B006O3T9DG EBOK (69 page)

Just as he began to repeat his usual inventions, half-truths, and outright prevarications, the door was opened. Sir Henry Howgrave stood in open-mouthed disbelief. He had meant only to invite his wife to meet new contributors—his way of apologising for his earlier accusations. He found his wife and his secretary in an attitude that left little to the imagination. Indeed, Howgrave’s fleshy jowls trembled with outrage and a vein in his temple throbbed. In a trice, he saw that he had not erred in accusing his wife of adulterous conduct, only the identity of her paramour.

To Juliette, Howgrave said, “It isn’t that damned Darcy who is the rutting-dog after all!”

To Alistair, Howgrave howled with injury, “Alistair? How could you?”

His little game was exposed, but Alistair (a veteran of weathering husbandly outrage) was quite indifferent to that fact. He threw his head back and cast out an irrefutable indictment of Sir Henry Howgrave—one that cut the poor man to the core.

He said, “Ahoy! If it is not Freddy Dumpstitch!”

With that singular insult, full recognition hit Howgrave. His mouth was agape, seconds passed by ere he could utter more than affronted grunts. When at last, he spoke; he knew exactly whom he addressed.

“George Wickham! They said you were dead! Yet, here you are, still nothing but a worthless mutton-monger! And a wolf in sheep’s clothing to boot!”

Howgrave’s metaphors might have been a bit imprecise, but his appraisal of his secretary’s duplicitousness was exceedingly accurate. Moreover, with his husbandly pride gouged in the worst possible manner, Howgrave was out for blood. In appearance, word, and deed, he was no longer the impotent cuckold Wickham had so often belittled. Indeed, Wickham suddenly realised that he may have baited the wrong bear. Hence, he shifted seamlessly from perpetrator to victim.

“It was her!” said Wickham, pointing at Juliette. “She begged me, appealed to my vanity, saying that you cannot satisfy her. I defended your honour, but her wiles are many. I was putty in her designing hands!”

Howgrave turned his wrath upon Juliette. Pinning her against her escritoire, his hand came down across her mouth, splitting her lip.

Wickham continued to prod him, “She denigrated your manhood whilst fondling mine. Pray, what man can contain his lust against such ways?”

Howgrave hit his wife again. As if a puppeteer, Wickham cast an aspersion and Howgrave slapped his wife. It was a test as to which man’s passion was more inflamed. It was Wickham, however, who had the misjudgement of allowing his gleeful grin to come within Howgrave’s eye-line. This redirected that man’s rage from his faithless wife to his faithless friend. Gurgling with fury, he lunged at Wickham. Easily the more nimble of the two, Wickham dodged him, scrambling just beyond his grasp. Wickham made a vain attempt to steer him back to Juliette, but he caught his toe on the edge of the carpet.

Although Howgrave was shorter, fatter, and unarmed, Wickham truly feared for his life. Abruptly, it was no longer a game. Perspiration formed on his forehead as he looked desperately about for a weapon, but to no avail. Howgrave’s bulging eyes looked as if they were to pop out of his eye-sockets. He flailed wildly at Wickham, who put up his hands in a futile bid to deflect his blows.

Suddenly, Howgrave’s rage-red eyes protruded further. A bit of pink froth foamed from his mouth. He then dropped to his knees. As Howgrave had continued to crawl towards him, Wickham scrambled to his feet and engaged in a hopping dance to remain just beyond Howgrave’s reach. Defeated, Howgrave fell into a motionless heap.

Wickham cried incredulously, “Is he dead? I never touched him! It must be apoplexy! What luck! But, then he had the neck for it.”

As Wickham bent over Howgrave, he saw the oddest thing. Obtruding from Sir Henry Howgrave’s side was the gold handle of a very vulgar letter-knife. It was imbedded to the hilt and a great pool of blood was collecting beneath him.

Juliette stood silently just beyond her husband. With great haste, Wickham understood what had come to pass.

He said, “My sweet, my princess, you rescued your true love!”

As if by instinct led, Wickham began to plot. First, he appraised Howgrave’s corpse. The man was beyond saving, but the letter-knife was worth a hundred pounds. Wickham quickly grabbed it and wiped the blood from it on the side of Howgrave’s trousers.

With Howgrave still leaking blood onto the carpet between them, Wickham crowed, “We are free of him! Come with me now! This letter-knife alone will buy our passage wherever we chose to go. Collect your jewels, for we shall have need of them....”

He looked about, searching for other items to scavenge from the room.

“George,” Juliette said quietly.

Taking no notice of the name she employed, he answered, “Yes, dearest?”

“Do you have teeth in your pocket?”

Unconsciously, Wickham’s hands went to his pockets. The expression that then overspread his countenance was not one of contrition. He bore the unadulterated manifestation of a guilty man.

It was true. Ponce, grave-robber, murderer, thief. She knew it. He knew it. He blanched, but reached for her penitently. As he had so many times before (with so many women), he knew he could convince her that he was not the blackguard that he truly was.

Ingratiatingly, he told her, “I am of Darcy’s blood and he will pay what I ask.”

Uncertain how this information was taken, he watched her countenance with exceeding care. Her lovely rosebud lips pursed, seemingly beckoning a redemptive kiss. He took a step towards her, and, as he did, her mouth, so lush and moist, formed a perfect “o.”

At first, she emitted a single lilting note, one that hung prettily in the air. Then slowly, stealthily, it altered. From the back of her lovely throat came a sound that was other-worldly. What had been a lovely and provocative intonation transmuted into a howl—unlike one he had ever heard. It was a raging, moaning shriek.

Whilst her cry still hung in the air, Juliette then reached up and clawed at the diaphanous fabric of her bodice. As she did, it shredded. Of the belief that she had keened and then rent her gown in grief, Wickham stood absolutely transfixed. He was so taken by the sight that he was not roused until the room was descended upon by a hoard of Howgrave’s men.

Observing the bloody tableau, all fell silent.

Suddenly, Wickham was quite aware that he happened to hold the letter-knife in his hand. Upon that knife, most conspicuously, was the blood of a Member of Parliament, a landowner, and a gentleman. Was that not accusation enough, Lady Howgrave extended a trembling forefinger directly at Wickham. Thereupon, she swooned.

Wickham was nonplussed. Normally, so adept at slipping into whatever character was required, his mouth opened, but nothing came out.

This was unfortunate.

In that void, every man who stood before him believed that they had just disturbed the ravagement of a fair lady and the murder of her devoted protector. Fuelled by alcohol and offended masculinity, they saw in George Wickham, a singularly guilty man.

Chapter 92

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

By the time Mr. Darcy slipped in beside his wife, he felt the deep respirations of her sleep. He could have serried himself behind her and drawn her to him, but he did not. Rather, he propped his head on one hand and gazed at her in the candlelight. Only within his wife’s cathartic presence did he set aside the disorder of the past days.

He also did a rather common thing.

The placket of her gown lay open. That unbuttoned vee exposed a good portion of her delectable, white breast. He had been gone half a fortnight—long enough for him (bridegroom or not) to be brought to arousal by the very sight of his wife’s bare skin. Indeed, he blatantly ogled her. As he did, he exhaled a great sigh of appreciation.

Without moving a hair or flicking a finger, she opened one eye.
Caught in salacious admiration, he gave a start. Half-awake, but sensing discombobulation, Mrs. Darcy gathered the fabric of her gown in her fist and clasped it to her bosom.

He caught her hand, saying with a small laugh, “You awaken, only to find a strange man in your bed?”

Embarrassed, she did not want to recount the nettlesome dreams that had been plaguing her nights. Instead, she reached out and stroked his face.

Then, she employed her most fetching smile, “A ‘strange’ man, you say? Perhaps I should entertain that thought.... Ouch!” she gasped.

His pinch was quite unexpected and she slapped playfully at his hand.

“What ungentlemanly behaviour!”

With an exchange of a single look, all teasing was forgot. Wrapping her in his arms, he rolled atop her. The loose braid she often wore to bed was not in evidence. Indeed, her hair cascaded across the pillow most alluringly.

Gliding his knee between hers, he looked into her eyes, and said, “There is much to tell you....”

Placing her forefinger against his lips, she whispered, “Can it not wait until the morn? I have so longed to have you all to myself.”

No other words could have been half so admirable just then. It was not by great design that he had moved his knee in such a provocative fashion. However unintentional, he credited it with obtaining her acquiescence to set aside his journey and all that had passed therein until another time. His foremost desire was to lie with her in unfleeting splendour until the dawn.

Her body, which had been taut, becalmed within his embrace. She took his face in her hands and covered it with happy kisses. As she did, his fingers parted the placket of her gown reverentially. Suddenly overtaken with a rare bout of diffidence, she closed her eyes and turned her head in such a way that stole his notice.

“Pray, why do you not want me to admire you? It is my particular pleasure.” he asked quietly.

His voice was not critical, but curious—and possibly a little hurt. As he spoke, he brushed his fingers across her cheek. She opened her eyes. He was gazing at her closely, his long fingers burrowed into her hair, thumb stroking her chin. The redolence of his hand (and the specific placement of his knee) recalled a union long past—one quite singular.

That memory arresting all her thoughts, she bid, “Do you often recall our nuptial night?”

An odd sound erupted from his throat.

He said, “Do I what? Why, pray, would I ever do that?”

She meant no offence, nor did she think he could have taken her inquiry as such. Taken aback, she very nearly let the subject go to the side. However, that was not her nature.

She prodded, “I simply wonder if our recollections of the event are alike.”

Clearing his throat, he said, “Allow me a moment.... Yes, to be sure. I have certain recollections.”

She waited.

“Our memories may be quite different,” said he. “This is particularly true if you only recall the event as singular. My recollection was that it was not just the evening, but the night, the dawn, the morning and, if memory serves, twice in the coach ere arriving here.”

His directness did him credit, but turned her crimson. Still, she sighed in remembrance of it all. There was one niggling memory, however, that kept her reminisces of their wedding from being altogether laudatory. It was one that had no part in their amatory rites. It pertained to the carriage ride thither. Just bethinking it, her brow knitted.

She asked, “Do you recall how reticent you were upon the journey from Meryton to London? You did not speak two words together until we arrived in town.”