The Last | F. Dracy

Chapter 8: A Fool

Richard drew a measured breath, his gaze steady upon Adele's expectant countenance.

She had asked for the truth.

And at last, he would give it to her.

"I saw everything," he began.

Adele did not stir.

James, ever composed, stood beside her in patient silence. It was the silence of a man who knew that what was about to be spoken could not be unsaid.

Richard exhaled, allowing his mind to drift back—back to London, to that night, to the moment all had been laid bare.

London, Two Years Ago

They had found Lydia too late.

By the time Darcy and Richard arrived at that wretched house, concealed in a part of the city to which no respectable gentleman ought to venture, it was with desperation—not for Lydia's sake alone, but for Adele's.

Richard had seen it in Darcy's eyes throughout their search, as they moved from one gaming hell to another, from one ill-reputed inn to the next. This was not for the preservation of the Bennet name.

It was for her.

And then—

Then they had found her.

The door to the upper room had been carelessly left ajar, offering an unwelcome glimpse into the tableau within.

Lydia sat on the edge of a low, shabby bed, her hair falling loose about her shoulders, the bodice of her gown unlaced—her expression first vacant, then startled as they entered.

And opposite her, lounging with insufferable ease in an armchair, a glass of brandy in hand—

Wickham.

He had the audacity to smirk.

Richard scarcely had time to react before Darcy moved.

"You damned, black-hearted scoundrel!"

The smirk vanished.

And then—

Darcy lunged.

Richard had witnessed many quarrels among gentlemen, but he had never—never—seen Fitzwilliam Darcy thus undone. His composure, that unshakable control, had been cast aside as though it had never existed. The first blow sent Wickham reeling, his head snapping to the side with the force of it.

Darcy was relentless. He struck again, fury lending precision to every movement.

"You have done enough," he seethed, his voice a raw and terrible thing. "You have ruined her life enough!"

Wickham groaned, attempting to stagger upright, but Darcy wrenched him forward by the collar.

"Do you take pleasure in the destruction of the innocent?" Darcy's voice was low, trembling with loathing. "First Georgiana. Then Adelina. Then Adele. And now Lydia? Tell me, Wickham, does it gratify you to lay waste to those who have never wronged you?"

Wickham, still catching his breath, managed a rasping laugh. "A man must secure his fortunes somehow."

It was only then that Richard moved—because if he did not, Darcy would kill him.

With effort, he seized his cousin's arm, wrenching him back. "Enough, Darcy."

It took all of Richard's strength to restrain him, but in the momentary struggle, Wickham—ever the opportunist—landed a wild, graceless blow against Darcy's jaw.