Page 32 of Elizabeth’s Refuge (Mr. Underwood’s Elizabeth & Darcy Stories #16)

Blight made an effort, he did. But the pugilist was constantly with friends or in open daylight for the three days Blight watched him.

Ha! He might like to kill a man twice as much as the next bloke. But Blight wasn’t going to get pinched and hung for Lachglass’s whim. Not old Blighty. That’s what’d happen if he stabbed or shot the boxer in front of witnesses.

So Blight gave up, he had other things to do — the boxer knew Lachglass wanted to have him murdered, and wasn’t likely to give him an opportunity for at least a month or two.

And, Lachglass, poor tupper, he’d forgotten plain about the screamed order to murder the man.

Upon receiving the ready, Mr. Wickham bounced the bag of coins up and down in his hand and he then counted them out, one by one.

Worthless half gent tosser.

Blight’d given serious thought to just killing Wickham after they were the done with him.

He’d have liked to give him the poke or the blown open head.

But the noise of a gun would be too much, and there was something about Wickham that said he knew how to handle a dagger himself.

Half likely he had some friend with some letter to send right to the authorities.

That’d upset his Lord of Lachglass’s notion of how to manage his revenge. And it’d put neatly paid to any hope Blight had to pretend he was simply a sad fellow being forced to go along with his Lordship. A simple sad fellow who definitely didn’t deserve to hang.

Mr. Wickham bounced the clinking purse up and down in his hand one last time, and then put it in his coat.

He said in a whisper, and a low gravelly voice that sounded nothing like he normally did, clearly in hopes his voice would not be recognized by their victims, “The amount. Off with you all, off. You don’t want to be caught here. ”

There was something tense in how Mr. Wickham held himself.

“Hahaha, what, worried I’ll stab ye in the back?”

Wickham did not reply, and his face could not be seen in the dark.

Blight laughed again, climbed into the carriage, and they set off.

*****

Mr. Wickham was left alone in the little secluded ravine. He laughed and pulled a coin out from the purse and waved it high in the air, smiling at the old friend in crime who he’d hidden in the hills above this blind. An excellent man with a gun that friend.

The friend bounced down from the hillside and, laughing, took off with the guinea that was his fee for the night, and Wickham collected his horse.

Damned business for a night. This was a terrible way for a gentleman to make his way in the world. But such was what Darcy had driven him to. It was all Mr. Darcy’s fault, preventing him from gaining the proper position he deserved. Darcy had no one to blame but himself.

No one else.

Like as not Lord Lech was going to shoot the all of them. The entire point was to kill Elizabeth Bennet, he knew. Course, Wickham still liked the girl. She was a woman to be admired, crushing the nose of a gentleman.

Participating in this was a betrayal of himself in a happier, freer time. God, he sometimes hated himself.

Poor Mrs. Bennet — she had always been kind to him — and Miss Kitty.

He’d fucked Lydia Bennet many a time before they parted, and that should mean a little to a gent.

Jove, he had not been nice to leave her like that, but he’d been out of money, and the damned woman liked money.

It was not his fault her father died, supposedly of a broken heart at the crime of his daughter.

Wickham didn’t believe that at all — not Mr. Bennet.

He was a cold man, who didn’t care anything for anyone.

Wickham didn’t have any guilt for his death.

But he did have guilt for tonight’s crime.

Wickham patted the purse. He lit a lantern to light his way, and set off down the road towards Derby at a canter. He hadn’t been back to Derbyshire for ten years now, and he wondered if Madame Berry’s brothel was still there in Derby. Fine establishment.

Such women.

Oh, he had known such women in his life.

Like as not the madam wouldn’t let him sleep with any of the girls.

Or she’d force him to sleep with one her poxy whores.

Some houses did that. He’d not be allowed to touch a clean girl.

Not with the sores. Wasn’t worth the patronage.

He hated women like that. Wasn’t his money good as the next gent’s?

Didn’t he deserve a chance to tup a pretty girl, even though he had the pox?

Damned disease, he had only observed the first signs in the past year. His wickedness catching up with him.

But it wouldn’t catch him. The mercury treatments helped a great deal, and he could afford more of them now with this bag of the ready he’d picked off Blighty’s employer. Just for seeing Mrs. Bennet stuffed blindfolded and gagged into a carriage that was to drive her to a madman.

Wickham felt that chill, and it ached in his stomach, as though he’d made a mistake.

He’d heard what Lachglass had become.

And he had already done wrong to Mrs. Bennet once.

Fortunately for Mr. Wickham, he was not a man to dwell on those wrongs he committed, and he was quite pleased with himself by the time he reached Derby, where he was in fact forced to choose amongst girls the madam knew to already be suffering from the French, or Spanish, or Italian, or in some places on the continent, English complaint.