Page 117 of The Difference of a Darcy
His eyes narrowed.No, Wickham would never… would he?
A cold dread gripped him.
He frantically searched the windows, the irony not escaping him,hopingto see flames or smoke, for the alternative was worse.
“Blast!” he swore. “Elizabeth!”
He turned, sprinting back the way he had come.
“William, what in heaven’s name—?” Mrs. Reynolds protested as he tore past her in the foyer and made for the room where he had left Elizabeth.
He ignored her.
Skidding to halt in front of the door, he reached for the knob.
Locked.
“Eliza—Beth?” he called, too loudly, panic rising in his chest. “Beth, are you there?”
No reply.
He stepped back and slammed his shoulder into the door. Once. Twice. On the third, it burst open with a splintering crack.
The scene that met him turned his blood to ice.
Elizabeth was pinned between a chair and the wall, her eyes wide with terror. Wickham stood over her, unsteady on his feet, a sickening leer on his face. One hand was extended—reaching toward her cheek. His coat was open, cravat half-untied, and the heavy stench of brandy filled the air.
Darcy saw red.
“Get away from her!” he roared.
Wickham turned, just as Darcy crossed the space and slammed into him, fists clenched. The first blow sent him staggering into the sideboard. The second knocked the brandy flask from his hand.
“You dare touch her?” Darcy snarled, grabbing Wickham by the front of his coat and dragging him from the room. “You dare?”
Wickham shoved back, throwing a wild punch that barely grazed Darcy’s jaw—but it was enough to ignite the fury in full. They crashed into the corridor, limbs locked, struggling like beasts. Wickham slipped on the stone floor, nearly going down, but caught himself on a windowsill.
A door creaked open. Then another.
Servants peered out, eyes wide. Mrs. Wells appeared from the kitchen, a rolling pin in her hand. John emerged behind her, having run from the stables with a pitchfork. Mrs. Reynolds stood like stone at the far end of the corridor, face pale, lips pressed into a line.
Georgiana descended the stairs, bracing herself on the banister so as to not lose her balance. “George, what have you done?”
Ignoring his wife, Wickham snarled and shoved Darcy away, panting. Blood dripped from his nose.
“That is it,” he spat. “I will have you arrested for assault. You think you can strike your master and walk away from it? You are nothing. A servant.”
No one moved.
He turned, pointing at the assembled household. “Go! Someone fetch the constable! Now!”
Not a single footfall answered.
The silence was deafening.
Wickham’s eyes darted about the corridor, his bravado crumbling. He looked to Mrs. Reynolds. “You—”
She raised a brow. “I do not take my orders from a man who cannot control himself, especially not if he is so into his cups that he most likely will not remember giving them.”
