Page 64 of Attempted Compromises
“Bingley,” Darcy rasped, his voice hoarse. “Wake up.”
Bingley groaned, blinking sluggishly as he raised his head. A dreamy smile spread across his face as his gaze landed on Jane, still cradled in his lap. “Jane,” he murmured softly, his tone filled with affection.
Darcy stiffened, his instincts as a gentleman and a friend roaring to life. The scene was scandalous, even if unintentional. The maids tittered behind their hands, their wide eyes fixed on the pair.
Bingley seemed to realize his position at the same moment. He straightened abruptly, causing Jane to slump forward. Jane gasped and woke with a start, her face flushing a deep crimson as she took in her surroundings.
“Oh my goodness!” she cried, sitting upright and pressing her hands to her flaming cheeks. “I—Mr. Bingley—I—” Her words dissolved into a stammered apology as tears welled in her eyes.
“It’s all right, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Jones interjected, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “The tea you all drank was drugged. None of you are to blame for your actions.”
Darcy’s heart clenched as he observed Jane’s mortification. She reminded him so much of Georgiana—gentle, kind, and deeply sensitive.God, please let her live.
He exhaled shakily, then his eyes narrowed. “Where is Miss Bingley?” He looked around the room. “Who could have done this? And why?” His tone was sharp, cutting through the murmurings of the gathered servants.
The question hung in the air like a lead weight. The maids exchanged uneasy glances, and one of them hesitated before stepping forward. “I—I heard Miss Elizabeth say something about Miss Bingley,” she stammered, wringing her hands. “She said she was kidnapped.”
The room erupted into whispers and exclamations, but Darcy remained frozen, the wordkidnappedechoing in his mind. “Who could have done this?” he demanded, his voice low but fierce.
Mr. Jones looked grim. “All I know is that the tea was laced with laudanum,” he said. “Beyond that, I cannot say. Miss Elizabeth and Mrs. Nicholls may know more.”
A sudden thought struck Darcy. “Where is my son? Please tell me that Andrew is unharmed!”
The question silenced the room. Darcy’s voice, usually measured and calm, now carried a raw edge of desperation that made everyone pause. His chest tightened, his breath coming shallow and quick as the implications hit him. Andrew. His son. How could he not have thought of him sooner?
The maids exchanged glances, their earlier nervousness now replaced with a touch of fear. Finally, one of the younger ones stepped forward, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. “I… I haven’t seen him since this morning, sir,” she stammered. “He was with Rebecca, playing in the nursery.”
Darcy’s chest tightened as the maid stammered her uncertainty about Andrew’s whereabouts. His son—the thought that anything might have happened to him made his vision blur with panic. He shot to his feet, intending to run to the nursery, but as soon as he stood, the room spun violently. He staggered, clutching the back of the chair for support.
“Sir, please sit,” Mr. Jones said sharply, steadying him. “You’re still under the effects of the laudanum. Moving too quickly will only worsen things.”
Darcy clenched his jaw, his heart racing, but reluctantly sank back into the chair. “Then someone—someone must check on Andrew!” His voice cracked with urgency.
Mrs. Nicholls immediately turned to one of the maids, her voice calm but firm. “Emma, go to the nursery. Check on Mr. Andrew and Rebecca. Do not alarm them unless absolutely necessary, but bring me news immediately.”
The young maid, her face pale with fear, curtsied and bolted from the room. Darcy’s fingers gripped the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. Every second stretched into an eternity as he counted each breath, his thoughts consumed by visions of his son—helpless, alone, or worse.
“I need to know he’s safe,” Darcy muttered, his voice almost a prayer.
In the background, Mr. Jones continued his work. He had moved on to Mrs. Hurst, who lay slumped on the settee. The apothecary bent over her, feeling her pulse and checking her breathing.
“She’s fine,” Mr. Jones announced after a moment, but Darcy scarcely registered the words. His focus remained fixed on the open door, his body tense as he willed the maid to return with news.
Finally, the hurried sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway. Emma appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath but smiling. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice soothing, “Andrew is unharmed. He’s fast asleep in the nursery. Rebecca is with him, tidying up. She was completely unaware of what’s happened downstairs.”
Darcy exhaled sharply, his head dropping into his hands as a wave of relief crashed over him. The tension in his chestloosened, and for the first time since waking, he allowed himself to breathe deeply. “Thank God,” he whispered. “Thank God.”
Mrs. Nicholls patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Rebecca will keep him safe, sir,” she said. “You can rest easy on that account.”
Darcy nodded but found little solace in her words. Relief for his son’s safety was overshadowed by the chaos surrounding him. He lifted his head, his gaze shifting to Mr. Jones, who had moved to the still figure of Mr. Hurst.
“What of Hurst?” Darcy asked, his voice steady but laced with dread.
Mr. Jones knelt beside Hurst, his expression grave. He checked for a pulse, moving his fingers to different spots on the man’s neck and wrist. Time seemed to slow as Darcy watched him work, each second dragging like an eternity.
Finally, Mr. Jones sat back on his heels, his face etched with exhaustion and sadness. “Mr. Hurst is dead,” he said quietly.
A collective gasp rippled through the room. Darcy closed his eyes, the words ringing in his ears. His relief for Andrew was now replaced by a heavier burden—the realization that this day’s events had claimed a life.
