Mr. Bennet was across the room in an instant. He wrapped her up in his arms as if he never meant to release her, as if he could keep her safe so long as she was in his embrace.
Elizabeth’s hands gripped at her father’s greatcoat with a desperate sort of strength that pained Darcy. She made a small, helpless sound and then, as if angry at herself for the weakness, swallowed it down and wept without noise, her shoulders shaking.
Sir William, who stood nearest the door, turned away briskly and pretended to inspect the ceiling beams. Mr. Gardiner cleared his throat before stepping close and laying a steadying hand at Elizabeth’s back.
Darcy remained where he was, useless for once and forced to endure it. He had defeated her captors, found her, kept her safe, but she belonged to her father now.
At last Elizabeth drew back. Her cheeks were damp, but no new tears fell. “I am well, Papa. I am just happy to see you.”
Mr. Bennet kissed the top of her head, then guided her back to the settee near the fire. She sank into it gratefully.
Then Mr. Bennet looked up at Darcy, and whatever gratitude had begun to form was overtaken by something darker.
“Where is Sir Reginald?” Mr. Bennet asked, each word clipped.
“Anders,” Darcy said without raising his voice. “Johnson. Bring the two of them out.”
Johnson heaved himself up, yawning. “Aye, sir.”
Fitzwilliam sheathed his sword and stepped into the room, catching Darcy’s eye and giving him a nod of approval.
The pantry door scraped open. Mrs. Hobart’s voice rose at once, shrill and indignant. “Well! It is about time!”
Johnson led her to a chair and she gave them all a haughty look. “Do you know what we have endured? Mr. Bennet! Thank heavens!” She waved her bound hands at Darcy. “This man! Thisbrute!”
“Mrs. Hobart,” Darcy said mildly, “if you do not cease talking, Johnson will put you back.”
She snapped her mouth shut, though her eyes blazed.
Anders and Johnson dragged Sir Reginald out between them, his wrists bound, hair disordered, face bruised and swollen.
Mr. Bennet regarded him in silence, then turned to Darcy. “Your handiwork?”
Darcy dipped his head.
“You have my thanks.”
Sir Reginald lifted his chin. “This is nothing but a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding,” Mr. Bennet repeated, the mildness in his tone so unnatural it rang like a bell. “How novel. I had been labouring under the impression that my daughter had been abducted.”
“Quite right,” Fitzwilliam said.
Sir Reginald’s gaze flicked to Fitzwilliam, and Darcy took great satisfaction in watching a dawning dread appear.
“Let us begin simply,” Mr. Gardiner said, standing before Sir Reginald and staring down at him. “What was your purpose in taking Elizabeth?”
“I did nottakeanyone,” Sir Reginald said stiffly. “The young lady came of her own accord—”
Mr. Bennet’s smile was thin and dangerous. “Shall we ask Mrs. Hobart?”
“Oh, yes, I shall be happy to—” Mrs. Hobart stopped when Anders shifted meaningfully beside her.
Darcy’s voice was quiet but carried. “Answer the question, Sir Reginald.”
The man looked away. “My father had debts. Foolish ones. When he died, the men he owed were quite determined that what he owed would not die with him.”
“Is this why you left your home?” Elizabeth’s voice was growing a little stronger.