Midnight at Pemberley (Pride and Prejudice Retelling)

Prologue

THE WAS BEAUTIFUL IN ALL HER INNOCENCE, MUCH MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN the notorious Mrs. Younge, his latest minion, who had arranged this encounter and who waited for him now in the adjoining woods.

Long, thick lashes rested on the rise of her high cheekbones, and although a bit mussed, her golden tresses spread out across her pillow like the rays of the sun.

Her deep sigh brought his attention to her lips, and for a moment he thought her awake, but Georgiana Darcy slept soundly, thanks to his special charm.

She was the image—the embodiment—of his beloved Ellender.

One candle lit the room, casting shadows, which danced in the corners. There was nothing lacking, with its rich tapestries and elegant artwork.

“Only the best for the Darcys,” he murmured.

He moved smoothly to the bed’s edge. Unable to hide his contempt, a flash of fire transformed his vision. A torrent of images racked his soul— reflections of blood, betrayal, and revenge.

“You will do quite well, my dear,” he whispered. “I will enjoy spending an eternity with you.” He lightly twisted one of her curls around his finger. “This will be sweet revenge for all those who have suffered at the Darcys’ hands.”

Slowly, he leaned over her, sensing the blood rushing through her veins; his eyes sought the indentation of her neck.

He relished the feeling of expectancy. Only his breathing broke the ringing silence of the room.

Engulfed in his desire, when the door swung wide, it took several seconds before he realized someone had intruded upon his inexplicable need for her.

“Move away from her, Wickham,” the tall, dark figure ordered as he stepped carefully into the room. “You will not bring your death and decay into my household.”

“You brought it into mine, Darcy.”

Wickham stood casually. He knew in a fight to the end, the man before him stood little chance of survival.

Even so, sensing no fear of his powers from the intruder, Wickham questioned what else this confrontation would hold.

He hesitated only a moment before moving in a whirlwind to a point of advantage, but the man framed in the light of the hall did not even flinch.

A dramatic black eyebrow lifted quizzically.

“You forget, Wickham, you and I share certain characteristics. You cannot infect what is already infected. Neither my sister nor I will follow you into the darkness. This madness ends here. The curse—the wicked allure—will die with us.” The deep rumble of Darcy’s voice filled the room.

Wickham glowered. “I have not abandoned my need for beautiful young women.” A squall-like eruption pushed him forward, his arms extended to his sides. The motion sent Darcy rolling across the floor. “I am coming for you, Darcy,” his voice boomed through the room.

Sucking noises filled Darcy’s ears, and he realized immediately that the tall, pale form of his enemy loomed over him in a counterattack.

Sliding against the far wall, it was all Darcy could do to bite back a scream of terror, but, instead, he ducked and came up, arm flung overhead, preparing to unload. “Now, Wickham,” he hissed.

He released a vial of clear liquid, sending it tumbling end over end.

As if in slow motion, he and Wickham moved in a precisely choreographed dance of doom, each playing out a part in a swirling tableau.

At length, the stopper gave way, and the fluid rained down on George Wickham.

An agonized scream—full of old blood and dark radiance—filled the room.

An evil shadow hissed in the moonlight, and the odor of burning flesh wafted over them.

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

“You will rot in hell!” Wickham threatened. “I will see those you love ruined—see them lick the blood from your body. See sharp fangs jutting from their mouths. See grisly nightmares filling their heads!”

Wickham attacked again, but Darcy anticipated the move. Pulling the double crucifix from his pocket, he met his enemy’s intent. “Iron,” he said mockingly, unfurling the chain and reaching out to his enemy.

Panic crossed Wickham’s fever-filled eyes as he backed away from the symbol of the Trinity, stumbling—recoiling—and suddenly, he disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Darcy glanced to the window in time to note a grey shadow moving across the lawn.

He stood motionless for several long minutes before sucking in a slow breath to reclaim his composure. Only then did he smell it: smoke.

“Wickham!” he cursed as he opened the door to view the smoke-filled passage.

The house he had let in Ramsgate for Georgiana’s use now was filled with a fiery blaze, which appeared to emanate from three separate points of entry on the bottom floor.

Thick black smoke, fueled by the heavy draperies and fine upholstered furniture, rolled from the doorways of the lower rooms and rose to cover the stairway.

Acrid smoke drifted his way. Immediately, Darcy turned towards the body on the bed.

“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 standing in a porcelain bowl.

He draped the wet towel over her head and face, repeating the process for his own use.

Then he made his way to the top of the stairs.

Smoke covered the lower half of the rise.

He took a deep breath and lunged forward.

Surprisingly, a pocket of air existed once he stumbled his way to the bottom of the steps, for the smoke climbed upward.

Darcy felt Georgiana slipping from his grip as he fought his way past the flames consuming doorways along the corridor.

Using the last of his strength to lift her to him again, he braced his shoulders along the wall leading to the servants’ entrance, the only door not blocked by fire.

Forcibly, he shoved his way into the night—into the salvation of the open air.

Heaving from the weight of her, Darcy staggered forward.

When the house began to collapse, he was far enough from it to escape the brunt of the debris, but not far enough to go unscathed.

Splintered doorways and shards of glass flew like bullets, lodging in his arms and legs and back, but Darcy did not falter in removing his precious Georgiana to safety.

At length, he collapsed to his knees, placing her gently on the dewy grass before uncovering her face.

“Georgie,” he pleaded as he patted her hands and face. It was a long moment before she caught a breath and began to cough uncontrollably. A soft moan told him she was well. Only then did he permit the exhaustion to overtake him. Collapsing face first, he fell into the dirt and grass.

“Mr. Darcy!” his valet, Henry Sheffield, called as he rushed over to tend to his employer. His man’s hands gently searched for broken bones.

Covered with ashes and soot, Darcy turned his head to look upon the world, but he made no move to rise. Exhaustion claimed him. His life would know such horrors until he defeated Wickham.

He was aware of when Georgiana crawled to where he rested upon the ground. “William,” she begged between fits of coughing. “Oh, please … please … speak to me.”

“He is injured, Miss Darcy,” Sheffield told her as he jerked off his jacket and wrapped it around her to hide her night rail.

“Assist him,” she pressed.

By that time, footmen and neighbors rushed to their aid.

Mr. Phelps, the owner of the house on the left, examined Darcy’s body.

“We should not turn him; he has several lacerations—no telling what might be in the wounds.” Phelps took charge.

“Lift Darcy to his feet, and be careful about it,” he ordered.

“Jemmy, go for the doctor. You others assist Mr. Darcy to my house.”

Two footmen caught his arms, arranging them about their shoulders and supporting his weight as they half dragged him towards Phelps’s door.

“Georgie,” he called over his shoulder.

“I am here,” his sister insisted.

“I have her, Mr. Darcy,” Sheffield assured. “Permit Mr. Phelps to assist you. I will tend to Miss Darcy.”

As Darcy looked to the still roaring fire, townspeople scrambled to the bucket brigades. He and Georgiana were fortunate to have survived with nothing more than a few lacerations. Wickham had planned for much worse.

As the servants struggled under his weight, Darcy forced his gaze towards the gathering crowd.

Instinctively, his eyes fell on George Wickham, a figure wrapped in a long black cape and sporting a beaver, as if he were any ordinary gentleman.

With a wry smile and a nearly imperceptible salute, the fiend disappeared into the darkness.

For now, Darcy could do nothing more. He had prevented Wickham’s manipulations this time. Fortune had blessed him. Could he do it again? Could he kill the creature that had plagued his family for centuries?