Page 138 of Companions of Their Youth
Only the murmurs of music and laughter fading behind the closed doors of the ballroom. The air was too still. Every shadow seemed to mock him.
“She would not leave without telling someone,” he said, more to himself than to the cousin striding swiftly at his side. “She would not miss the supper dance—not without cause.”
Fitzwilliam quickened his pace. “Where would she go? Could she be ill? Stepped onto a balcony for fresh air?”
“She would not go outside alone.” Darcy’s pulse was pounding in his ears. “Not tonight. Not withhimhere.”
Wickham.
Darcy had scanned every corner of the ballroom. Every alcove. Every pair of dancing feet. And neither she nor Wickham was there.
“Blast it all,” he muttered. “Where are they—”
A sound shattered the quiet.
A crash—sharp, violent. The splinter of porcelain or glass against wood.
Followed by a roar. Inhuman.
Then—
A gunshot.
Both men froze.
Darcy’s heart stuttered, then surged.
His breath left him in a sharp exhale, and he took off at a sprint.
“Elizabeth!” he shouted, his voice ragged with panic.
Richard was at his heels, boots slamming the floorboards behind him. They turned the corridor—past the drawing rooms, past the linen closet—
Another shout.
A woman’s cry. Muffled. Terrified.
Darcy felt something primal rise within him, a rage so white-hot it eclipsed fear. His vision tunneled. His mind screamed only one word:
Faster.
They rounded another corner, and then—
The music room.
The door was closed. Darcy turned the handle, but it was locked. The sounds of a struggle bled through: scraping furniture, a man’s voice, low and guttural.
Darcy did not hesitate.
He slammed into the door with his shoulder. It shifted, breaking slightly, but remained closed. He rammed it again,causing the latch to give way, wood cracking under the force. The door burst open—
Chapter 29
Elizabeth’s attempt to reach the door failed. Instead, Wickham pounced on her like a wounded beast, tackling her against the wall. She twisted, reaching blindly, and her fingers found cold metal—the pistol. They grappled, her hands slipping against the slick wood of the handle. He cursed, elbowing her hard, trying to wrench it from her.
“Let go!” he snarled.
“No!” she cried.
