Page 89 of The Shades of Pemberley

I nstinct took over the moment the man appeared in the room, as Darcy rose and put himself in front of Elizabeth, while his wife clutched the sheet around her slender form, hiding herself from the eyes of the intruder.

For a long moment, no one spoke, the air charged with energy, like a sky laden with an approaching thunderstorm.

Though the light was dim and the man’s face cast in shadows, Darcy did not miss the appreciative glance of the man, the lascivious glint in his eyes.

Then his gaze returned to Darcy, a hint of challenge in their depths, and Darcy realized he knew the man.

“Wickham!” said he, recalling that day several months before when George Wickham, bold as brass, sat in the sitting-room, chatting with Georgiana as if he thought he owned Pemberley.

He also recalled Fitzwilliam’s anger, commanding him to leave and not return, Thompson’s implacable contempt, and Fitzwilliam’s comments concerning the man and his character, and finally their discovery in the stables.

And then there was no more question, the last piece of a difficult puzzle fitting into the last place.

“You remember me,” commented the man, his insouciance setting Darcy’s teeth to grinding. “I always excelled in making an impression.”

With a feral grin, Wickham turned away from Darcy and offered a bow to Elizabeth, a subtle mocking in his movements. “Mrs. Darcy. It pleases me to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure, Mr. Wickham, is most decidedly not mutual.”

“Charming, madam,” said Wickham. “It seems you are a saucy one. If Darcy here is anything like his cousins, he is most staid and proper and a prude. I might wonder how a vivacious woman like yourself found herself caught up with such a man.”

“You have my apologies, Mr. Wickham, for I have no interest in discussing my reasons for marrying my husband, nor comparing him to you. By any measure, he outstrips you by a wide margin.”

“It matters little,” said Wickham with a shrug. “Perhaps we can become better acquainted later.”

“What do you want, Wickham?” demanded Darcy, determined to pull the libertine’s focus from his beloved wife.

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I want.

“It is unfortunate, you know,” continued Wickham in a conversational tone. “Your inheritance. I am certain you think the worst of me, but I have nothing against you.”

“But you had something against my cousin,” said Darcy.

Wickham shrugged again. “Jameson Darcy was a conceited coxcomb, but in truth, he was not a bad sort. He refused to be charmed, unlike his father, who thought the world of me. There was a time when I was young that I thought old Mr. Darcy loved me better and might leave the estate to me. Or maybe one of the smaller estates.”

“If you thought that, you are a fool,” growled Darcy. “No man with a property wishes to pass it down to a steward’s son, even if he had no sons of his own.”

The jibe did nothing to alter the man’s uncaring attitude. “I did not say that I considered it long—it was just the idle thoughts of a boy.”

“Then you killed my cousin, thinking you would worm your way into the estate. Georgiana was your means of doing so.”

Wickham did not confirm or deny the accusation—instead, he watched Darcy for a long moment. “The entail was a surprise. I never knew about it.”

“It was all but unknown in society.”

“I wonder if my father knew,” mused Wickham. “As he was deep in Mr. Darcy’s counsels, he must have known, but he never mentioned it to me.

Wickham pushed the notion away. “It matters little. When I discovered Georgiana would not receive the estate, I pivoted.”

“You are in league with Mrs. Younge,” said Darcy.

“It took you long enough to realize it,” replied Wickham, thinking he was the shrewder man. “Fortunately, versatility is one of my virtues; otherwise I might have become... agitated.”

“How did you enter the house?” asked Darcy.

As the family had retired for the night, Darcy knew there was no help coming—he could rely on no one but himself to handle Wickham.

With the pistol pointed in his direction, there appeared to be little he could do for the moment, but the longer he kept the other man talking, the better the odds became.

The better chance Wickham might make a mistake, allowing Darcy to relieve him of the weapon.

“Pemberley has many secrets,” was Wickham’s cryptic reply. “As you are but new to the place, your knowledge is lacking, but in my youth, I took the trouble to discover as much of it as I could, never knowing how invaluable the information would become. It is fortunate that I did so.”

Darcy altered his stance a little, easing to the side, noting how Wickham’s pistol followed his movement.

The other man appeared amused at his action, but for Darcy, it meant everything.

Now Wickham could do nothing to hurt Elizabeth unless he went through Darcy, for he was directly in Wickham’s line of sight.

“Then why are you here?”

Wickham chuckled, shaking his head as if he thought the question was daft. “Come now, Darcy, you are not an unintelligent man. At one point, I thought Pemberley itself was ripe for the plucking, but the entail foiled my efforts. As I cannot have the estate, I will settle for something else.”

It was confirmation that whatever he knew, Wickham did not know the entail had ended.

Whether he might have tried to make something of it if he had known Darcy could not say; the man must know that anything he did now would serve him ill, that the earl would not allow him to take control of Pemberley’s legacy, even if he had been inclined to allow it before.

Thus, only one explanation for his actions remained.

“Extortion,” said Darcy. “You wish to hold me hostage and receive a sum of money to let me go.”

Clucking his tongue, Wickham looked at Darcy, his grin making him even more uncomfortable.

“You are close, Darcy, but you do not see all the possibilities inherent in this situation. I have no interest in taking you with me, for you will be most difficult to control. No, I propose keeping your lovely wife company.”

The words settled between them like a curtain of thick fog descending into a low valley. Darcy had known, of course; Wickham’s purpose had been inevitable since the moment he entered the room. Try as Darcy might, he could see no way of preventing it unless Wickham gave him an opening to act.

“You see,” said Wickham, his tone conversational, “with Pemberley out of my reach, I have decided that I will take a payment for disappearing from your life forever. Your wife must be more precious to you than Georgiana—since your resources are not infinite, I shall offer to be magnanimous and only take double Georgiana’s dowry.

If I am not mistaken, that sum is sixty thousand pounds. ”

“And you suppose I will bow to your demands?”

The cold look with which Wickham regarded him was a stark contrast to his previous geniality, suggesting the man was more than a little mad.

“The consequences for not obliging me may be quite.

.. severe, Darcy. If you pledge to pay me what I deserve, I will pledge to return your wife to you in the exact condition she was in when she fell into my care.

If you do not, I cannot guarantee her status when I return her.

There may be certain... complications—if you contemplate the consequences, you will come to the correct conclusion.

“Now,” said Wickham, his negligent grip on the pistol tightening, aiming at Darcy, “there will be no more talk.” Stepping to the side, Wickham turned the gun toward Elizabeth and said: “Do not concern yourself for modesty, Mrs. Darcy, for I will not look. Much.”

The comment amused him, for he laughed at his disgusting jest.

Elizabeth did not move at once, a glance telling Darcy that she was watching the man, loathing playing about her features.

Trust was in that look, trust for him and his ability to thwart whatever Wickham planned.

There was also determination, the will to ensure this caricature of a man failed in his unholy lust for wealth.

The hesitation appeared to amuse Wickham, for he shook his head.

“There is nothing you can do but join me, Mrs. Darcy.” Wickham again turned the pistol back on Darcy. “If you do not oblige me, I can use this weapon on Darcy here, and I shall still get what I want.”

Elizabeth did not move at once, and Wickham did not speak again; rather, he appeared relaxed, as if he had everything under control, had no doubt of his victory.

For the life of him, Darcy could not think of any way around doing as he asked.

Refusal was not an option; Wickham was mad enough to do as he threatened.

Darcy would be no good to Elizabeth dead, and he knew the chances of Wickham escaping unscathed were almost nonexistent, not with the men who patrolled the grounds even in the dead of night.

How Wickham had evaded them to reach and enter the house, Darcy could not say, but Wickham would find it difficult to escape.

“Mrs. Darcy, I tire of this,” said Wickham, his arm extending, pistol pointed at Darcy’s chest. “You will come with me at once, or I will deal with your husband, and then I will take you anyway.”

“The sound of a pistol firing would rouse the entire house.” Elizabeth’s voice, rising for the first time since the confrontation began, carried a hint of a tremulous quality, either in fear or anger.

A glance at Darcy confirmed the latter, her gaze at the man before them filled with fury and precious little fear.

“Do you think that concerns me?” Wickham barked a harsh, cruel laugh. “I have infiltrated this house, knowing any misstep would end badly. I have nothing left to lose. If you do not come with me, if Darcy does not give me what I want, I may as well take my vengeance and be done.”

“Vengeance?” spat she, her voice dripping with disdain.