As he gently touched one of the lady’s corsets, he tried to drive from his mind the image of her breasts being raised by the garment. This touched her, he thought quite traitorously. Needing to push the thought from his mind, he forced himself to think of the precepts his father had instilled in him—a gentleman’s responsibilities. One must treat those who serve with respect if one expects respect in return. That was the one quality that elevated Mrs. Wickham’s sister to a lady’s status.
Peter picked up a rose-hued gown from the floor, examining the quality. “A woman who treats her best wear as if it was rags deserves to be dressed in rags,” he whispered to the room. Impulsively, he caught the seams of the gown in both hands, pulling the threads until they gave—a rent opening the material. “Nice,” he murmured as he draped the dress across a chair’s back.“This will be great fun…quite capital to see the lady’s things in shreds. She will learn respect in the same way my father taught me respect.”
Reaching for another gown—one lying crumpled on the bed’s end—he took a blade from his boot and sliced the bodice to the waist. “Mrs. Wickham, is this a new style you sport?” he laughed sinisterly as he held up the ruined garment. “What is this?” He grabbed a pair of silk stockings.“One little…two little…three little cuts.” He sliced up one of the expensive leggings, tossing the pieces into the air over his shoulder before moving on to the next item. Without thinking, he slid the second of the pair into his side pocket.
Next, he slit the laces of a deep burgundy day dress. Some pieces he ignored; others he purposely ruined. Slowly circling the bed, Peter left his mark on much of what Lydia Wickham had left behind.
Then he saw it—a miniature of the lady’s husband—a man he knew well and of whom he violently disapproved. “Well, well… what have we here? Mr. Wickham, I presume.” He palmed the frame and brought it closer to examine it. The face, although familiar, did not resemble the man he knew—the portrait showed a man with a future. “No future for you, George Wickham,” he grumbled, “especially not married to such a woman. Can you not see what Mrs. Wickham made me do?” He gestured largely to the chaos surrounding him.
“What be ye doing here?” a soft voice asked close behind him.
Peter stayed in the shadows, but turned slowly, expecting the worst, only to find one of the Pemberley maids. “Doing?” he brought himself up to his full height.“What would a gentleman be doing in a lady’s bedchamber?” His voice squeaked with anticipation.
“Be ye tryin’ to ’sinuate that Mrs. Wickham be taken up with a servant—and a boy at that?” She gestured to the Pemberley livery he wore.
Peter glanced down at his attire before inclining his head with cold civility.“I suppose not.” He attempted to saunter away, casually setting the miniature on the bed’s end.
However, as he moved into the light’s circle, Lucinda recognized him, and then she saw the room’s condition. “Wait!” she barked out, trying to stop his retreat. “It be you.” She rushed toward the bed. “What have ye done?” The maid grabbed up one of the ruined garments.“My God!” she gasped.“Mrs.Wickham will have me job! How will’n I be explainin’ this mess?”
He did not stop to enlighten her on why he was in Mrs.Wickham’s chamber. Instead, Peter moved through the connecting room door, trying to rid himself of the woman. What would a man do? He kept asking himself as he quickened his pace. James would certainly know what to do. James would turn and seduce the woman. But he, Peter, had no such worldly experience.
“Ye be goin’ nowhere. I not be takin’ the blame for what ye be doin’.” She rushed forward to catch his arm and turn him away from the sitting room and an escape.“The Master be wantin’ to talk to you.”
Peter looked disgustedly at where her fingers rested on his sleeve. “I would advise you to remove your hand immediately,” he warned menacingly. “No one touches me—not you—not your master. No one but my father has that privilege.”
“Ye not be foolin’ me. I be Lucinda…remember?” she challenged him.
His brow furrowed in a question. “I know not of what you speak, Madam,” he said in a clipped voice.
“Ye know me.We talked before…before the Master be lookin’ for someone who be makin’ trouble.” As the words she spoke took root in her consciousness, Lucinda became fully aware of her mistake in confronting this man. She moved away while his face turned gray and hers blanched. “I be sorry,” she whispered as she backed into the sitting room door.
Peter swiveled slowly to face her.“Not nearly as sorry, my Dear, as you will be.”
“No be hurtin’ Lucinda,” she begged as he closed the distance between them.
“‘Hurting Lucinda,’” he mocked as he caught the maid’s wrist. “Why would a gentleman hurt anyone beneath him?”
“Beneath who?” she rasped as she tried to ram the door closed, attempting to break his grip and shut him out of the bedroom.“Ye be no gentleman!” she shouted.
Peter anticipated her movement and braced the door with his shoulder. Her attempt to thwart him inflamed his temper—made him the man his father was when Peter disobeyed. “Who are you to judge your betters?” He wrenched her arm behind her, pulling the maid against his muscular chest, tightening his hold on her as she struggled to free herself.
“I sees no betters,” Lucinda declared, although her countenance spoke her fears; she jerked her head to the left, searching for an escape.
Peter’s arm came across her neck; while he increased the upward pressure on her arm, she kicked helplessly at his legs. She fought him, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow and throwing her head back hard against his chest. Lucinda fought for air, but the young man crushed her neck in a viselike hold. He tightened his hold, minute degree by minute degree. “Why?” he murmured in regret. “Why did you not let me leave? Why did you make me do this? Why did you pick this day to die?”
In one last effort, Lucinda doubled up her fist and tried to plant him a facer over her shoulder—an act of futility. She flailed—she writhed—she churned—finally, she collapsed against him. “Yes, my Dear, your better,” he snarled. Peter supported the maid’s limp body against him. Suddenly, he panicked. “Now, what am I to do with you?” He jerked her to a standing position. “I must take you to James. James will know what to do.”
He lifted the maid into his arms and made his way to the inside door. He crossed into the empty chamber, which adjoined that of Mrs. Wickham’s to the darkened suite. It felt odd to carry a woman—any woman—thus, but especially a woman of the working class. His father’s edicts demanded that a gentleman not see his servants as vessels for his own pleasure nor should such a man inflict pain on those who served. That thought stayed him—caused him to go weak in the knees. His father would definitely not be pleased. Peter would need to find a way to hide this one away—away from his father’s ever-watchful eye.“Lord, the old man will take a cane to me for sure.” James, he thought again. James will solve this. He would take her to James—to his friend. Is James my friend? he wondered suddenly. He was, Peter supposed, as much as any adult was who took a liking to a boy. Either way, James would know what to do—it would cost Peter, but he would turn the care of the woman over to James Withey.
The issue settled in his mind, Peter’s feet moved again. He slowly pushed the empty chamber’s exterior door open and surveyed the hallway, looking for Darcy’s men—listening for the other maids. Sensing no one else moved through this section of the house, he slid along the wall, needing to reach a room with an opening before someone spotted him.
The woman’s weight slowed his progress, and Peter had to stop twice to catch her to him again. “Mr. Darcy feeds you well, my Dear.” He chuckled lightly as he reached the door of Georgiana Darcy’s private chambers. Shifting Lucinda to a semi-standing position long enough to toss her over his shoulder like a bag of flour, he turned the latch and entered the girl’s bedchamber. He liked this room—it spoke of the girl he sometimes watched—lilac and sunshine yellow—it reminde
d him of her—of the sweetness he suspected she possessed. Miss Darcy—the epitome of English innocence—the kind of English womanhood to which a gentleman of the realm aspired and which he revered. He never watched her the way he watched Mrs. Wickham. Despite Miss Darcy’s little episode of make-believe he had witnessed in the ballroom earlier, Peter considered the girl a beautiful English flower—a delicate yellow rose. Yellow roses—he would find yellow roses in the Darcy conservatory and bring her a rosebud—one for her pillow. Peter glanced quickly at the girl’s bed; he should not be here—not in Miss Darcy’s bedroom. He had been furious the night he discovered that James had invaded the girl’s room, actually watched her sleep, wanting to compromise the woman inside the girl.
He could not imagine why he tolerated James Withey. Of course, the man could be useful—useful with problems such as the one he carried over his shoulder, but truly the man was vile. James’s crude tastes—his rakehell manners—his depravity—left a foul taste in Peter’s mouth. His acquaintance with James was another of Peter’s sins to which his father would certainly object.
Hurrying through the room toward the passage’s entrance, he disappeared behind the screen. A commotion in the hallway gave him pause. When he heard Lady Catherine chastise her maid for doing her duty, Peter increased his pace, reaching for the lever and stepping back to allow the wall to swing toward him.The cold air gushed into the room, but he plunged into the icy darkness, knowing which way to turn to escape the danger of recognition. With another swoosh of air, the wall returned to its usual position—a wallpaper-trimmed panel sporting a light sconce and several brica-brac shelves holding miniature silver thimbles and ceramic pianofortes and horses—all Miss Darcy’s childhood remembrances—her virtue disguising his transgressions. Placing Lucinda’s body against one of the inside walls, he walked away toward his bedding.“Where did I leave that book I was reading? I am always losing things.”
Darcy returned to the ballroom to find his family and to lessen the effects of his aunt’s open censure. Mr. Worth stood speaking privately to Anne, who wept.
His partner noticed Darcy’s entrance, and her head snapped up in recognition. “My mother?” Anne’s bitterness masked her obvious tears.
“Her Ladyship decided to retire for the evening. She sends her regrets.” He tried to smile. His wife, he observed, looked like an embattled angel, her outrage barely hidden. There was a deceptive calmness about her, which worried him.
“Indeed,” Anne murmured, and Worth moved closer to her.
Darcy glanced about the room; they all waited for him to set the mood—to restore the levity of the performance. “I say we take this party to the rose sitting room. Let us celebrate your triumph tonight.We will send for tea and wine and brandy, along with some of Mrs. Jennings’s famous chocolate tarts.” He addressed a plea of cooperation to Elizabeth with his eyes.
Automatically, his wife fell into her role as the household’s mistress. “I, for one, have developed quite an appetite. Who knew the theater was such a demanding occupation?” she announced to their guests as she caught Georgiana and Lydia around their waists. “I believe I have a new respect for those who trip the boards.”
“The theater is a most demanding career.” Lord Stafford placed Miss Donnel’s arm on his own and followed Elizabeth Darcy’s group from the hall. “Come along,Worth,” he called.
Darcy moved to where he might speak to Anne privately. “I am sorry, my Dear, that I allowed Lady Catherine such latitude. I find it hard to break the habit of permitting Her Ladyship to vent. But I shall not fail you again. I have given my aunt an ultimatum—to either recognize the error of her ways or to leave Pemberley immediately. In either case, you will remain with us. I will not sanction your mother’s domination of you any longer. You are under my protection from this moment forward. I shall speak to our uncle, the earl, as soon as possible and secure his agreement.”
Anne’s fingers reached out to touch his face.“How might I ever repay you, Cousin?”
“Be happy.” He took Anne’s fingers and brought them to his lips. “Find the type of happiness I discovered as Elizabeth’s husband—know the gratification of something deeper and more meaningful than all the wealth of the land.”
“Mrs. Jenkinson said that you already loved Elizabeth that Easter when you came to Rosings and Mrs. Darcy visited the Collinses.” Anne turned to take Darcy’s proffered arm.
“Madly,” he whispered close to her ear. “Have Mrs. Darcy tell you how she refused my first proposal during that country sojourn.”
“She did not!” Anne gasped. “Elizabeth refused you?” She laughed. “The evening that Mrs. Collins begged my mother’s forgiveness for Miss Bennet’s absence—claiming the lady suffered from a headache—that is why you made an untimely departure yourself—Mother felt quite put upon by your desertion!”
“Like Mrs. Jenkinson, Her Ladyship recognized what I tried gallantly to hide. I expected Elizabeth to be aware of my consideration, and I called on the cottage that evening to plead my case. Unfortunately, I did not anticipate Elizabeth’s stubbornness or her knowledge of my involvement in separating Mr. Bingley from Jane Bennet.”
Anne caught at his arm, forcing Darcy to pause. “Tell me, you did not!”
“In all my pomposity, I committed the ultimate of sins,” he confessed.
“And Mrs. Darcy turned you away?” Anne queried.
“She said I behaved in a most ungentlemanly manner,” he chuckled.“Quite astute—my wife. She declared most emphatically that I was the last man in the world upon whom she could ever be prevailed to marry. Gave me my comeuppance.”
Anne giggled, amused by the image of a distraught Darcy. “I would say the lady taught you humility, Cousin.”
“Humility and love,” he admitted “But do not breathe a word of this to anyone else,” he warned.
“I understand, Cousin.You have an image to maintain.”
“I only tell you now, my Dear, as a lesson in what life may hand you. Do not let a seeming defeat be the end of what you know is important—what you need to survive.The worst you will suffer is a bruised ego.”
CHAPTER 14
“YOU WERE MAGNIFICENT,” Darcy murmured close to Elizabeth’s ear.
Worry still playing across her face, she glanced up at him. “Thank you, my Husband.”
“You are not to blame.” He placed Elizabeth’s hand on his arm. “I was never prouder of you,” he continued. “Georgiana’s eyes said it all, Elizabeth. She is alive again, willing to face censure, while taking the high road in each of her dealings. That is because of you.” She started to object, but he shook his head. “Yes, because of you, Elizabeth, Georgiana has a safe port. After the incident with Mr. Wickham, my sister clung to me with all her might for a time—like a small child afraid of the monsters under her bed. But with you, Georgiana has learned a resolve—a willingness to try new things.”
“Even when I insist on dressing her in male attire? You say such despite my poor behavior?” Elizabeth’s eyes remained downcast in embarrassment.
Darcy maneuvered her out of the earshot of the others. “Elizabeth Darcy, you are spontaneous and sometimes impulsive, but you are never without a heart. Anything you do is done with enthusiasm and with great generosity. Those are the characteristics you taught my sister—and your own—today. I can offer you no disapproval.” He leaned close again. “Besides, I found the sight of your buttocks, accentuated by the breeches you wore, quite fetching.”
“Mr. Darcy!” She blushed, but obviously pleased by his words. “You are a scoundrel.”
“Only where you are concerned, my Love.” He breathed the words into her hair, his lips barely moving as he exhaled his want.
Before Elizabeth could answer, Mr. Baldwin interrupted. “Mr. Darcy,” the butler spoke softly, “there is a gentleman who requests your attendance, sir.”
“At this hour?” Darcy wondered how anyone might travel the roads under the current conditions.
Mr. Baldwin e
dged a bit closer. “Shall I send the gentleman away, sir?”
“Do we know the man’s identity?” Darcy’s gaze took in the whole room, noting the gaiety of the participants after an invigorating performance. Even Lady Catherine’s verbal attack had not dampened their spirits. It pleased him to see the trials of the previous days set aside for camaraderie.
The butler slipped a calling card into Darcy’s palm.“I thought it best not to draw attention to the man’s presence under the circumstances, sir, by serving the card on a salver.” Baldwin’s eyes rested on Worth and Anne as they laughed comfortably with Lydia Wickham.
As unobtrusively as possible, Darcy read the card. “Mother Mary,” he groaned. He turned to block the others’ views while he passed the card to Elizabeth.
“Darcy!” she gasped.
He caught her hand in his before turning his attention to his servant. “Place the gentleman in my study, Mr. Baldwin.”
“Yes, Mr. Darcy.”
With the man’s exit, Elizabeth hissed, “What should we do?”
“See if you cannot convince everyone to retire for the night. I will see what our visitor wants.”
“Do you expect to keep the gentleman from seeing anyone this evening?” She touched his arm in concern.
Darcy nodded his agreement.“I would ascertain the man’s motives. If possible, I will postpone his reunion until tomorrow, giving you and me time to discuss what we should choose to do next.”
He left her then, excusing himself to the others by saying that he would see to the house’s closure for the night. “It was a most delightful evening. I wish to thank the talented actors and the appreciative audience.” He bowed to the room and made his way to his study. What must he do now? Just when he had thought the chaos of the past few days had turned to the positive, a man who could upset the apple cart had arrived on the doorstep. Taking a deep breath, he placed his hand upon the latch and opened the door to his next catastrophe.
The Phantom of Pemberley Page 22