Her gaze swept over the four men, searching. Then it found him. Her eyes flickered downward, registering the ruined state of his clothes, the blood spattered across his coat. If only Darcy could shield her from the truth—spare her the pain he would soon inflict upon her. Anne took a measured step backwards.
“Where is Richard?”
Darcy forced his voice to remain steady, though compassion tightened in his chest. “He is not coming back, Anne.”
“No!” Her head went slowly from side to side and panic sharpened her voice. “Where is he? What did you do to him?”
He had no time to soothe his cousin or reason with her. “Anne, I am here at the earl’s behest. Until he decides otherwise, I am charged with ensuring your safety and the proper order of this household.”
Silence.
“Untilhedecides?” Her voice splintered. “He has no authority over me. Neither of you do.”
“He is your guardian, Anne. And he has entrusted me with the task of seeing you are properly cared for.”
Her eyes flared.
“Cared for?” She laughed, hoarse and breathless. “Like an invalid? Like amadwoman?” Her hands clenched into fists. “What did you do to him? Tell me!”
Her wary gaze darted among the men before she bolted for the door. Darcy lunged, catching her wrist, but Ferguson was already behind her, seizing her by the waist and hauling her off the ground.
Steel flashed, the gleam of a blue gem.
Darcy’s stomach lurched. The letter opener.
Anne wielded the weapon with feral strength. Darcy jerked back, barely avoiding the first cut. His stumble broke his hold, and Ferguson took the blow in his forearm. The man grunted but barely flinched. Mr. Bevan gasped and reeled backward in horror.
The constable charged. Anne kicked him on the groin and sent him crashing to the ground.
The struggle lasted mere seconds. Anne thrashed, kicked, and twisted, shrieking like a wild animal. The blade in her hand slashed blindly, cutting into any flesh it could reach, whistling past Darcy’s face by mere inches.
He finally caught her arm just as the constable seized her other wrist.
The dagger fell, clattering to the floor.
For a moment, the only sound was the rasp of laboured breathing. Anne had gone still, her limbs slack. It seemed that she had surrendered, but Darcy did not trust her.
All eyes were on her, alert for another unbridled attack. Ferguson eased his grip just enough for her to stand on her own.
Then, her body swayed and her head lolled to one side, as though the world had slipped out from under her. Her eyelids drooped, threatening to close at any moment.
Cautiously, Darcy came forward. “Anne?” He cupped her chin and lifted her face. She had gone terribly pale.
Her knees gave way, and she slipped from Ferguson’s arms.
No one moved or dared to speak. Darcy stood still, expectant, refusing to believe what his eyes told him.
Ferguson lowered her to the floor and stepped back. Limp. Too limp.
A dark stain was spreading across her gown, soaking through the fabric, pooling fast over the tiles.
Darcy knelt beside her, moving her skirts aside in a vain attempt to stanch the bleeding. A vein in her thigh, torn in her frenzy, gaped and flowed in torrents. A fatal wound, though she had likely never meant to strike herself at all.
Horrified, he pressed harder, a desperate, fruitless attempt to stop the surge, but the blood ran like a river, defying all effort.
A serene smile ghosted across Anne’s lips. Her eyes fluttered closed. And for the first time, she looked at peace.
Bile rose up his throat. Darcy forced himself to breathe, slow and steady while he cradled her head with bloody hands.
