Page 106 of The Scarred Duchess
“What have I done?” He looked at the blood on his hands. “Is this real?” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands as best he could. When he stood, his knees felt jittery. He took a few cleansing breaths to calm down before reaching over to close Wickham’s eyelids. Pulling down his sleeves, he straightened his great coat and turned to leave.
The men of Lambton filled the common room. All stared at him, awe upon their faces. He searched for recriminations. Finding none, he respectfully bowed. The townsmen stepped aside, creating a pathway for him to exit. They removed their hats and nodded as he passed each of them. They had prepared his horse.
“We seen it all, sir,” said Mr Baxter. Darcy heard the crowd murmur their support.
“Thank you. I regret I leave you in this state,” he replied.
“The magistrate be along soon, Mr Darcy. None you worry,” replied Mr Cobb.
With a grunt, Darcy levered himself upon Hercules and walked him off. Once he was free from the village, he picked up the pace; the stallion—the fleet-footed son of Goliath—ate up the five miles as if he were a winged Pegasus. It seemed they were in front of Pemberley’s door within minutes.
Darcy pulled up hard on Hercules’s reins, leaping off only to stumble once before righting himself. He ran up the front door steps and stopped. A long-armed, uniformed man stood at the top. Darcy raised his arms and showed his palms; the soldier sheathed his sword.
“Welcome back, Mr Darcy,” called out Sergeant Villiers, the Colonel’s batman.
Darcy nodded as he climbed the stairs. “How do you fare?”
“As well as can be, sir. We do beg your pardon for the disorder, though ‘tis mostly on the lawn.”
Darcy nodded, thankful he had sent Mrs Reynolds and the female servants to Lambton’s inn. “A thousand pardons granted for your service. Where may I find my cousin?”
“Look to your study, as it has the lone fire.” Villiers put a hand on Darcy’s arm as he neared. “Begging your pardon, sir.You will want to be cautious and announce yourself at a distance. The colonel acted without reserve.”
“Any prisoners?” asked Darcy, unsure of why he was asking.
Villiers looked at him oddly. “May I remind you, sir, the Twenty-Fifth does not take prisoners.”
“Well met. I shall heed your warning. And I thank you for your service to our family.” Darcy hastened towards his study. He knocked on the open door several times. A shadow shimmered in the firelight. “What ho, Cousin?” he asked.
A hand appeared in the air from the far chair in front of the hearth and waved. Darcy walked to the nearby chair, sat, and looked at the colonel. He sat in silence; blood splattered his coat and he held a full glass of whiskey. Fitzwilliam nodded towards a second glass, filled to the brim. Darcy picked it up. They clinked their glasses, the sound initiating their conversation.
“Villiers informed me this horror is over. Dare I ask how many corpses I shall find?”
“All of them.”
Darcy sipped his drink. “Any injuries?” he asked.
His cousin scoffed. “Two armourers were an excess of men. Your purse will be lighter for little reason.”
“I do not begrudge you the expense. Georgiana and her safety deserve no less.”
Fitzwilliam nodded. Darcy stared into his glass. Was he now a killer like his cousin? Like Reeves?
“You brood over that which was not yours to avoid, Cousin.”
Darcy drank deeply. “I killed Wickham.”
“In cold blood?”
“You would call it self-defence.” Darcy shrugged. “It was.”
Fitzwilliam lit the taper between them. The light reflected off his coal-black eyes.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Good God, no!” Darcy shouted.
“Then you are not a killer.” Fitzwilliam sat back, drink in hand.
