Page 43 of Colour My World
Fitzwilliam smiled—a cold, terrible thing.
The crowd roared. Wagers flew. Shouts rose.
“Ten guineas on the redcoat!”
“Fifteen on Turner. He’ll drop him in one!”
Fitzwilliam shrugged off his scarlet and tossed it to Darcy.
“Mind the creases.”
He stepped into the ring, stripped off his shirt, and rolled his shoulders. The movement was fluid. Effortless. In the dim tallow light, pale white scars gleamed across his skin. Something about him shifted.
Darcy had seen it once before at the menagerie: the momenta great cat stirred. Not show, not a threat. Only certainty. Turner had taunted a predator.
Jackson hissed through his teeth. “Rogue, are you daft?”
Turner stepped forward, fists raised. Fitzwilliam prowled left.
* * *
The gamblers had long moved on. Jackson and another man dragged Turner from the ring. Darcy doubted he would walk upright for some time.
Villiers handed Fitzwilliam a towel. He cleaned his hands, one bloody finger at a time, as if Turner had been nothing at all.
At opposite ends of the pit, Legget and Reeves leant against door frames.
Fitzwilliam folded the towel in thirds and tucked it under his arm. Then said, cool and even, “Mrs Younge was Mrs George Wickham.”
Darcy blinked. “What?”
“She gave a false name.” Fitzwilliam handed the towel to Villiers. “Did you confirm her references?”
Darcy faltered. He could not recall. His father’s illness had consumed everything: estate matters, investments, his martial training—
“She would have taken your sister.” Villiers helped Fitzwilliam with his coat.
Darcy knew not what to say. Only that something must be said. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“You may be an excellent fencer. A promising pugilist. But you mistake skill for survival.” He seized Darcy’s arm just above the elbow and squeezed.
Darcy’s teeth snapped shut against the pain.
“Need I remind you again?” Fitzwilliam released him and reached into his pocket, pulling out a black-edged letter. “Youare needed. At Pemberley.”
Chapter 14
Matlock House, that same evening…
Frost webbed the edges of the windows, delicate as lace, yet the warmth within the room held firm against winter’s chill. Darcy stood just inside the doorway, his shoulders tense. Across the room, Georgiana sat on a blue velvet settee, an embroidery hoop in her lap.
She looked up and smiled—a genuine smile, one that reached her eyes. “Brother.”
Darcy crossed the room and took the chair opposite her. The scent of lavender and beeswax clung to the air, a Matlock House constant. On a side table, a tea tray of delicate porcelain and silver polished to a mirror’s gleam sat untouched.
“You look well.”
Georgiana pressed her lips together. “And you look exhausted.”
