The Trouble with Mr. Darcy tds-5

by Sharon Lathan

  He smiled, but Darcy only nodded, eyes on the pages in Richard’s hands.

  Richard cleared his throat and resumed. “As you know, after recovering from the wounds you inflicted, Orman retreated to his estate in Devon and sold the one in Derbyshire. All the stories say that he hid himself behind the thick stonewalls and steadfastly began drinking himself into an early grave. That is difficult to verify, but the estate fell into disrepair within months with more than half the employees let go, so he clearly was not managing effectively. And there is some evidence that the local distributors of spirits have profited from his full-time residency, so there is probably some truth in that rumor. All of this, in addition to his selling of the London townhouse he owned, led to talk of financial woes.

  “You also know how the rumors of his injuries escalated. I specifically charged my associates to discover the truth. It was difficult, but they finally learned that he is not completely crippled. He is able to walk, but haltingly with a severe limp, extreme pain, and the use of a crutch. He is not too pretty between the scars you gave him and the beauty that Lizzy delivered to his cheek. And apparently the gash to his thigh area, with subsequent festering, rendered him impotent.”

  Darcy was genuinely taken aback at that, instinctively clenching his own thighs together at the horror of such a fate, before remembering that in Lord Orman’s case this was likely a blessing.

  Richard shook his head, reading Darcy’s expressions. “It is not the positive you may imagine. Sure, he can no longer rape a woman, but he has transferred his anger, bitterness, and lechery to assaulting in other ways. Tragically that fact is the only way my friends were able to get any personal information. Orman never leaves his estate and no one visits him, except for select prostitutes from a local bordello.”

  “But… What in the world would be the point if he cannot…” Darcy waved his hand vaguely.

  “Apparently his appetite is not diminished even if he is unable to perform. Do you really want me to give further details of Orman’s perverted proclivities, William? No, I did not think so. The brothel is high class and the girls are well paid for their indulgence—and their silence, but fortunately for us, these types of individuals are also prone to gossip and are mercenary.”

  He paused, gazing at his grim, pursed-lipped cousin. Darcy looked near to retching, the topic of conversation one that highly insulted his moral sensibilities. “I will just leave it that my associates are not so delicate and had no trouble stooping to distasteful methods in order to glean information. They had a fine time in the pursuit, I assure you, and no young ladies were injured, but that is where some of my money went and why I would therefore not ask you to reimburse me.”

  Darcy nodded, too disturbed to reply.

  “The important part,” Richard continued, “is that the information tells me that Orman is not a man fully in the grips of sanity. Additionally, the men were able to waylay the town surgeon who treats Orman. The man is a sot with loose morals and poor medical skills. Why he was chosen and is allowed in Orman’s presence may seem to be illogical, but his lacking ethics are the key. He gleefully spilled an ocean of information for two bottles of cheap port. His tales of Orman’s requirements, such as opium and ether for dulling his pain and recreational purposes, grew wilder as he reached the end of the second bottle. But, if half of what he said is true, Orman is seriously deranged.”

  “And thus a man not to be trusted.”

  “Yes. But also a man who probably could not reason beyond the desire for personal pleasures and revenge.”

  Darcy sat back in his chair with a sigh, fingers methodically tapping on the cushioned armrest. “So, Elizabeth could not have seen him in Hertfordshire if he never leaves his house in Devon.”

  “Do not be too hasty, Cousin. I have not told you all.”

  Darcy lifted his piercing gaze, again alert and intense. “Wickham?”

  Richard shook his head. “My men found nothing about Wickham. They asked all along the Devon roads especially at the inns, carefully mind you, but his name is unknown. But here is what is interesting. Some eighteen months ago, roughly, things began to gradually change around Orman’s estate. Crops were being planted again, a few new tenant farmers were contracted, and the grounds were improved. Rumors are rife, mind you, and no one speaks with any credibility, but there is one constant. A new employee that no one knows well, or can give a good description of, now works for the Marquis. He is mysterious, but most agree his name is Geoffrey Wiseman.”

  Darcy hissed through grit teeth. “Geoffrey Wiseman. George Wickham. That is too much of a coincidence!”

  Richard shrugged. “Perhaps. But…”

  “Perhaps? You must see how this all fits?”

  “I see that it is one way to interpret the vague information, but not conclusive. Even you must admit, Darcy, that there are probably thousands of men in England with the initials G.W.?” Darcy nodded, but his eyes conveyed no doubt in his assumption. Richard, despite his claim, matched Darcy’s expression. “However, I concur that there are too many aspects to this tale that raise my hackles.”

  Darcy was scrutinizing his cousin carefully. Richard, Colonel Fitzwilliam as he would always be, was a man whose instincts were to be respected. Darcy waited, Richard finally collecting his thoughts and continuing.

  “My associates returned without digging anything else up. They knew I wanted information as rapidly as possible. What I have told you is the extent of what they discovered, the remainder of the notes in these pages”—he tapped the folded parchment lying on the desk’s edge—“giving specifics that you probably do not want to read. I, however, have done my own inquiring during this past week.” He grinned, a flash of cold humor sparkling in his blue eyes. “After all, I have skills of my own and matrimony has not softened me totally, as you shall discover this afternoon at Angelo’s.”

  Darcy grunted, and Richard’s grin widened briefly before fading as he resumed his narrative. “Did you know that the Marquis of Orman owns a hunting lodge near London?”

  Darcy did not respond verbally, instead unerringly pulling a folded document from the apparent chaos scattered over the glossy surface of his mahogany desk. He tossed the paper to Richard wordlessly, Richard opening and scanning the written words rapidly.

  “Well, excellent.”

  “Mr. Daniels is highly ethical and aboveboard, but thorough and skilled in his own way. He learned of Orman’s Surrey property, a modest plot of land with a tiny cottage owned by the family for a century. It has rarely been used, apparently, as Orman was never much of a hunter, and has reportedly been vacant for the past three years.”

  “That is not entirely accurate.” Darcy’s brow rose at Richard’s words. “When I stumbled across this intelligence yesterday, and after reading through this report”—he again tapped the sheath of parchment—“I asked Artois to ride out there.”

  “What did he discover?”

  “Not enough to form any clear conclusions, but the house is not unoccupied. There was a faint light shining from a top floor window, he said, but no other signs of habitation. He did not dare investigate too thoroughly in broad daylight and he was not prepared for clandestine spying. It could easily be a squatter, but I plan to take my friends and go back tonight for a closer look, with your permission.”

  “If Orman is around, this is probably where he would be. And with Wickham, if he is this Wiseman.”

  Richard nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”

  A knock at the door interrupted, Darcy giving the command to enter. It was Mr. Travers with the day’s post. Richard used the intermission to pour another cup of coffee, sipping quietly while Darcy cut the strings securing a small package. He watched him withdraw a tissue wrapped miniature frame, oval and fancily gilded. The intense loathing marring his cousin’s handsome face was marked and his naturally deep voice was grating and thick when he spoke.

  “I asked Mrs. Reynolds to send me this miniature portrait of Wickham. It was painted the year b
efore my father died. He wanted a remembrance of his steward’s son, his godson. He was so proud of Wickham’s accomplishments at Cambridge. I could not bear to tell him the truth, and it is almost a blessing he died before discovering it himself.” Sadness and bitterness inundated his voice, eyes staring at the dimpled smiling face for another minute before roughly returning the painting to the confines of the box. He cleared his throat, the familiar serene regulation washing over his features before he lifted his controlled gaze to his cousin. “I plan to show it to the staff to see if anyone has seen him lurking about.”

  Richard’s brows rose and he nodded with respect. “Very smart, Cousin. I should have thought of that myself! I am so impressed I may just let you score a point or two off me during our match.”

  Darcy laughed, brightening slightly. “As if you could possibly beat me. Save your pity points as I shall trounce you fair and square.”

  “We shall see.”

  They both grinned, knowing that it would be a vigorously fought battle with the outcome a pleasant mystery with fencing skills that were evenly matched. That fact, of course, was why they so enjoyed competing against each other.

  Richard stood. “Until later then. I will leave you to your dreary business pursuits and see you at Estad’s. I think I shall return home and see how my wife is faring. More babies.” He shook his head, momentarily assuming the mournful pose from his bachelor days. “What is happening to us, Darcy? All this domesticity is like a virus.”

  “Really? I shall remember that, Cousin, and hold it over you.”

  But Richard just laughed, slapping Darcy on the back as they walked to the door. “Alas, my wife knows me well and teases me relentlessly about the invisible shackles on my ankles. Luckily, she also knows I would have it no other way.”

  For the Master of Pemberley and Darcy House, the morning hours after the departure of Richard Fitzwilliam elapsed in the company of Mr. Daniels and a pile of documents. A great deal was accomplished ere the solicitor left before noon. Appointments for further discussions were made, plans were set in motion, letters were dictated, and Darcy’s hand was cramped from writing. Mr. Travers assisted as secretary, his aged hands steady and possessing a legible penmanship superior even to Darcy’s firm script.

  Final instructions for posting of missives and calendar bookings were being given to the butler when the second surprise interruption of Darcy’s day occurred.

  Darcy positively answered the tentative knock on his study door, both he and Mr. Travers rising when the interrupter was revealed as Lizzy.

  “Mrs. Darcy,” Mr. Travers greeted.

  She nodded his direction. “Mr. Travers. Mr. Darcy.”

  “Mrs. Darcy,” her husband responded, brows furrowing at the hint of a blush that highlighted her prominent cheekbones. “Is something amiss?”

  “No, no. Not at all.” Her flush deepened and eyes flittered away momentarily, Darcy frowning further. “I am so sorry to disturb, but, if it is not too inconvenient or ill timed, I was hoping to speak with you for a moment?”

  Mr. Travers was already gathering the stack of papers on the desk corner before him, murmuring his intent to post the letters immediately, and not noticing the puzzled and amused expressions crossing his Master’s features. He passed Lizzy, bowing again, and closed the door firmly behind.

  Darcy stood before his chair, observing his wife as she bit her lower lip and fidgeted with her wedding rings. He was content that he could read her moods well enough to ascertain that nothing alarming was causing her strange actions but was unsure of the root source. She was a bit breathless and a becoming flush spread to the tops of her bosoms, which, he noted with a jolt, were rising delightfully with her respirations and perceptible under the clinging muslin of her lightweight spring gown.

  “Elizabeth, are you well?” His voice cracked feebly, his blood suddenly racing by her apparent condition.

  She glanced up, eyes flashing from sultry to sheepish as she approached. “Michael is asleep and Alexander playing. I was… thinking of you and… missing you.” She nervously swept a loose strand of hair away. “I know you are busy, but wanted to see you and felt that I could not wait.”

  She bit her lip again, an unconscious mannerism that never failed to make his knees weak, glancing upward into his penetrating eyes as she now stood in front of him a mere two feet away. He could feel the heat emanating from her body, the flush a ruddy glow now, and he lifted a hand to entwine with the one she extended toward his chest.

  However, before their fingers met she exhaled sharply and sidestepped, moving around the chair. Before his surprise allowed him to turn toward her she had placed both hands onto his shoulders, tugging decisively until he sank into the cushioned leather of his enormous chair.

  “Elizabeth, what…?”

  “I was playing with our son, bouncing the ball between us, while my thoughts became diverted!” Her hands were running over his nape, jawline, and through his hair, fingertips massaging his skin in that mixed therapeutic and seductive way she possessed. Her voice was huskily vibrant but with undertones of peevishness. “How inappropriate is it to be in the company of a two-year-old and begin to feel… That is, what kind of a mother am I to abandon my children so I can seek my husband in the middle of the day? In his study no less! It is not like we haven’t… been together for days or weeks. Why, just this morning, not some six hours ago we… Aargh!”

  Darcy was trying hard not to laugh. His smile was faintly lecherous, as her reminder to their morning interlude, instigated most forcefully by her, was a pleasant memory indeed.

  “Dearest…”

  “All I could think of as I tossed that infernal ball to our innocent baby was your body! Your hands and mouth and neck.” She was leaning into him, breasts brushing over his shoulder blades and breath tickling the exposed skin of his ear as she nibbled on a lobe. “Fitzwilliam…” she whispered, and he turned his face toward her, meeting her glazed eyes for a brief second before she pulled away.

  Instantly scarlet to the tips of her ears, she withdrew, back of her hand over her full lips. “I should not have infringed upon you with my… ridiculousness.” She backed away, retreating around his chair until leaning against his desk, locked by his blue eyes glittering with gaiety. “This is pathetic, is it not? Chasing you down while you work to bother you with my humiliating impulses. I know you are to leave soon, and…”

  “Are you trying to politely say that your concupiscence is high and that you have sought me out for relief?” His left brow arched playfully. He would not have thought it possible for her blush to deepen, but it did. He chuckled, speaking with humor amid the resonance. “Have I ever given you the idea that I would not welcome your attentions? Or that your passionate nature and zeal for me is not an incredible stimulant to my own ardor? Is there any doubt that I am the type of husband, and man, who gleefully encourages his wife to express her wanton urges and willingly acquiesces?”

  She shook her head, smiling and not attempting to hide her desire as he rose and stepped near. He spanned her slender waist, strong hands smoothly lifting and sitting her onto the flat top of his desk. Starting at her ankles, he rubbed upward along the quivering silkiness of her legs, sliding under her skirts. Her legs parted naturally as he bent forward, his large frame dwarfing her dainty body and overwhelming her senses. Brushing his lips over her ear he whispered, “If you desire me, you need only ask. I can assure you I will never deny your fervor if at all feasible to comply.”

  Lizzy released a throaty moan, her stasis broken as she seized his cravat and jerked his mouth to hers, deftly untying the knotted silk in seconds. That accomplished, she attacked his clothing and body with a direct assault that stunned him despite his invitation.

  Oddly enough, considering the mania they possessed for each other and the wild liberalness of their lovemaking, especially during the first year of their marriage, they had never made love on his desks. His Pemberley desk was simply too cluttered, the risk of serious woundin
g or impalement too great, so the numerous trysts occurring in that chamber were fulfilled in safer if equally atypical locations. This room was not inviolate, it being a good thing that walls cannot talk, but the desk had mysteriously remained undefiled.

  Until now, and they would henceforth wonder why they waited so long! Of course, the fact that Darcy would forever have to tear his thoughts away from decadent memories to attend seriously to work may be one logical justification for avoiding the site. Another was the crumbled parchment pieces and spilled ink. But neither was enough to outweigh the indescribable ecstasy attained. Plus, the vision of his half-clothed wife lusciously splayed over his work surface, her face glistening with the radiance of sensual satiation and lush lips ruddy and swollen from his kisses was a picture he would never be regretful of holding.

  “Lizzy, my beautiful Lizzy,” he whispered, lips grazing over the heated skin encasing her fluttering heart. “I do not know what impetus drove you here, into my arms, but I am grateful you did not resist the urge. I love you so!”

  “I am not sure what impetus drove me either, William. All morning, even moments after rising from our bed and your arms, I wanted you again.”

  His laugh was guttural and replete with satisfaction, teeth delightfully nipping along her collarbone. “Please do not expect me to express the slightest unhappiness in that information!”

  “No, I would not anticipate your overwhelming remorse or displeasure. Nor am I in any way displeased. It is just… Ooh! Something is poking my side and my leg is getting a cramp.”

  More laughter ensued, the aftermath of rising from the awkward position and adjusting clothing humorous. The poking quill was free of ink, Lizzy’s dress spared that stain although the wrinkles were another matter. They ended up sitting on Darcy’s chair with Lizzy nestled in his lap while he kneaded her thigh muscle free of residual spasms.