You have my loyalty.”
“Good.”
“However, I am the one putting myself on the line as I traipse back and forth to London with the risk of being recognized. If you want this to succeed you have to stay hidden and trust what information I glean. What if one of them was to see you?” His tablemate looked into the foam in his mug, avoiding Wickham’s eyes. “No! Who saw you?”
“It was for less than a second and from a long distance. I am sure there was no recognition.”
“Do you truly imagine, all considered, that she would forget your face?”
“Why do you assume it was her?”
“Because if it was him you would likely be dead. Listen, my lord, you cannot allow your impatience to ruin all our planning.”
“Quit chastising me, Wickham. Must I remind you again who I am and where you were when we joined forces? You had connived your way into managing that inn and were doing a fair job of it, keeping your wife in the gowns she desires, but we both know it was an impasse. A man like you would never had been content doing that forever. With me you have a future. And, best of all, the means to punish Darcy.”
“We both need to be smart then. You have not learned to control your rage and need for vengeance.”
“It is too personal,” he hissed.
“I understand, my lord. It is personal for Darcy as well, but despite that he knows how to contain his anger. He was always proficient at that.” Wickham finished with grudging respect.
“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 facade. “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.
Chapter Twelve
