Chapter Seven The Scoundrel in the Shade #4
Hurst stopped pacing. He stood several feet behind Wickham, his hands closed at his sides, and regarded the back of his head as though selecting the most efficient means of removing it.
Darcy felt his own anger rise but denied Wickham the satisfaction of seeing it. “You will not speak her name.”
The quiet command erased Wickham’s smile for a heartbeat. Denny moved uneasily, while Carter became fascinated by a display of ribbons in the milliner’s window.
Wickham recovered by lifting both hands in injured surrender. “There is no need for hostility. I am surrounded by old acquaintances and hoped to revive happier memories.”
“You abandoned most of those acquaintances before they understood what you had made them,” Hurst remarked. He resumed walking, circling Wickham with the patience of a predator who had already decided where to bite. “The memories were not happy for long.”
Denny cleared his throat. “You gentlemen appear to have a complicated history.”
“An unfortunate misunderstanding,” Wickham assured him. He smirked at Darcy, inviting contradiction. “Darcy has always found forgiveness difficult when another man refuses to obey him.”
Darcy gave him no answer. Without resistance, Wickham’s performance began collapsing under its own weight.
A pair of officers from the opposite pavement called a greeting to Denny. Wickham acknowledged them warmly but did not leave the awning. He waited until they had passed, then turned to Bingley with an air of newly remembered pleasure.
“I understand you intend to hold a ball at Netherfield. The youngest Miss Bennets were kind enough to mention it, although I assured them that I could not presume on such a brief acquaintance.”
Bingley rolled his eyes before politeness forced them back to Wickham. “Colonel Forster and the officers of his regiment will receive an invitation when the date is settled.”
“How very generous.” Wickham stepped forwards and extended his hand. “I shall look forward to accepting.”
Bingley examined the offered hand but made no attempt to take it. “The invitation is Colonel Forster’s to distribute.”
“Then I shall endeavour to remain in his favour.” Wickham allowed his hand to fall, his smile sharpening. “Miss Lydia seemed determined that I should attend. It would be ungallant to disappoint her.”
The triumph beneath the remark confirmed what Darcy already knew.
Wickham had approached Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty because their enthusiasm would carry his name into Longbourn and secure his entrance to Netherfield.
He had placed Bingley inside a social trap and now took pleasure in displaying its mechanism.
Darcy stepped under the awning.
Wickham retreated until his shoulders met the shopfront.
Denny and Carter saw only one gentleman moving closer to another, but Darcy knew Wickham felt the master’s authority released into the narrowing space.
The pressure entered his blood, forcing his body to recognise the power of the vampire who had created him.
His nostrils flared, his hands flattened against the brickwork, and the easy confidence vanished from his eyes.
The noise of the High Street seemed to recede as Darcy held him there.
“Your time has come,” Darcy told him, keeping his voice low enough that the humans nearby would hear only the murmur of a private disagreement. “Prepare to meet your creator.”
Wickham stopped laughing. Fear stripped the charm from his face, leaving him pale and young. His eyes darted to Bingley and then Hurst, but neither man offered rescue. Hurst merely smiled, and the expression contained enough anticipation to make Carter take another step away from him.
Wickham gathered himself slowly. He pushed away from the wall, straightened, and restored his public smile, although a tremor persisted at one corner of his mouth.
“Well,” he replied, glancing at Denny and Carter to ensure that he still had an audience, “I have just met him, and I find myself perfectly well.”
The officers laughed with more uncertainty than amusement. Darcy understood the second meaning beneath the joke. He had converted Wickham and given him the immortality he later abused. In every sense recognised by vampire law, Darcy was his creator.
Wickham expected the taunt to provoke him, but Darcy refused to provide the satisfaction.
He turned away and crossed the High Street with Bingley and Hurst. The locals continued their errands, unaware that a death sentence had just been delivered under the shop’s awning.
At the inn, the ostler surrendered Behemoth’s reins with relief and withdrew before the stallion could express an opinion about the service.
Darcy mounted and guided Behemoth to the road. Bingley and Hurst followed, neither speaking as they left Meryton behind them.
Wickham’s laughter eventually rose from the High Street, louder than the joke had warranted and several moments too late to convince anyone who understood fear.
Darcy continued riding without turning, satisfied that beneath all the charm, insolence, and public confidence, Wickham had understood the warning, and believed it.