Fitzwilliam Darcy’s smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “Holy water,” he whispered in affirmation.

“You will rot in hell!” Wickham threatened. “I will see those you love ruined—see them lick the blood from your body. Sharp fangs jutting from their mouths—smelling of death and decay—ghoulish nightmares!” He started forward again, but Darcy anticipated the move. Pulling the double crucifix from his pocket, he met Wickham’s intent with one of his own. “Iron,” he said mockingly, unfurling the chain and reaching out to his enemy.

Panic showed in Wickham’s fever-filled eyes as he backed away from the symbol of the Trinity, stumbling—recoiling—and suddenly, he was gone in a grey shadow moving across the lawn, a highly combustible howl billowing upon the breeze in his retreat.

Darcy stood motionless for several long minutes, needing to clear his head. He took a slow breath, trying to control his anger, and then he smelled it—smoke. Against his better judgment, he rushed to the bedchamber’s open door. “Wickham!” he cursed. The house he rented in Ramsgate heated with a fiery blaze, which started at three separate points of entry on the bottom floor.Thick black smoke, fueled by heavy draperies and fine upholstered furniture, rolled from the doorways of the lower rooms and rose in a blackened drape to cover the stairway.Acrid smoke drifted his way. Immediately, he turned toward the body still reclining on the bed where George Wickham had left her.

“Georgiana!” he called in a panic as he scooped her into his arms and pulled his sister tight to his chest. Darcy grabbed a towel on the washstand and dipped it into the tepid water she had used earlier. He draped the wet towel over her head and face, repeating the procedure for himself.Then he made his way to the top of the stairs. Thick smoke covered the lower half of the rise. He took a deep breath and lunged forward.