Unforgiving Temper (2 page)

Wickham moaned an unintelligible reply which
quickly turned to a whimper and then a loud sob of pain as he was
lifted to his feet and dragged to the back of the house, Ann's
footsteps sounding close behind. With little ceremony, he was
carried out the kitchen door and dropped next to the dust bin. He
lay unmoving, feeling the effect of every blow Darcy had inflicted.
Ann knelt beside him, murmuring encouragement as the door slammed
loudly behind the servants and a stray cat, startled from her
afternoon nap, hissed indignantly in their direction.

“It's all right, George, I am here,” Ann's
voice quivered with worry. “Come, let's get you to your rooms. You
can't stay here in the alley.”

“I don't think I can stand,” he mumbled
through swollen lips.

“Take my arm and I'll help you. There's a
lad. Just a bit more and then I can support you.”

Wickham struggled unsteadily to his feet, at
once fearful that he might pass out from the increased pain brought
on by the effort. Ann moved quickly to his side, sliding her arm
gently around him. Once he felt her shoulder solidly beneath him,
he took a tentative step; and then another, finally managing to
limp blindly as she guided him forward.

The disheveled pair cautiously made their way
through the back streets of Ramsgate. Every halting step brought
excruciating pain. Wickham earnestly hoped to get to his rooms with
little notice, but before they had reached the first street corner
the shocked whispers and horrified gasps from everyone that passed
left him in no doubt that his injuries and bloodied clothes were
too much to be concealed. The public humiliation, however, was of
little consequence compared to the keen mortification and growing
anger he felt from Ann having witnessed his degradation.

At last reaching his rooms, he collapsed onto
the bed utterly exhausted. The piercing pain in his ribs flared
hideously with each labored breath he took and every inch of his
body throbbed from Darcy's assault. Ann came with a basin of cool
water and began gingerly washing the blood from his face and neck.
Silently, he watched her through the swollen slits of his eyes and
saw a grave concern glittering in her eyes. He began to wonder just
how bad the damage truly was.

Once the worst was cleaned away, he demanded
to see what he looked like. After some hesitancy, Ann lifted a
mirror to his face. Peering intently at his reflection, Wickham
took inventory of his wounds. His entire face was already purpling
and swelling; there was a large cut on his lip; and both eyes were
already blackened. Admittedly, he was a gruesome sight, but he knew
that most of it would heal without any lasting effects.

His main concern was a deep gash across his
left cheek; most probably from the ring Darcy always wore. The
bleeding had finally stopped, revealing an open, half crescent cut
just below his eye. There was no doubt it would leave a permanent
scar. How would he attract any young ladies with such a mark on his
face? His dashing good looks had always been a very useful asset -
and now it was one more thing Darcy had taken from him!

“It will heal,” Ann murmured encouragingly.
“With good care and a little luck, it will be small enough – ”

“Enough for what?” Wickham spat bitterly.
“Enough to not repulse you or any lady I approach? And then what?”
He tried not to think of the disastrous ending to a beautiful plan,
but his mind would not rest. “I nearly had it! If only Darcy had
come one day later – one damnable day – I would have the girl's
fortune and we would have been set for life.”

“And we shall be yet,” Ann crooned as she
replaced the cloth on his forehead with a fresh one. “You are a
very clever man, George. You will find a way, I am sure of it.”

Wickham pressed his hand over hers, wincing
at the movement. “I suppose you are right. I have always managed to
use Darcy's weaknesses to my advantage. He may have won this time,
but I assure you, it is not over yet – not in the least!”

I will never forget this humiliation,
Fitzwilliam Darcy; nor shall you!
he vowed silently. Gritting
his teeth against the sting of Ann stitching his face, he directed
the pain into his hatred for Darcy. By the time she had completed
the task, he had found a renewed purpose in life.

“Pemberley's heir has foiled my plans for the
last time,” he muttered, lightly fingering the six tiny stitches on
his cheek. “Somehow, some way, I will exact a most exquisite
revenge if it is the last thing I ever do!”

* * * *

Looking up from her ledger, Ann Younge eyed
the red-coated officer entering her Lombard Street lodging house. A
faint scent of the Thames wafted in on the warm spring air stirred
by his arrival. Pensively, she watched him shut the door behind him
and saunter casually toward the table where she sat. He was as
handsome as ever in spite of the small crescent scar on his left
cheek, the only remaining sign of the brutal beating he'd received
from Fitzwilliam Darcy some eight months before.

An unconscious tugging at his coat sleeves
brought a tiny smile to her lips and she thought of the roguish boy
that had dared approach her, all those years ago in Derbyshire. His
youthful adoration had been nothing but a source of gentle
amusement to her at the time; but when he returned from his years
at Cambridge a grown man, still adoring and strikingly handsome,
the ten years' difference in their ages had seemed no impediment at
all.

“It is high time you showed up,” she chided
with a gleam of mischief in her eye. “I was beginning to think you
too busy for old friends.”

Ignoring the unconvincing display of bad
temper, Wickham slid his arms around her. “Ah, well, St. Clair's
mother is a very accommodating hostess, you see. She has us
attending every social engagement she can arrange during our ten
days in town. Now that her woefully backward boy has finally
emerged from his reticent shell – thanks to my expert tutelage, I
might add – she is quite anxious to show him off to the cream of
London society.”

“Perhaps I should meet your protégé. I wager
I could help him out of his shyness.”

“He is not your type, my dear. The third son
of an Earl, and a lowly lieutenant to boot, does not offer much
prospect for an ambitious lady such as yourself. No more than a
steward's son,” he added teasingly. Drawing her into a side room,
he claimed her hands with a kiss. “Did you miss me?”

“Stop that! I am a
respectable
landlady, you know. Besides, why would I miss a rake like you? I
have plenty of gentlemen to keep me entertained.”

“Perhaps, but none as devoted as I, you must
admit.”

“No, none as devoted as you,” she agreed
softly.

He pulled her closer, nuzzling her neck. “And
I always shall be.”

“Enough of that, dear boy!” Ann gently pushed
against him. “You must tell me how you are doing in Hertfordshire.
Has that freckle-faced ninny accepted you yet? Molly, was it? I
image her ten thousand will go a long way to compensate you for
such a plain bride.”

Having been reminded of his latest failure,
Wickham dropped his arms with an exasperated sigh.

“It was Mary, not Molly – and no, her
watchdog of an uncle whisked her off before I could convince her to
run away with me. Another stroke of bad luck. Now, I face all the
expense of the wooing without the reward of the dowry; not to
mention several debts of honor that must be paid on my return to
Hertfordshire.” His countenance darkened. “I never realized
military men could be so unyielding.”

“Only for you,” she quipped.

“Yes, well, in any case, I have every
expectation of a profitable return on young St. Clair by and by,
just not immediate enough for my present difficulty. I was hoping
you might be able to –”

“Not me, my love” she kissed his cheek and
moved away. “I haven't a schilling to spare. I am barely one step
ahead of the runners myself.”

“I am sorry to hear that. You were my last
hope,” Wickham sighed thoughtfully. “I shall just have to find
another way out of this one, but I haven't much time.”

“Take heart. There is bound to be an
unprotected girl with a fortune somewhere in London.”

“Yes, I know; but it all takes so long; and
I, for one, am sick to death of this endless grubbing. I want us to
be together without the constant worry for our comfort,” he sulked.
“And someday – someday soon – I shall find the means to make it
happen!”

“Yes, I know,” she squeezed his arm then
trailed her fingers down the length of it, “but even if you could,
the whole thing would be a little difficult. You need a wife to get
the money and you need the money to get me. Three in a bed is a
little crowded, my dear, and very few wives would knowingly share
you and her money with me. No, we would still be living in the
shadows.”

“Well, it would not be for long. Tragic
accidents do happen from time to time. Mr. Younge was himself a
newly married man when he met his fate, was he not?”

“Indeed he was! I am only sorry we were
mistaken as to his wealth,” she sighed a bit wistfully. “And so it
falls to you to raise our fortunes, my dear Wickham. You will just
have to make your way into society and find a girl ripe for the
picking. You must not give up; for if you do, you allow Mr. King to
triumph – and even Fitzwilliam Darcy for he foiled us first.”

“Blast Darcy!” The effect of Darcy's name on
Wickham was immediate. “Why could he not be more like his father?
The old man was always easily persuaded to help me, even if I
was
the son of his steward. It was fortunate that his
friendship for my father ran deep.”

“Yes, I remember. His extraordinary kindness
to you was astonishing to the whole neighborhood. Did you ever
discover the source of his attachment?”

“No. My father would never answer the
question. I often wondered if it had something to do with their
time in India. Whatever it was, he took it to the grave.”

Wickham's simmering resentment boiled over
with the well-worn thought of life's unfairness, and he wondered
anew if either gentleman or steward had ever considered the fate to
which they had consigned him – an ethereal half-life in the shadow
of Pemberley's heir, tasting but never possessing any of the claims
to Darcy's prosperous and privileged world. His hand rose
automatically to finger the pale pink crescent on his cheek.

“From the moment of the old man's death, my
dealings with Pemberley have been laced with disappointment; though
I guess I should not be surprised, given Darcy's resentful nature.
I saw it in him even as a boy.”

“I suppose after last summer, there is no
hope of a reconciliation,” she said more to herself than
Wickham.

“None at all. After Ramsgate, Darcy has
refused to even acknowledge my existence. My best chance now is
with the St. Clairs; and I have but a fortnight to make the most of
it.”

“I have every confidence in you, George,” Ann
touched his face encouragingly. “Our plans did not succeed with
Georgiana Darcy or Mary King, but there are others. And should you
need my assistance with a young lady again, let me know. I am
always happy to be of service.”

* * * *

Wickham surveyed the flurry of activity in
the theatre seats below his box, seeking relief from the
tediousness of the evening. Thomas St. Clair sat nearby, giving
dutiful attention to his mother's opinions on Mozart's newest
production. Opera was not Wickham's favorite pastime, but he
recognized the importance of acquiring some proficiency if he was
to find acceptance in society. Suddenly, Lady Gladston's questions
called his attention back to the conversation.

“Tell me, Lieutenant Wickham, what is your
opinion of Herr Mozart's latest offering? Is it to your
liking?”

“It is only the first act, but I find I like
it very well, madam,” he replied assiduously.

“I am so glad you do. Thomas has never truly
acquired a taste for opera, but I commend him for his effort. He is
often…”

Wickham pasted a charming smile on his face
as her words faded into the back of his mind. Normally attentive to
even the most tiresome company, he now found the conversation
overshadowed by his growing discomfort with the seating
arrangements. Already he was miserable and there were two more acts
yet to sit through. The St. Clairs were not large people and the
furnishings of their theatre box did not readily accommodate a
frame of his proportions.

He shifted slightly, attempting to find a
more tolerable position, and casually leaned forward in his chair.
Instantly, he was arrested by a familiar voice drifting in from the
adjoining box. Intriguing bits of a conversation pulled him further
as he strained to hear more.
“…nephew is such a disappointment…
should not forget what he owes to his family…”
.

Without a doubt, it was the distinctive voice
of Lady Catherine de Bourgh; and she was definitely
displeased! Since Wickham knew of only one nephew who could provoke
such a passionate sentiment, the offending family member had to be
Darcy.

Lady Gladston's voice momentarily intruded
upon his thoughts. “But I have told him often enough, that he
must
if he is to find a respectable wife! So many young
ladies these days…”

Wickham adjusted his smile and tried not to
appear inattentive while he turned his real interest back to the
conversation next door.

“…
she is an impertinent country
nobody….has taken advantage of my kindness…”

Wickham knew Darcy had always maintained a
delicate relationship with his aunt, particularly after her sister,
Darcy's mother, had died. Lady Catherine's overriding interest
in her nephew from Pemberley was the expectation of his marrying
her own daughter and his cousin, Anne. Impertinent was definitely
not a word to describe Darcy's insipid cousin, so there was
obviously someone else upsetting the old dragon's long-held
expectations. What an intriguing bit of information!