“I do remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper.“- Miss Elizabeth Bennet
“Wickham, I am going to rip your heart out!”
Fitzwilliam Darcy grabbed the man who had been his childhood companion, shoving him against the oak paneled wall with a force that sent a violent tremor reverberating throughout the fashionable Ramsgate lodgings.
“You have been a thorn in my side since the day your father brought you to Pemberley, but no more!”
Struggling against the deadly grasp, George Wickham instantly seized upon the one subject that had any chance of deflecting Darcy's blind rage.
“Can I help it if your father took a liking to me?” Wickham gasped. “You know how benevolent he was – famously generous nature and all that. And temperate too! He advised you many times to follow his example, did he not?”
The calculated words found their mark and Darcy hesitated. Wickham's mouth twitched in triumph; but his confidence in the son always doing the honorable thing, especially where his dead father's memory was concerned, crumbled instantly when Darcy's hands suddenly closed around his neck.
“You dare to mention my father?” Darcy's fingers tightened dangerously. “It was for his sake, I have ignored the detestable way you defile his memory with your reckless, miserable excuse for a life. Be assured even his generosity would not excuse your behavior now. Your vile attempt to lure Georgiana away to Scotland to marry her fortune is utterly contemptible. She is but fifteen, you disgusting libertine – she trusted you!”
Wickham fought without success to free himself from Darcy's iron grasp and a strangled choke wedged in his throat. He had seriously underestimated the man. His surprise at Darcy's unbridled fury was now only exceeded by the growing, urgent need to breathe. He clawed furiously at the hands that prevented it, and his mouth gaped wide in a desperate attempt to obtain even the slightest measure of fresh air.
Through the mist of darkness that was rapidly engulfing him, Wickham saw the raging battle warring within Darcy. The unbridled desire to avenge Georgiana's honor pushed hard against the abiding allegiance to his father's memory. Wickham's eyes drifted closed with the vague realization that he had at last pushed Darcy too far. His hands slid limply away from Darcy's grasp with another fleeting acknowledgment of how badly he had miscalculated the cost of failure.
Just as he felt himself slipping into the darkness, there was a sudden, almost imperceptible change in the crushing hold on his neck; and then it was gone, allowing a flood of oxygen-rich air into his lungs. Opening his eyes, he was relieved to see that honor and allegiance had won the day and the cloud of rage was lifting.
The muscles in Darcy's face smoothed into a stony mask of contempt. “Get out,” he growled, dropping his hands to his sides.
Taking in deep gulps of delicious air, Wickham cautiously withdrew, straightening his rumpled clothing as he went. In spite of the narrow escape, his eyes held a glint of arrogant satisfaction. Old Darcy had saved him once again, just as he always had. Taking advantage of the shelter his ghostly protector had provided, Wickham could not resist one last riposte.
“You see, Darcy? Even beyond the grave, your father has a care for me.”
Darcy started for Wickham, hissing fiercely, “Get out of here before I change my mind and give you what you deserve!”
Wickham recoiled from the fresh explosion of cold fury, stumbling over a chair and nearly falling in his haste to reach the door. Once he was safely on the other side, he collected himself and hurried down the hallway, relieved to hear no footsteps pursuing him.
Reaching the foyer, he paused only briefly when he saw Georgiana waiting for him. She took a hesitant step forward, hurt and confusion shining in her eyes; but he merely shouldered past her as he made his way to the front door.
“George! Wait!” Georgiana called after him in a small voice. “Please! I…I thought Fitzwilliam would be happy for us. I did not know he would be so angry.”
Her forlorn plea only fueled the bitter disappointment and resentment swelling in his chest. He paused in the open doorway, gazing out past the Ramsgate clockhouse to the bustling harbor beyond, struggling to master his emotions. The waning summer sun glinted off well-oiled riggings of a ship as it made its way out of the harbor and into the wide, open sea beyond – sailing away. So like my fortunes, he thought bitterly.
He heard Georgiana's footsteps behind him. “Please, George; you must believe me. I had no idea,” she repeated softly to his back.
Turning slowly, he met her devastated, pleading look with an icy stare. “That's the trouble. You have no idea at all, you brainless chit! If you had just kept your mouth shut one more day, he could not have stopped me.”
“You do not mean what you are saying,” she whispered in a tone more hopeful than certain.
Wickham snorted derisively. “Be assured, I mean every word.”
“Fitzwilliam will come round, you will see!” Georgiana desperately threw her arms around him. “What is another week or two when we love each other so?”
“A week or two? Not hardly! We are finished.”
“But I love you, George, and you love me!”
“Love you?” Wickham looked her over with a bitter laugh. “Your brother was right, you are a child. It was never about love. It was about your thirty thousand pounds – nothing more. And now that he has placed that out of my reach, I am done playing nursemaid.”
Wickham grabbed her arms, roughly prying them from around his neck, and callously shoved her away. Georgiana staggered backwards, unable to catch herself, and tumbled awkwardly to the floor. He met her confused, deeply wounded expression with a cold smirk, almost giddy at her misery. It served her right – served Darcy right for dashing all his hopes. If he was to suffer disappointment, then they could bloody well share in it!
“It cannot be true; it cannot,” she sobbed, anguished tears streaming down her cheeks. “You said you loved me.”
“Do you think any man could love an awkward, plain little thing like you?” he sneered, emphasizing each word and raising his voice to be heard above the sound of her increasing cries. “You had better take care of that precious fortune of yours, my dear, for it is the only thing about you that holds any attraction. No man will ever give you a second look without it!”
Georgiana sat in a heap, flinching at the cruel, calculating insults as if each were a physical blow until, unable to bear any more, she dropped to the floor in great racking sobs.
“You are a miserable, pathetic creature!” Wickham snarled in contempt. “All I can say now is good riddance!”
He was turning to leave when the sound of a door opening down the hallway brought his head up to see Darcy emerge from the library and stop midstride. In one frozen moment, Wickham saw him take in Georgiana's crumpled form sobbing on the floor and then hurtle forward with a murderous roar.
Instinctively, Wickham ducked, jumping sideways just as Darcy reached for him. He shrank against the wall, his heart thudding. In the next moment, he lunged for the open door, only to have Darcy anticipate his action and slam it shut, cutting off his only immediate means of escape.
With a desperate, calculating look, he sprang for Georgiana. His grasping fingers brushed the edge of her skirts before Darcy caught him from behind, grabbing his coat and throwing him forcefully back into the wall. The impact sent a blinding burst of light roaring through his brain. He had no time to protect himself before two crushing blows landed squarely in his mid-section, forcing the air from his lungs. He struggled for breath as the next blow caught him fully in the face, knocking his head back into the wall. A warm trickle of blood flowed down his cheek and over his rapidly swelling lip, bringing a salty, metallic taste to his mouth.
Wickham tried to retaliate, swinging his fists sightlessly in the air, but found nothing. Shaking his head to clear his vision, he swung again, this time landing a glancing blow to Darcy's face which was immediately answered with another punch to his ribs. He tried to return the blow, but a sharp pain now stabbed at his chest with every gasping breath he drew. Darcy's fury rained down on him unchecked, and then one powerful blow struck the side of his head, making the room spin wildly as he slid down the wall.
Blindly, he raised his arms in a feeble attempt to fend off the relentless onslaught. Through the blackness, he heard a voice somewhere above Darcy's feral snarls and recognized it as belonging to Denham, Darcy's valet. Somewhere in the darkness of his addled mind, Wickham smiled wryly to himself. For once, the manservant's uncanny ability to interrupt at just the wrong time was of some use.
“Mr. Darcy! Sir, you must stop! You will kill him!”
Denham's frantic words went unheeded as Wickham felt the brunt of several more vicious blows.
“Please sir; no more – for Miss Darcy's sake. She needs you – terribly. See what a state she is in, Mr. Darcy!”
The assault ceased as suddenly as it had begun. After what seemed an eternity, Darcy's hold that had kept Wickham upright loosened and he slumped over. With a disgusted oath Darcy stepped back, panting heavily from his efforts.
“Get him out of here. Get them both out!”
It was then Wickham heard a swish of skirts and felt a pair of small, cool hands gently press a cloth to his throbbing face as his accomplice in the failed attempt on Georgiana knelt next to him.
“George? George, can you hear me?” Ann Younge's frantic whisper filtered through the painful haze surrounding him.
“You had better hear me, the pair of you!” Darcy growled menacingly. “Neither of you shall breathe a word of this to anyone. Not a single word. My sister's honor and reputation shall never be called into question. Do you understand? And if you ever attempt to profit from me or Georgiana again, I give you my solemn word that nothing – nothing – in this world will prevent me from finishing what I started this day! Now get out!”
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!
“…scandalous connections…not to be borne…”
Lady Catherine's words became muffled and incomprehensible at that point, pulling Wickham forward as far as he dared with no success. Lady Catherine had moved out of his hearing completely. Disappointing, but he had heard enough to stir his imagination.
Wickham knew Darcy's annual habit of spending a few weeks at his aunt's estate in Kent. Apparently, this year he had also spent time with someone else! Is it possible Darcy developed an interest for a country miss right under Lady Catherine's nose! What a pity for Anne. But I wonder, who could this remarkable lady be?
Wickham's deliberating was abruptly interrupted when Mrs. St. Clair rose from her seat, motioning young Thomas to his feet as well.
“I should like to take in some fresh air before the next act. Thomas, you must come and meet Lady Beatrice's daughter. You will excuse us, Lieutenant?” Wickham happily made way for mother and son, grateful to be released from the pretense of being attentive.
Settling back into the hopelessly uncomfortable chair, he considered his newfound knowledge. It was intriguing, but not quite enough to be useful. He needed to know more. Mentally, he listed those who might be able to give him additional information.
He had been introduced to Lady Catherine's clergyman, his knowledge would be most helpful. And then there was Mrs. Collins, of course – formerly Miss Lucas; but neither acquaintance was so close as to allow him the liberty of addressing the intimate topic of Darcy's romantic affairs.
It was then he recalled the charming Miss Elizabeth Bennet, an intimate friend of Mrs. Collins. She had recently gone to Kent for a visit and doubtless would soon be back in Hertfordshire. Ah, yes! This was even better, for they had already shared several mutually agreeable opinions regarding Darcy's private affairs, not the least of which was his own sad tale of woeful mistreatment.
The delightful Miss Elizabeth had a keen sense of observation, and yet she was still as easily manipulated as any young woman he had encountered. Yes, she would be one who might have some knowledge. It was very likely she had seen him in Kent; and, having been in his company both in Hertfordshire and Kent, she would be in a perfect position to detect any changes in him. In fact, having been a full week in his company at Netherfield when her sister was so ill, she would be just the one.
Wickham rubbed his hands together with growing excitement. There was every chance she would be able to impart something of value! He reviewed the limited information he had collected so far, anticipating what Miss Bennet might have to add, when abruptly he shot upright in his chair – Can it be?
Wickham's mind flew to an astonishing possibility, immediately dismissing it at first and then returning to it again with amazement: could Miss Elizabeth Bennet be the lady in question?
He considered the evidence. Without a doubt, she had been in Darcy's company frequently enough for an attachment to form. By Lady Catherine's standards, Miss Elizabeth was unquestionably a “country nobody” with a family “scandalously connected” to trade. Wickham smiled to himself. And, yes, the unaffected, delightfully engaging manner of Elizabeth Bennet would most definitely be regarded as “impertinent” in Lady Catherine's eyes.
The sudden recollection of some long-forgotten gossip spurred his suspicions on. The day after the ball at Netherfield, Saunderson and Coburn had tried to make him feel some regret for his absence by describing the more interesting highlights of the evening, one being that the famously proud Mr. Darcy had actually deigned to dance with a lady other than his friend's sisters. Coburn had delighted in describing the wave of astonishment that swept the room when Darcy was seen dancing with Miss Elizabeth Bennet!
Intimately acquainted with Darcy's aversion to public dancing, Wickham knew the man's habit of participating only when forced by the dictates of civility. Yet, without any obvious dictates pressing upon him that night, Darcy had freely chosen to dance with Elizabeth Bennet. It seemed that Darcy had been motivated solely by a personal regard for the lady. Wickham's head wagged slowly at his utter failure to understanding the significance of the event until now.
The longer he thought on it, the more credible it seemed. How many times had he heard Darcy denounce insipid, artful women, whose only interests were fashion and gossip. What a contrast he would find in the independent thought and pert opinions of Miss Elizabeth Bennet! Yes, her quick wit and educated mind, her lively eyes and engaging manner, were exactly what Darcy would find irresistible.
Could it possibly be true? He knew Darcy always guarded his privacy with a passion and would never knowingly expose himself to talk of this kind. If his behavior in Kent had been so careless as to incite Lady Catherine's notice, then it must be true! His jaw dropping in amazement, Wickham let out an explosive sigh. The conclusion was undeniable – Fitzwilliam Darcy did indeed have an attraction for Miss Elizabeth Bennet!
Wickham tensed with giddy anticipation, for he also knew Lady Catherine. If she was as unhappy as her tone had suggested, she would willingly pay a high price to prevent such a disgraceful attachment. What a most fortunate turn of events for him!
Wickham hurried out of the St. Clair's box, nearly falling over Thomas and his mother who were at that moment returning. With the briefest of apologies, he dashed off, returning only a short while later. In spite of their obvious curiosity at his sudden departure and now obviously high spirits, Wickham offered no explanation. With the proficiency of a practiced seducer, he skillfully diverted their questions with an engaging comparison of Italian and German operas. Their interest in his affairs was soon forgot and the remainder of the intermission was passed without any fear of the topic returning.
In short order, the curtain rose on the second act, and Wickham found his mind delightfully engaged as he contemplated his impending fortune – one large enough to relieve his present circumstances in Hertfordshire and also allow for a very comfortable living.
Settling back in a chair he no longer found uncomfortable, he smiled broadly in the dark. The events he had just set into motion would not only provide him with a comfortable financial arrangement, they would also bring a particularly delightful opportunity to give Fitzwilliam Darcy the excruciatingly painful disappointment he deserved!