Page 131 of The Difference of a Darcy
There was a loud thud, then another shout from Richard. “Jones! Get in here!”
The largest of the footmen obeyed the order immediately, disappearing inside along with his master. A moment later came the sound of wood splintering—then a sharp cry and the crash of broken glass.
Before Darcy could demand what had happened, the remaining men surged forward, weapons drawn. He was pulled along with them through the doorway—and stopped short in horror.
Elizabeth stood at the far end of the room, pressed against the scullery door, her arm raised. In her hand was the jagged neck of a broken wine bottle. At her feet lay Colonel Fitzwilliam, dazed, one hand lifted to back of his head where a thin stream of blood seeped through his fingers.
Every man in the room had turned his sword and gun toward her.
Darcy’s blood ran cold.
“Elizabeth!”
∞∞∞
The seconds passed like hours as Elizabeth pressed her ear to the scullery door. The sounds outside had grown louder—boots, low voices, and then the scrape of something heavy against the flagstones. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
From the other side of the door came a man’s shout, muffled but distinct. “The scullery is locked!”
Georgiana’s fingers tightened around Elizabeth’s sleeve. “Beth,” she whispered, “what do we do? He will find us!”
Before Elizabeth could answer, another voice barked an order—gruff, commanding. “Jones! Get in here!”
A heartbeat later came the splintering crack of wood under force.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. There was no time to think. She darted to the shelves, grasping for anything that might serve as a weapon. Her hand closed around the neck of a wine bottle—heavy and smooth beneath her palm.
“Stay behind me,” she whispered.
Georgiana’s eyes were huge in the dim light, but she obeyed, retreating to the corner.
The pounding at the door came again, louder this time. The wood groaned. Elizabeth scrambled atop a low barrel near the hinges, gripping the bottle tightly. The door shuddered once more, then gave way with a splintering crack, flinging splinters in all directions.
A man burst through, broad-shouldered and shouting, pushing his way past the barrel guarding the entrance.
Elizabeth let out a cry that was half terror, half fury, and swung with all her strength. The bottle came down hard uponhis head with a sharp, sickening thud. He staggered backward, crashing into the table before collapsing to the floor.
For one breathless instant there was silence—then the sound of weapons being drawn, and the thunder of boots as others charged towards the broken doorway.
Elizabeth froze in the doorframe, the jagged remains of glass still clutched in her trembling hand, her heart pounding so fiercely she thought it might leap from her chest.
“Do not come any closer,” she warned as menacingly as she could, “else I shall hit him again.”
She raised her makeshift weapon again high in the air.
“For pity’s sake, we are here to help!” shouted the man on the floor. “Stop attacking us, woman!”
“Richard?”
Chapter 26
Before Elizabeth realized what was happening, Georgiana rushed up to her from behind. Elizabeth threw her arm out, preventing the girl from rushing past her.
“No, they have guns!” she cried out. “Stay behind me! I will not let them harm you.”
“Georgie?” the man on the floor groaned.
“But it is my cousin,” Georgiana protested weakly. “The one who wrote me the letter.”
