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 before 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.”
