Chapter Seven The Scoundrel in the Shade #3
Hurst stared at Behemoth. “Your horse attempted to eat mine.”
“He dislikes weakness.”
“He should admire Bingley’s mount from a distance, then.”
Bingley swung into his saddle. “My horse has never bitten a living creature.”
“Neither had mine until he met yours,” Hurst replied.
Darcy mounted Behemoth, gathered the reins, and turned him to the drive. Their intended route led north through open country. He directed the stallion south instead.
Bingley brought his horse alongside. “Meryton?”
“I wish to observe Wickham’s movements.”
“You intend to confront him.”
Darcy urged Behemoth into a trot. “Those intentions are not incompatible.”
Bingley exchanged a glance with Hurst but offered no objection.
They rode beyond Netherfield’s gates under a pale, unobstructed sun. Its warmth pressed faintly against the salve on Darcy’s face, a persistent reminder that Fletcher’s protection had limits.
Meryton appeared ahead of them, its roofs and chimneys rising beyond the November fields.
Somewhere within the town, Wickham would be indoors or standing in shade.
Darcy intended to discover which, and he found the answer shortly after they entered Meryton.
They left their horses outside the principal inn, where the ostler approached Behemoth, clearly reconsidering every decision that had brought him into contact with animals. The stallion flattened his ears and moved one hind leg into a position that promised an abbreviated career.
“He dislikes strangers,” Darcy explained, passing the reins into the man’s reluctant hand. “Do not touch his head, his tail, or any part of him he can reach with his teeth.”
The ostler’s gaze travelled over the enormous animal. “Which part would that leave, sir?”
“Very little,” Hurst answered as he handed his own reins to a stable boy. “You may find prayer more useful than technique.”
Darcy left the man to negotiate his survival and walked with Bingley and Hurst to the High Street.
Meryton had filled with ladies completing morning errands, tradesmen observing prospective customers and militia officers, ensuring that no woman under the age of seventy passed without noticing a red coat.
Shopkeepers stood in their doorways discussing the weather while gathering information on subjects entirely unrelated to it.
Two matrons emerged from the haberdasher’s and stopped Bingley long enough to enquire after Miss Bennet’s welfare, forcing him to deliver a report on her health detailed enough to satisfy a physician.
Darcy waited, nodding when courtesy required it, until something foul reached his senses beneath the ordinary smells of horses, bread, and damp wool. The trace contained recently consumed blood, human compulsion, and the familiar scent of a corrupted vampire.
Hurst detected it a moment later. He turned slowly to the opposite side of the street, and the idle humour left his face.
“He fed yesterday.” Hurst watched a group of officers outside the milliner’s shop. “Not enough to kill, unless his restraint has improved sufficiently to leave the victim dying somewhere private.”
Bingley dismissed the matrons with another assurance that Miss Bennet was recovering. Once they continued on their way, he drew closer to Darcy and lowered his voice. “There, under the awning.”
Wickham stood with Denny and Carter in the deepest shade outside the milliner’s.
His shoulder rested against the brickwork, one boot crossed over the other as he laughed at whatever tale Denny was telling.
To anyone watching, he appeared at ease.
Darcy saw the calculations behind every movement.
A narrow band of pale sunlight divided the pavement before him, and Wickham had not allowed so much as the toe of his boot to cross it.
He had no Fletcher to protect him. He must remain under awnings, enter shops and taverns when the light strengthened, and invent excuses whenever his companions proposed crossing an exposed street.
Yet he managed the restriction with practised elegance.
When two young ladies passed, Wickham straightened, bowed, and offered a remark that made both smile, all without abandoning the shelter of the milliner’s striped canvas.
Denny noticed Darcy’s party approaching and stepped forwards eagerly. “Mr Darcy, I do not believe you have met our newest officer. May I present Mr George Wickham?”
Wickham pushed away from the wall, although he stayed safely behind the line of sunlight. His face opened into extravagant delight, and he spread his arms as if welcoming three beloved friends returned from war.
“My dear Denny, no introduction is necessary. Darcy and I have known one another since childhood, while Bingley and Hurst are scarcely less familiar.” He moved near them with every appearance of intending an embrace. “What an extraordinary pleasure to find you all in Hertfordshire.”
Bingley evaded him by stepping aside to acknowledge a passing gentleman.
Wickham altered direction towards Hurst, but Hurst planted one hand against his chest and held him at arm’s length.
The movement appeared companionable to Denny and Carter, but Darcy saw the pressure behind it and the murderous stillness in Hurst’s eyes.
“You claim familiarity with confidence,” Hurst observed. His fingers tightened against Wickham’s coat before he released him. “A man who leaves so many debts of honour unsettled ought to approach his creditors with greater caution.”
The smile slipped from Wickham’s face. For an instant, he and Hurst regarded one another without the shelter of civility, and something old and poisonous passed between them.
Wickham recovered before the officers recognised the change. He brushed Hurst’s hand from his chest, then laughed and nodded to an elderly woman entering the milliner’s shop. “You still keep account of every ancient grievance, I see. I had hoped the passage of time might improve your generosity.”
Hurst began pacing along the shaded portion of the pavement, each turn bringing him back to Wickham. “Time does not settle every debt. Some survive longer than the men to whom they were owed.”
Carter’s smile became uncertain. Denny glanced between the two men, but Wickham had already turned elsewhere.
“Darcy, old chap.” He paused over the word, his eyes bright with private malice. “Although old has acquired a rather broader meaning in your case, has it not?”
Denny laughed and gave Wickham an approving clap on the shoulder. “You speak as though Mr Darcy remembers the Romans.”
Wickham’s gaze was fixed on Darcy. “He has always possessed the gravity of a man who remembers the beginning of civilisation and found it disappointing.”
“I remember reading of several civilisations,” Darcy replied, forcing his expression to remain unchanged. “None lasted.”
Carter laughed aloud. Denny joined him, while Wickham’s amusement faltered under the reminder that only one of them held rank enough to survive the fall of civilisations without concealment.
Darcy allowed silence to gather after his answer.
Wickham had expected anger and prepared himself to convert it into entertainment for the officers.
Instead, he found Darcy waiting, motionless and unimpressed, while the activity of the High Street continued around them.
A wagon rattled over the stones, a shopkeeper carried a wooden crate between the groups, and three ladies slowed as they passed to admire the officers.
Wickham smiled and bowed to them, but when he faced Darcy again, the expression required more effort.
“How is Pemberley?” Wickham asked, strolling back to the shop window when the sunlight moved closer to his boots. “I trust the old place remains magnificent. It would be distressing to discover that neglect had accomplished what generations of extravagance failed to do.”
Darcy remained silent.
Wickham released a theatrical sigh and turned to Bingley instead. “He was never generous with conversation. And your sisters, Bingley? I hope they are well.”
“They are in excellent health.” Bingley’s posture was courteous but his expression cold. “I shall convey your enquiry.”
“And Georgiana?” Wickham allowed false tenderness to soften his voice as he turned back to Darcy. “She must be quite grown by now. I remember her as such an affectionate child.”