Despite Sally’s warning, they almost crossed the approach, for it announced itself only by absence: a gap where the undergrowth was trampled, and a straightness to the line of trees that seemed planned. A narrow track ran in, hard-packed and bare of leaves.
They circled back, keeping themselves behind cover, moving along the edge of the trees until the house showed itself through branches: low, dark, half-hidden behind a rise.
He signalled, and Anders and Johnson were at his shoulder.
“Johnson,” Darcy murmured, without taking his eyes from the house, “get round to that side window and look in. Quietly. I want to be certain we have the right place before we put a hand to any door.”
“Yes, sir,” Johnson breathed, and was gone into the dark.
Darcy and Anders waited, and when Johnson returned ten minutes later, he did so quietly.
“Have you seen anyone?” Darcy asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Two men and a woman downstairs in the front parlour,” Johnson said. “Mrs. Hobart was one, and the man I saw this morning near the carriage is there as well. There’s another man—stout. Might be someone else in the back.”
“Did you see Miss Bennet?”
Johnson shook his head. “She may be upstairs. It is not a large house.”
Darcy nodded. “Johnson, wait at the back door and do not allow anyone to flee.”
They watched him go. “Well, Anders, shall we see whether they are receiving callers?”
The coachman nodded, silent and serious; the two of them allowed Johnson time to get into place and then moved swiftly to the front door. Darcy tested it. Latched. But it was not a heavy door.
He stepped back and kicked. The wood cracked.
He kicked again.
The door gave way with a crack of wood, and he was in the front parlour.
Sir Reginald stood half-turned away, a glass in his hand, his coat unbuttoned in a careless fashion. Surprise widened his eyes for a heartbeat, until he recognised Darcy and his mouth twisted into something hard.
“Well, Mr. Darcy,” he drawled, smirking as though they had met at Almack’s and not in a house where the scoundrel was keeping Miss Bennet. “You have a talent for—”
Darcy was already moving. In two steps he was upon the man, and his fist connected with Sir Reginald’s jaw. The man’s head snapped sideways, the glass flew, and Sir Reginald went down in a heap, all elegance drained out of him at once. He did not rise.
For a moment, Darcy stood over him, his knuckles stinging, his breath hard in his chest. The violence had been too swift to satisfy anything in him.
Mrs. Hobart shrieked.
It was not fear so much as outrage. She flung up her hands, and some wretched bit of embroidery slipped from her lap.
“Murder!” she screamed, throwing herself upon her fallen companion. “Mr. Gregory! Mr. Gregory, do you see—?”
Mr. Gregory had risen from a chair near the hearth, mouth open as if to protest, eyes darting from Sir Reginald on the floor to Darcy’s clenchedhand. He was broad-shouldered and younger than the other man, and Darcy prepared himself.
Anders stepped in at once, barring Mr. Gregory with a movement that was almost casual. “Sit,” he said, and Darcy realised that Anders was brandishing the butt-end of his whip like a cudgel.
Mr. Gregory bristled. “This is my house—”
“In which you are keeping a young lady against her will,” Darcy cut in, his voice low, controlled, and far more dangerous than shouting. “That is a crime. If you value your house, you will keep your hands where I can see them and tell me where she is.”
Mrs. Hobart’s shrieking rose another pitch. “How dare you burst in like a footpad! Sir Reginald—oh, he has killed him!”
Sir Reginald gave a heavy groan and tried to push himself upright.
Anders planted his boot neatly upon the fallen man’s back, pinning him without fuss. Sir Reginald began to complain.