“But nothing is truly mine!” the colonel bit his reply out, his voice laced with bitterness. “Everything I have—my commission, my prospects, even the damn roof over my head—has always depended on someone else’s generosity.”
“What of Mrs. Jenkinson? What happened to her?” His tone became hard.
Fitzwilliam’s jaw tightened. “That was an accident. She fell down the stairs. You were there when she was found.”
“I know you are lying, Fitzwilliam. Tell me the truth.”
“What for?” The colonel spread his arms wide as he let out a harsh laugh. “Would it change anything? She is dead, Darcy! Buried under a pile of stone in that bloody tower. Do you want me to dig her out and apologize?”
“You must go to the constable. Anne must be stopped. She must be sent somewhere she can do no further harm. Collins’s name must be cleared. We can still set things right, but only if we tell the truth.”
“What? And lose everything? You expect me to throw my entire future away for some worthless parson?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “If he was fool enough to believe that nonsense about the curse, then that is on him. It is not my fault he went to her rooms.”
Darcy’s pulse hammered in his throat. “Is that how it happened?”
Fitzwilliam exhaled harshly, rubbing a hand down his face. “I do not know, Darcy. I was not there. Before I left that evening, Anne was rambling about voices. She claimed she had been tormented by something unholy, that she needed prayers for deliverance.”
His cousin looked away, jaw clenching. “She told me she summoned the parson. Said only he, as a man of God, could drive it away.
“But that is Anne, is it not? Mad, yes—but never stupid. And sheisher mother’s daughter. She twists people’s minds, makes them believe whatever she needs them to. Maybe she just wanted someone to take the blame and found the perfect fool.”
Torn between reason and sentiment, Darcy hesitated. He had discovered the extent of his cousin’s transgressions, yet some part of him still clung to the idea of redemption. Rosings had always bred ruin, feeding on ambition and despair—he himself had not been immune to its influence. Fitzwilliam had been ensnared by his ownhunger for power, but was he beyond saving? Was there still a way for him to escape from this unscathed?
“This does not have to end in disgrace for you. You can still make this right.” Darcy’s voice was steady, imploring. “Anne has already condemned herself with her actions. Let the truth surface, and step away before it takes you down as well. If you do nothing, Rosings will destroy you, just as it did Lady Catherine. Walk away while you still can.”
There was a brief moment of reflection—an instant of doubt crossing Fitzwilliam’s face in which Darcy began to believe his cousin might be within redemption.
Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, Fitzwilliam lunged.
A visceral, animalistic scream tore from his throat. The force of the impact sent Darcy sprawling backwards, and they crashed into the ground, rolling over jagged rocks and splintered debris. Rubble shuddered beneath them, shifting dangerously as they tumbled towards the edge, perilously close to the crumbling scaffolding and the void where the floor had caved in.
In the chaos, clarity struck—Fitzwilliam was not just fighting. He was desperate. Ruthless. This was not a man defending himself; this was a man who had everything to lose. And if eliminating Darcy meant keeping Rosings, he would not hesitate.
As Darcy managed to wrench himself free, he stumbled to his feet. He sucked in a breath and clenched his fists, falling instinctively into a boxer’s stance. Fitzwilliam, however, had no intention of playing fair. His cousin grabbed a wooden post from the wreckage and swung it with a savage arc.
He barely dodged in time.
“Always the gentleman, eh, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam sneered. “I hate to inform you, but this is hardly a fair fight.”
Another wild swipe, but the pole’s weight slowed him. It was obvious to Darcy that Fitzwilliam was not going to last with this weapon. His cousin knew it too. The third swing was so slow that Darcy avoided it easily.
With a frustrated snarl, the colonel dropped the pole and took a step closer.
“You are not going to attack, are you?” Fitzwilliam taunted. “We both know there is only one way this ends. And I have too much to lose to back down now.”
Again, Fitzwilliam charged.
Darcy took a punishing blow to the stomach and retaliated with a strike to his cousin’s jaw. The force of it sent Fitzwilliam stumbling, but he grinned through bloody teeth.
They circled each other, exchanging vicious blows. A sharp punch crashed into Darcy’s shoulder. He barely had time to react before another came. He caught it on his forearm, gritting his teeth against the impact.
Then Darcy’s footing faltered when his shoe caught on an uneven tile, and he crashed to one knee.
His opponent kicked him in the chest.
The world spun. As all his breath rushed from his body, Darcy hit the ground hard, his head snapping back. Pain flared through his skull.
In a trice, Fitzwilliam was on him. He straddled Darcy, hands clamping around his throat, fingers digging in with bruising force.
