Page 27 of Love Among the Shadows
And spoiling Darcy name wasn’t enough, he mused. He would pursue him to the ends of the earth if need be. After all, how difficult could it be to kill a man who believed himself untouchable? A man who prided himself on his intelligence, yet trusted the wrong people?
A faint smile curved his lips.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small bottle of ether, the glass cool against his fingers. With practiced care, he uncorked it and poured the liquid over a folded handkerchief, rubbing the fabric between his hands to ensure it soaked in fully. The sharp scent rose, cutting through the stale air of the room.
Satisfied, he glanced toward the window, his ears attuned to the faintest sound of approaching footsteps. Even if the ether began to fade, it would not matter. Wickham would be here soon, long before the fumes had a chance to completely dissipate.
With the patience of one well-versed in waiting, the man found a place in the shadows near the stairs, the blade held loosely in one hand, handkerchief in the other. His breath was steady, his resolve clear. Time passed, the silence stretching until it seemed part of the walls themselves. The faint creak of the house settling under its own weight was the only disruption.
Then, at last, footsteps approached.
***
Lodging was provided for the militia in Meryton, but George Wickham, ever the cunning schemer, chose to avoid it. He had his reasons—reasons born not from duty, but necessity. His creditors, scattered across the country like ravenous wolves, were always on his scent. To take lodging with the militia would be to paint a target upon his back; it would be too easy forthem to inquire after him there, to follow the trail to his door. No, a man like Wickham needed a place of his own, where he could remain unseen when he wished and vanish entirely when required.
The house he rented in the edge of Meryton suited him perfectly. Modest and unremarkable, it drew little attention from passers-by. The landlady, Mrs. Prynne, was deaf as a post and disinclined to question her tenants' comings and goings. The house itself, with its two doors—one at the front, one at the back—provided him with the perfect means of escape should anyone come knocking with unwelcome demands. And they would come, in time. His schemes were not without risk.
He walked briskly through the streets, his mind spinning with thoughts of the evening. Tonight had not unfolded as he had planned. He had gone to the ball with the intention of seeking out some amusement, perhaps to steal a moment with a particular young lady he had been grooming for his next grand scheme. The idea of their elopement was already in motion. It was a fortune easily gained, a marriage secured before anyone could intervene. But Darcy’s unexpected appearance had soured the night. Just as it had done his last attempt to elope.
He hadn't anticipated seeing him there. Darcy, of all people, had made Wickham’s blood run cold the moment their eyes met across the crowded room. There was something in Darcy’s expression—a quiet intensity, a restrained fury—that unsettled him more than he cared to admit. And then Darcy had challenged him, he was forced to put up a front, a defence.
"What was I to do?" Wickham muttered to himself as he neared his door. "Stand there and let him outshine me once again?"
No. He had defended himself, as he always had. He had countered Darcy’s cold arrogance with charm and wit, ensuringthat all eyes in the room saw him as the wronged party. It was a performance he had perfected over the years.
Yet as he reached for the key in his pocket, a nagging feeling of unease prickled at the back of his neck. He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping the street. Empty. Silent. Still.
Wickham had never believed in tales of the so-calledDarcy curse. To his mind, such notions belonged to the realm of idle gossip, invented by those with too little sense and too much time. When the officers had cautioned him upon their departure from the ball, murmuring dark warnings about Mr Darcy’s supposed deadly touch, he had laughed it off with careless ease.
“Folly,” he had called it, shaking his head. He had no patience for superstitions, nor did he truly believe Darcy capable of murder. He had only accused him of being a killer to sully his reputation, to plant seeds of doubt in the minds of others. After all, why not drag Darcy’s name through the mire when his own had long been tarnished?
The Darcy he knew, though reserved, cold, and impossibly proud, was no more likely to kill a man than he was to dance a reel at an assembly. No, Darcy might deliver a cutting remark, but he would never wield a blade in anger unless his sister’s honour was at stake. And as for the recent murders, Wickham dismissed them as tragic coincidence. Darcy had quarrelled with him often enough in the past without resorting to violence. Why should he turn killer now?
Yet, despite his easy dismissal of such fears, a lingering unease crept upon him as he walked through the deserted streets. The night air bit at his skin, carrying with it a chill that seemed to seep into his very bones. It whispered of something unseen, something waiting in the shadows.
He shook his head, chastising himself for indulging in foolish thoughts.Nonsense,he told himself firmly.The night is merely cold, and I am weary from the day.
Still, the chill lingered, as if the darkness itself were watching.
The door creaked faintly as he pushed it open and stepped inside. The parlour lay in shadow, the hearth cold and dark. Wickham shut the door firmly behind him, bolting it with a practiced hand before shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the hook by the door. He exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair.
Yet the nagging unease did not abate.
He crossed the room to the staircase, his boots tapping lightly on the wooden floor. As he placed a foot upon the first step, a faint noise from the parlour stilled him. He paused, head cocked, listening intently.
"Mrs. Prynne?" he called softly. No answer came.
Shaking his head, he chastised himself for the foolish thought of calling out to a woman who was deaf. What good would it do?Perhaps it was the stable boy,he reasoned, his mind grasping for a more rational explanation.
Resolving to investigate further, he took another cautious step up the staircase, his footfall barely making a sound on the worn wooden boards.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was a man cloaked in darkness, his presence as silent as the grave. Wickham spun, his breath catching in his throat. Before he could react, the figure advanced with swift precision, a handkerchief in one hand, a blade gleaming faintly in the other.
"Who—?" Wickham began, but the man was already upon him.
The handkerchief pressed over his mouth and nose, a sickly-sweet scent filling his senses. He struggled, his fistspounding weakly against the man’s chest, but his strength ebbed with each breath. His legs buckled beneath him, and his vision blurred, the room spinning into darkness.
The last thing he saw was the flash of the blade, inscribed with a name he knew all too well—Fitzwilliam Darcy.
