling the air with a thunderous explosion and Darcy understood that they were out of time.