“Rosings is mine! You will not take it from me!”
Darcy gasped, his lungs screaming for air. Desperate, he reached out, fingers clawing blindly through the rubble, searching, grasping—until they closed around a rock.
With the last of his strength, he swung.
The sickening crunch of stone against bone reverberated through the ruins. Fitzwilliam reeled, a strangled sound escaping him as blood streaked down his temple. For a moment, he staggered, holding his head. Darcy forced himself to one knee, one foot planted on the floor.
The colonel’s eyes burned with fury. He grabbed an iron bar from the debris, and lifted it above his head for a final, killing strike.
Breathless, on his knee, Darcy braced himself.
Then, a gunshot echoed through the ruins, splitting the air like thunder.
Fitzwilliam jerked. For a heartbeat, he stood frozen, his breath caught mid-chest, before his knees gave way, and he crumpled to the ground.
Behind him stood Ferguson, pistol still smoking.
Darcy could only stare as his cousin choked on his own blood, a crimson trickle sliding down his chin. Their eyes met—one last, unspoken exchange. Something flickered in Fitzwilliam’s gaze. A faint, almost knowing smile.
With a final exhale, he collapsed onto his side, motionless.
The reality struck Darcy harder than any of his cousin’s blows. His chest clenched, a sob rose in his throat.
“Sir?” Ferguson’s quiet voice cut through the haze, steady and grounding.
Darcy blinked, forcing himself to move. This was not the time for mourning. He swallowed hard and took Ferguson’s outstretched hand, rising unsteadily to his feet.
There was still Anne.
Chapter 24 – The End of the Storm
A growing unease settled over the group as they approached the house. This time, Darcy would not be so reckless: he had brought the magistrate, Mr. Bevan, as well as another constable and Ferguson, ensuring there were impartial witnesses to what was about to unfold. He would permit no more risks, no more misguided attempts to reason with Anne—she was beyond rational discussions.
He had let his impulses guide him before, in hope that Fitzwilliam would do the noble thing, but his cousin had already been overcome by ambition, and was too far gone to be reached by sense or conscience.
His gaze remained fixed on the road ahead; he refused to let his thoughts stray. He could not allow himself to dwell on what had happened barely three hours earlier. Bruises were a small price for his own escape, yet Fitzwilliam’s death had left a wound that would never truly mend.
Beside him, Mr. Bevan sat stiffly, his face pale and deeply uncomfortable. A simple country magistrate, he was accustomed to settling land disputes and petty thefts, not bringing down noblewomen accused of madness and murder.
“I still do not know if this is the right course, Mr. Darcy,” Bevan murmured. “Locking up the mistress of Rosings will raise questions. People will talk.”
“I have no legal authority over her,” Darcy replied evenly, “yet I came here on her guardian’s bidding. Until the earl takes charge, someone must ensure Mrs. Fitzwilliam is kept from harming others—or herself.”
Bevan exhaled sharply. “I understand, I assure you.”
They reached the clearing near the house. The butler was already waiting as they dismounted, his face carefully neutral, though his posture betrayed unease. He bowed stiffly, stepping aside to allow them entry.
“The mistress is in the sitting room, sir.”
Before stepping forward, Darcy exchanged a glance with Bevan. The poor man sighed, bracing himself for the confrontation.
The house was eerily ordinary, immersed in a strange calmness. The scent of a home-cooked meal lingered in the air, as if the household was merely awaiting the master’s return for supper, a cruel contrast to what might unravel soon.
Anne came rushing into the room, skirts swishing, her eyes bright with expectation, hope—
She froze. The smile on her lips wavered, then faded completely as she took in the scene before her.
Richard Fitzwilliam was not there.
