Sharon Lathan - The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

“How well I know,” the maimed man muttered, brushing a thumb over the long scar across his left cheek before taking a swallow of his ale. He emptied the mug and signaled the barmaid for another. “Now tell me what you have accomplished, if anything. I tire of my rustic accommodations. Have you learned of his activities? Divined any pattern?”

They paused as the barmaid brought fresh mugs of ale. She was a pretty thing, young and buxom, her smile inviting as she leaned near Wickham offering a generous view of her bosom.

“Anything else you needin’, sir? We gots a nice lamb stew cookin’ to warm your belly and other treats to satisfy if you wants.” The coquettish expression and sweep of one finger across her cleavage aided the innuendo, not that Wickham was confused. He winked, dimples flashing as his eyes raked over the breasts less than a foot from his face.

“Any stew cooked here is more likely rat than lamb and the ‘treats’ are probably the pox.”

The girl turned toward the grating voice with a biting rebuttal on her tongue but flinched and recoiled, the words undelivered. The Marquis of Orman glared at her, his dark eyes menacing. His sallow skin stretched over the harsh bones of his thin face, the only color blotches of pink flesh amid the puckered scar on his cheek. The odor of ale and cheap wine mixed with an alien sweetness permeated his clothing and was strong enough to supplant the smell of rot and vomit naturally drifting on the pub’s air.

She instinctively took a step backward but was halted by Wickham’s hand clasping her wrist. He followed with a sensuous caress up her inner arm, his smile mollifying while still being lewd.

“We are good here, love. I will seek you out when I am ready to take you up on your generous offer.”

The simper instantly returned, her lashes lowering in what she reckoned was demure flirting, and without a glance toward Orman, she moved away with a seductive sway of her hips that Wickham avidly observed.

“Later!” the marquis spat. “You can have your fun when we are done talking. Answer my question.”

“They have not been in the area long enough to establish habitual routines, especially with wedding plans and local activities. He rides every morning, usually alone, but not always. He forever has done that. The man is obsessed with horses.”

“Yes, yes! Go on!”

“But that is no help to us anyway. I am a fair rider but could never overpower him while he is mounted.”

“Just shoot him and be done with it.”

Wickham shook his head. “Have you ever seen him ride? I am not that accurate a marksman, especially as fast as he runs. I would probably wound him at best, and that is not what we want.”

“I thought you were a soldier. Does His Majesty’s army teach nothing?”

“I was a poor soldier, remember? And do not be treasonous.”

“Interesting morals there, Wickham. You chafe at treason but rejoice in plotting a murder. Intriguing.”

Wickham grimaced at the word “murder,” particularly as spoken in tones of jubilance. The Marquis of Orman glowed, his strange eyes sparkling even in the gloom and his wheezing pants faintly sexual. Wickham doubted the unbalanced man knew that he caressed over the wounds inflicted by the Darcys when he spoke of how he desired punishing them. It was eerie, especially added to the lopsided grin that displayed his rotting teeth and the crooked, bulbous nose. The once handsome Lord Orman was handsome no longer.

Hiding a shudder, Wickham looked away to examine the room. The place was filthy and dingy, perfect for this type of conversation, and they were the only patrons this time of day. Reluctantly he pulled his gaze away from the enticing view of the barmaid’s round derriere swaying as she cleaned a far table.

“The truth is, I have been giving this more thought and think we should change our plan. I have been telling you for months that together we can make the revenge sweeter than merely a quick death.”

“How so?”

“Would it not be more satisfying to make him suffer before he dies?”

“I want him dead! Do you understand me, Wickham? Only death is payment for what he has done to me!”

“And what about her? Sure, she will be grieved to lose the man she loves”—he choked on the word, uttering it with loathing—“but will have the consolation of his riches and…”

“You know we cannot touch his wealth,” Orman interrupted. “Believe me, I have inquired, but the man is too powerful and too smart. I finally accepted that reality.”

“Ah! I think I have a means to hurt him in more ways than either of us has ever imagined. I have your use of inhaled ether to thank for planting the seed of possibility. The effect on you when used cautiously to dull your pain…”

“Pain that is all his fault!” Orman snarled, rubbing over his upper thigh near his groin.

“Precisely why it is justice to use the ether that sustains you, my lord, as a means of exacting our vengeance.”

Wickham proceeded to outline his plot with words specific to feed the marquis’s ego and madness. The insane eyes across the table grew wilder and more maniacal, his countenance nearly orgasmic in his pleasure at the vision laid before him. His lust for what he envisioned befalling his worst enemy warmed his gut more than any woman ever had, even when he could still physically achieve satisfaction from that quarter.

“Yes!” Orman whispered, closing his eyes in bliss.

“Well, it seems as if you have attained rapture in the way that best pleases you, my friend. I, on the other hand, as much as I shall derive gratification at Darcy’s downfall, need release in a more fundamental way.” He glanced to the barmaid, who met his gaze with frank provocation.

“Does your wife not satisfy you adequately?” There was no judgment in the question, but a strong undertone of loathing and jealousy.

Wickham laughed gaily, draining his mug in one large gulp. “Let us just say I do not keep Lydia around for her cooking skills. But that fact in no way prevents a real man from tasting elsewhere. Diversity is true living, my friend. Now, go back to your lodge and stay out of sight. I found a chemist with no scruples and have a delivery coming tomorrow. Between that and a well-stocked wine cellar you are comfortably provided for, my lord Marquis. I will contact you in London.” He stood and bent close to Orman, smothering his repugnance behind a cheery façade. “I am off to slake my other thirst. Be at peace. We will win this time and be vindicated, I promise you that.”

Then he pivoted away and sauntered toward the maid, who deftly caught the coin Wickham tossed her direction.

A beaming Alexander proudly gifted his father with the slimy amphibian clutched in his tiny hands, rushing forward as Darcy knelt and showed the appropriate enthusiasm in his son’s acquisition. He listened attentively to the tale of how the boy had chased the toad into the reeds and toppled into the river during the hunt. The fact that he was wet with muddy smeared cheeks and grass clinging to his damp curls mattered not. Darcy hugged him, praised his bravery, declared the toad by far the most amazing toad in all of England, and immediately set to the task of providing a temporary home for the pet, after Lizzy replaced the wet gown for a dry one.

A wooden barrel was found in a shed by a baffled groundsman. The Netherfield cook grudgingly gave an old pie pan for a pool after stating firmly that she did not want it returned. Together father and son searched for the best rocks, grasses, and leaves.

“Toss the grass over there, Son. That’s it. Now he has a nice bed to lie on if he wishes.” Darcy arranged three large stones to form a type of shelter for the impressive sized toad who squatted on a large, flat rock. Darcy crouched next to the barrel with Alexander standing beside as he taught about toads.

“He will probably stay on the rock, or burrow into the grass or under the rocks, but he might go into the water too. However, toads, unlike frogs, prefer to be dry. He probably was not all that pleased when you fell into the water.” He laughed, kissing Alexander’s cheek. “They are nocturnal animals which mean they are most active at night.”

“Like bats, Papa?”

“Very good! Yes, just like the bats we have near Pemberley. So smart you are, my sweet.” He ruffled the dried curls, face flooded with paternal pride. “Remember how we watched them that one night? Flying through the trees?”

Alexander nodded. “Mama so mad.”

“Yes, a little bit only. It was past your bedtime and she worries. That is what mothers do. But it was fun, was it not?”

Alexander nodded again, glancing upward with a smile for his father before turning his attention back to the placid toad. “He sick, Papa?”

“No. He is fine. Toads do not really do much, Son. They sit around most of the time and eat bugs.” Alexander grimaced. “Spiders and worms too. Give him one of those fat earthworms Mr. Hale brought us.”

Alexander dutifully took a wiggling worm from the jar given them by Mr. Hale, one of the stablemen who was also an avid fisherman. He plopped the juicy specimen right before the toad’s nose, but the bulbous eyes never blinked. “He not hungry now,” the toddler declared authoritatively.

“Perhaps he will eat it later. Fear not, Son, he looks to be fat and healthy.” He reached one finger to smooth over the bumpy skin. “Feel how soft he is, Alexander? The warts over his skin will not hurt you, although some types of toads can be mildly poisonous. See these ridges here behind his eyes?” Alexander nodded, one tiny finger rubbing over the mentioned spot. “They are glands that secrete a poison so that predators will leave the toad alone and not try to eat him.”