B006O3T9DG EBOK

by Berdoll, Linda

  He snorted once before responding, “That other paper said I was dead. Do you believe that as well?”

  Shaking her head, she was appeased by his response (that and a slap on her rear end for good measure).

  The news dashed any hope that all might be forgiven, thus allowing him to reinstate himself into society as a hero of Waterloo. With Wickham officially dead, so went any chance of obtaining part of the Darcy fortune. He almost took to his bed again. It was Mrs. Younge who brought him to him senses.

  “Nobody is looking for you now, Georgie,” she told him. “You can walk the streets and answer to any name you please.

  That was true. No one cared to look for a dead man. He had no fear of apprehension. He all but whistled with elation. Never was a man better positioned for intrigue than he who cannot be punished.

  In inventing his new self, he wanted to keep to the truth as much as possible. He must be wary. Among many other infractions (i.e., sodomy and defacing the Westminster Bridge), impersonating an army veteran was a hanging offence. If he did not play his cards correctly, he might find himself not only semi-deknackered, but gibbeted on the brow of a hill.

  His new identity came to him upon an initially disagreeable turn of events.

  ———

  After he was satisfied that his virile credentials were intact, he quit obsessively admiring them in the abysmally small hand-mirror and turned his attention to his second favourite vision—his own countenance. Laying in supine splendour, having his every desire fulfilled by the ever-loyal Mrs. Younge, he was of a mind that he needed his hair trimmed. It was his habit to keep his hair a bit longer than was the fashion. After his daily shave, he demanded she tend to it.

  “My magnificent mane would be excessively unruly for Byron himself....” The small hand-glass was too small to accommodate his supervision of this undertaking and he bid her bring him the larger one from her dressing table. She dutifully brought it to him. Then she stood back as if in expectation of some sort of explosion.

  Upon seeing his own visage and the shock of hair that surrounded it, Wickham erupted, “What is that!”

  He grabbed a big hank of his hair and held it up to the gods, demanding, “What the bloody hell is that?”

  “Your hair,” she said excitedly.

  For weeks he had done the improbable. He picked at his skin and submitted to having his sideburns trimmed, but he had not once taken a full view of his hair. Now that he had, he was horrified. Mrs. Younge, however, was beside herself with elation. Now that he knew what she knew, she was most anxious to talk to him of the surprising alteration to his aspect.

  “It as if you have seen Lucifer himself!” she gushed.

  Indeed, in a swath from his forehead to the nape of his neck, his hair had turned white as snow.

  He shrieked his disapproval, “It is absurd!”

  Indeed, he did look as if he had lately crawled beneath a freshly white-washed fence.

  “Go for bootblack! Now, woman, now!” he hollered.

  “I think not,” she said, her lips pursed in a sage pout.

  “You must!” he cried, flinging himself upon his cot. “I look like an old man! A very, very strange, old man!”

  In a voice one would employ with a child, she soothed, “There, there. All will be well. I have seen it happen upon a fright. One wakes up and the hair has turned white. Yours just hasn’t yet compleatly blanched.”

  “I shan’t be seen this way. I demand bootblack!”

  She waved off his entreaty. Rather, she pointed to his side whiskers.

  “See here?”

  Grey hair was entwined within them. It was a good sign, said she. Soon they would be as white as the rest of his hair. Hastily (and nonsensically, in that he spent most of his time gazing at his groin), he looked beneath his bedclothes, reassuring himself that his body hair had not turned white as well. (It would not do to look like a blessed albino billy goat). Sighing with that reassurance, he waved her away. Back of his hand to his forehead, he flung himself upon his cot and contemplated living out his life with his beauty disfigured.

  As it happened, Mrs. Younge was correct. His hair did turn compleatly white. By the time that came to pass, his opinion on the look had improved. He rather favoured it. Even as he hobbled about his sickroom, he believed that it lent him a distinguished air. It would also serve his new identity. He plucked a new name as if from the air—a name of substance. (When it came to him, he believed that the entire appellation sprang from his fertile imagination alone.)

  As for his history, he believed it was best not to claim to be a member of the military. He might be found out. His hand flew reassuringly to his neck. Being hung was a terrible end; the only thing worse was being thrown into prison. England was fast running out of cells for his felons. They were tossing them into decommissioned ships that now lined the Thames. To be consigned to Newgate would have been test enough. To be cast into a flea-ridden, rat-infested, prison ship bobbing on the tide was a fate worse than death. Newspapers claimed that the moans of those consigned there could be heard for miles.

  No, he must not chance being found out.

  He would not dare impersonate an officer. However, lying about once being an army officer could not possibly be illegal. That way, he would not lose the cachet of service, but would have no fear of a death sentence. Indeed, he was quite pleased with himself, happy in the knowledge that he would never be recognised under his new persona. He was almost silly with anticipation, blowing kisses at Mrs. Younge and vowing this time he would not be outwitted.

  Each night Wickham sat locked away in his lodgings (contriving the nuances of his new name), the same call wafted from up the street night after night.

  With every watch trudging by his window, lanterns in hand and cutlasses on their sides, they would cry their hourly assessment.

  “One o’clock on a rainy night and all’s well.”

  That was what they said; that was not what he heard. It was a taunt that in the county of Derbyshire and in the Manor of Pemberley, all was well.

  He would not rest until he put an end to it.

  Chapter 66

  The Conjugal Crop

  Mr. Darcy regretted the week’s time lost from his wife and children. However, having time in the saddle without those sweet interruptions that a husband and father could not turn away, he had been able to resolve the many hitches, snags, delays and hindrances that regularly hampered the smooth operation of the many ventures taking place upon Pemberley’s land. When Mr. Darcy hied for home, he left several servitors and lessees wondering why he had not tarried. The sun was high. When the great man took leave with such haste, they knew he had good reason.

  Such was the case.

  Whilst addressing the problems presented by anarchists and poachers, he had ample time to contemplate the common belief that a husband should not be altogether forthcoming with his wife. His wife, he knew, was above all others in understanding and compassion. He only withheld information from her when he believed it might cause her harm. After all, it was his duty to protect her.

  Hence, he concluded that what had come to pass in London, in Lady Howgrave’s carriage, was beyond his control, therefore he could not fault his behaviour. His actions had been forced by circumstances and therefore, unavoidable. If his wife did not agree wholeheartedly, that would be most unfortunate. However, in some fortuities, a gentleman must follow his own conscience. That was his position on the matter.

  Unfettered by self-reproach, Darcy dug his heels into Blackjack’s flanks and headed for home.

  ———

  Despite the begrimed state of his boots, he took the main staircase (leaving a bit of Pemberley dust upon each step). It would have been his choice to have passed through the brushing room before seeking his wife, but once the decision was made to go to her, an urgency had overcome him. With ever-increasing haste, he had gone from dining parlour to sitting room in search of her. Servants stood silently awaiting his bidding, but he did n
ot inquire after her. He was on a particular mission and, somehow, that meant finding his wife himself.

  Passing mahogany and satinwood wainscoting, walls of stamped and gilded leather, he took the oak staircase two steps at a time until he reached the children’s nursery. Drapes of yellow damask bathed the room in sunlight.

  Bingley’s son played with Geoff, each trying to toot their horn louder than the other. Oblivious to the noise, Janie and Jane’s youngest daughter sat before a dollhouse rearranging tiny silver furniture. Sensing Mr. Darcy at the doorway, Margaret Heff looked in his direction. Knowing if his children espied him that their delight would be enjoyed at length, he placed a forefinger to his lips. Margaret nodded.

  Mr. Darcy decided to forego looking for Elizabeth in other rooms, holding out hope that she anticipated him in the bedchamber.

  When at last he opened that door, his heart was disappointed. The room was awash in shadows. He stood at the doorway momentarily, attempting to decide whether to stay and wait, or continue to seek his wife through the many rooms he had yet to investigate. (There were drawing rooms, dressing-rooms, painted halls, several libraries and a chapel yet to search.) Before he decided to withdraw, some nascent thought bid him stay. As he stepped into the room, he had to allow time for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. That did not suit him. Concealment was not part of the setting he had traced in his mind’s eye for their conversation. If he was to speak openly, it must be in a well-lit room. He walked to a window, his footfalls echoing in the emptiness as he did.

  Drawing back the drape, he gazed onto the lawn. He had hoped to see his wife below, strolling amongst the rose beds. He saw no one, not even a groundsman. His gaze, however, was arrested by the sight of a whorl of dust. It announced a rider coming up the lane. He decided then that the discourse he meant to engage in with his wife must be set momentarily aside. First, he would learn the reason why a rider came with such haste to his door. He dropped the drape. In that new darkness, he became quite conscious that he was not alone.

  Indeed, he was not.

  A caped figure stepped towards him from the shadows of the opposing wall. So sudden was the movement (and such was the menace of the hood), he looked about for a weapon. A poker stood next to the fireplace and Mr. Darcy strode decisively in that direction. He prepared himself to seize it and bludgeon the intruder. In fortune, he stepped towards the fireplace without taking his eye from the figure approaching him.

  A chin was raised beneath the cape and the hood fell back, thus revealing the trespasser to be none other than his wife. He came to an abrupt halt, looking at her with questioning eyes. Recognition at hand, Elizabeth’s fingers took the ends of the tie at her neck and pulled them loose. The heavy cape dropped to the floor. Her gaze was coy, a smile beckoned him.

  To him, it was as if undraped Venus had risen thither from the sea. She, however, was not naked Venus—or altogether naked. She was nude, save for her feet and calves. They alone were adorned. Indeed, she wore only a well-shined pair of riding boots. They were dark brown—the same colour as her hair.

  He lowered his eyes—but only momentarily. He was confounded. He steadied himself for what (and he most certainly knew not what) was to come.

  With great deliberation, she placed her hand on one hip. Unbeknownst to her, her movement caused a slow undulation of her right breast. Her husband was so mesmerised by that particular motion, he did not see that her other hand held a crop.

  When she slapped it hard against the side of her boot, he dropped to one knee.

  Chapter 67

  The Sins of Gentlemen

  Juliette had selected the equipage she would have take her to Darcy’s house that night with great care. The laudaulet had a single seat.

  When Darcy followed her to the carriage, she settled herself directly in the middle of that seat. Thus he had wedge in next her, leaving them sitting thigh to thigh. She cast off her shawl, exposing bare shoulders and remarkable cleavage. She dipped her chin and turned her head a bit askew (as that was her most fetching pose). Darcy, however, did not remove his hat nor relinquish his walking stick.

  Then, she asked him, “You received my missive.”

  It was not actually a question. When engaged in a seduction, Juliette liked to make statements, rather than inquiries. Darcy gave her a curt nod. He had not appeared especially welcoming, but she knew that hauteur was his general mien. Indeed, the man seemed incapable of effusiveness. However, he had escorted her to her carriage and joined her there. That, above anything else, meant that she had his favour.

  Regrettably, she had been unable to provoke him to speak beyond his first floundering questions. His disconcertion was quite unusual—and therefore, all the more enticing.

  She said breathlessly, “You came to me!”

  “I believe,” he said solemnly. “You came to me.”

  She did not correct him. They both knew that he had been in Derbyshire and was then in town. She had crossed a few streets; he had crossed the country. It pleased her no end to know that he had (whatever moral machinations he had employed to excuse being there). Not attaining his compleat capitulation, she moved flawlessly to her second design. It was called “feint and beg poor English.” This, it goes without saying, was accompanied by an avid fluttering of her eyelashes.

  “Do forgive my English. I find that when I am distraught, my grammaire....”

  “Of course,” was his reply.

  She observed a very familiar expression overspreading his countenance. It was a subtle (and uninviting) shield of reserve. His emotional withdrawal could be followed by his physical disappearance in a trice. If she was to succeed with her seduction, she knew she must move the conversation forward with great haste. Therefore, with unimaginable impertinence, she reached out and clasped the brim of his hat. Before he could stop her, she gracefully removed it from his head and set it upon the seat behind her. Instinctively, he reached out. But she caught his hand in hers. At last they were sequestered and unbothered by the prying eyes of reproof. He was hers.

  As she gazed into his eyes, she thought she witnessed the same paroxysm of puissance that had always driven her mad with desire.

  “You are here now,” she whispered. “That is all that matters.”

  “I require the immediate return of my hat,” he said stiffly.

  Wanting to scream at him to forget his bloody hat, she contained her pique. She clasped his hand evermore firmly in hers.

  With subdued urgency, she said, “I beg your indulgence, for I could not see yours eyes. To speak as we must—tête-à-tête—I must see your eyes. Forgive me? Oui?”

  He said, “Am I to deduce that you want to escape your marriage?”

  His directness was maddening. Looking away, she touched her cheek with the tips of her fingers.

  Wincing, she said, “I fear nothing has changed.”

  It was not entirely theatrics, just embellishment. She feared subtlety would be for naught.

  He reacted with far greater ferocity than she had anticipated. Indeed, his moderately constipated expression turned so angry that it was a test not to flee. Her mistreatment was not a charade, nor was it particularly dire. Above most women, she had the resources to leave Howgrave. What she refused to do was leave him without reimbursement for her time, and most certainly, her use as a whipping post. She wanted Howgrave’s money, his home, his dignity. She wanted to exact revenge and she knew just how to get it. Mr. Darcy was one step ahead of her. Regrettably for her, it was down the wrong path.

  His ire barely in check, he said, “Under that presumption, I have this day spoken to my solicitor. Should you desire that course of action, I have charged him with taking those measures necessary to see that you are spirited out of England. All that is required is your silence.”

  Darcy was not one to preen, but he seemed pleased with his efficiency. It would take a great deal of tact to convince him that his diligence was not to be obliged. Her tone was delicate, her accent more distinct.
>
  “Oui, mon cheri, Merci, merci! How can I ever thank you!” she gushed.

  Before he could bestow assurances that no bother attended his actions (as gentlemen are required to offer), she placed a forefinger against his lips. He stopped speaking directly. It was quite obvious that Mr. Darcy was unused to being shushed.

  “My husband has long suspected that I might leave him. This last souvenir,” she touched her cheek, “convinced me I dare not try escape.”

  “He threatened your life?”

  “Non, à vrai dire, he implied a far worse fate.”

  Her hands trembled, her chin quivered. A tear stung the corner of her eye, but she daubed it away with her middle finger.

  “Mon cheri, Darcy, I do not think I can bear it. His threats were vulgar, tres vulgaire.”