They positioned themselves, each man tensed, waiting for Darcy’s signal. The wood beneath his palm felt warm from the candlelight inside. In the stillnessbefore action, Darcy allowed himself one thought—Hold on, Elizabeth. Just a moment longer.
And then, with a silent nod, they were ready.
Chapter Thirty-Two
November 27, 1811
Longbourn
Darcy
Darcy’shearthammeredinhis chest as his hand closed on the door’s latch. A subtle nod to the men behind him, and he shoved it inward with all the force he could muster.
The hinges screamed, the lantern light spilling into the room in jagged strokes. His eyes swept the space in a single, desperate glance—and fixed instantly on her.
Elizabeth.
She was seated on a rickety chair near the center of the room, her hands bound before her, a filthy handkerchief stuffed cruelly around her mouth. Her hair had come partially loose from its pins, a dark curl falling over her shoulder. Behind her stood a tall, unkempt man withhollowed cheeks and wild black hair streaked with gray. One hand gripped a fistful of Elizabeth’s hair, yanking her head slightly back, and in the other was a long, wicked-looking knife pressed to the pale skin of her throat.
Darcy froze where he stood, every muscle straining, his instincts screaming to lunge forward—but he knew one wrong move could end her life in an instant.
He was dimly aware of Mr. Bennet stepping up at his side, and behind them, the others—though Bingley had already slipped from his view, melting into the shadows to one side.
The man smiled—not warmly, but with a mocking tilt of his head. “Well,” he said, his voice coarse but deliberate, “it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, cousin. Allow me to introduce meself. I am Malcolm Bennet the Third, the rightful heir to Longbourn.”
The words struck the air like flint on steel. Darcy saw Mr. Bennet’s brows lift slightly, though his voice remained steady, calm.
“I am afraid you are mistaken,” Mr. Bennet replied evenly. “I am the rightful heir to Longbourn. Perhaps you can explain your…misconception.”
Malcolm’s dark eyes gleamed with something between pride and mania. “It’s no misconception. My grandfather—Malcolm Bennet the First—was master here before you were even born. He had a son, Malcolm Bennet the Second—my father. Grandfather died before I came along, and Da… Well, he passed before I’d seen eight summers. My mother, God rest her, kept Grandfather’s journals. Everything I needed to know was in there. My blood runs Bennet through and through, and I’ve come to evict the you-suppers from my house.”
Darcy’s gaze flicked to Mr. Bennet, who was studying Malcolm with sharp intelligence.
“I believe the word you are searching for isusurpers,” Mr. Bennet corrected mildly. “And I am nothing of the kind.”
Malcolm’s lips twisted. “I have evidence enough to prove my lineage.”
“I have no doubt,” Mr. Bennet replied, his tone still maddeningly composed. “In fact, I should easily think you are my distant cousin. You bear a striking resemblance to the first Malcolm Bennet. His portrait is safely stored now—since my own was defiled.”
Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “Then you do not deny Longbourn is mine by rights?”
“Longbourn,” Mr. Bennet said, his voice firming, “isnotyours by rights. After Malcolm—the first Malcolm—fled, having set fire to the manor in a fit of carelessness, his father disinherited him, as was his legal right. To further protectthe estate, my own father—the second-born—agreed to create an entail to last three generations. By its terms, the estate may only pass tolegitimateBennet male heirs.”
Color rose high on Malcolm’s cheeks. “My father was respectable—”
Mr. Bennet’s eyes sharpened. “Was he? And was he born within wedlock? What of you?”
Darcy saw the moment the barb struck home. Malcolm’s jaw tightened, his eyes went flat, and his grip on Elizabeth’s hair drew her head back another fraction. The knife at her throat gleamed sharper in the candlelight.
“It doesn’t matter,” Malcolm snarled. “I’ll take what I want, anyway.”
Darcy’s chest tightened, a rush of panic nearly breaking his careful control. He forced his breathing slow, his gaze locking on Elizabeth’s. She was pale but calm, her eyes locked to his with an intensity that said she trusted him utterly. Still, he saw the faint flutter of her pulse where the knife lay too close.
From the far edge of the room, movement—a shadow gliding between piles of old furniture and stolen objects. Bingley. Darcy did not look directly, but he caught the barest flicker of his friend’s pale cravat in the dim light.
Mr. Bennet spoke again, his voice deliberately even. “I am certain we can come to some arrangement. Butantagonizing the family is not only foolish—it is criminal. Every item you have stolen from this house is evidence enough to see you locked in debtor’s prison for years, if not worse.”
Malcolm’s eyes darted between them, suspicion and fury warring in his expression. He shifted his stance, the knife pressing tighter against Elizabeth’s throat. Darcy’s heart lurched; he took a small step forward, willing himself not to startle the man into violence.
