Page 27 of The Lost Prophecy

His dissatisfaction had not improved when Fletcher appeared at the drawing room door. The valet waited until Darcy acknowledged him, then directed a meaningful glance at the passage. He bowed slightly. “A private matter requires your notice, sir.”

Miss Bingley resumed her embroidery, although every movement became attentive. Hurst continued pressing the handkerchief to his mouth, while Bingley stood by the tall window unusually thoughtful.

Darcy crossed to him. “Has something happened?”

Fletcher’s voice was a murmur. “The enquiries you instructed me to make have produced an answer.”

Darcy led him to Bingley’s study at the rear of the vast house. He closed the door behind them and turned the key, an action his valet observed without comment. Fletcher had served him for twenty-seven years and understood that locked doors preceded information capable of ruining an otherwise tolerable day.

Darcy leaned against the desk. “What have you discovered?”

Fletcher folded his hands. “Mr George Wickham passed through Meryton four days before the assembly. He stayed one night at the principal inn and met Colonel Forster the following morning to formally apply for a commission in the local militia.”

The sickening residue Darcy had detected returned to memory: force compelled blood, careless feeding, and the rotting taint left by a vampire who did not care for the concealment of their true nature.

Darcy’s jaw ticked. “Where is he now?”

“He departed for London after meeting Colonel Forster, intending to settle his affairs before joining the regiment. His application was readily accepted. He returned to Meryton early this morning and has taken rooms near the other officers.”

Darcy moved to the window. The wet road beyond Netherfield disappeared between muddy fields and bare trees, leading to a bustling town where Miss Elizabeth’s younger sisters walked, shopped, and attended every gathering likely to contain a red coat.

“Who confirmed this?” Darcy asked.

Fletcher produced a small notebook. “The innkeeper remembered him because he paid in advance and complimented the man’s daughter. Colonel Forster’s groom confirmed the formal commission. A chambermaid recalled that Mr Wickham received a visitor during his previous stay, although she did not see the person leave.”

Darcy turned back to the room. “Was blood found?”

“Only on the pillow, sir. The innkeeper believed his charming guest had suffered a nosebleed.”

Wickham had always benefited from humanity’s determination to prefer an ordinary explanation, even when it required a nose to bleed on a bed.

Darcy sighed. “Has anyone disappeared?”

Fletcher closed his book. “Not yet. One maid failed to report for work the following morning, but she returned before noon and remembered spending the night with a married sister. She has no married sister.”

Darcy rested one hand on the window frame. The evidence established feeding and compulsion, but not conversion. Wickham had been cautious enough to avoid leaving a dead body or a new vampire behind, which suggested that he knew Darcy was nearby.

Darcy glared at the glass. “Continue watching the maid. If she develops an aversion to daylight, an appetite for livestock, or a conviction that mirrors have become offensive, inform me immediately.”

Fletcher tucked the notebook into his coat. “I have already arranged it.”

Darcy had once foolishly believed that converting Wickham might correct the waste of intelligence, charm, and opportunity that had characterised his youth. Wickham had encouraged that belief with admirable persistence.

He had requested immortality soon after reaching his majority. Darcy had refused. Wickham requested it again, presenting arguments concerning service, loyalty, and the advantages of retaining a trusted companion through generations. Darcy warned him that conversion granted longevity, strength, and hunger, but it did not improve moral judgement or confer true rank. Wickham would remain a lesser vampire, permanently bound by the ancient laws governing those Darcy had authority to command.

Wickham accepted every condition.

He submitted a formal petition, gave consent before witnesses, and continued pressing his case until refusal became less reasonable than agreement. Darcy converted him personally, believing that the son of his late loyal steward understood the obligations attached to Pemberley.

Within a decade, Wickham had concluded that immortality should have placed him beyond obligation altogether.

He resented Darcy’s rank, ignored restrictions on feeding, and treated human consent as a minor obstacle designed for less attractive men. Reports followed him from London to Bath, then Portsmouth, Dover, and every town where he stayed long enough to create damage. Several young men and women had awakened after being drained, abandoned before their condition was explained to them. Some destroyed themselves in direct sunlight. Others disappeared into the hidden vampire world. Those Darcy located were far too frightened, far too newly transformed, or far too broken to testify.

Vampire law permitted a master to restrict, command, and exile a lesser member of their kind, but final judgement required proof of a fresh violation. A reliable witness, a living victim capable of identifying the offender, or undeniable evidence would allow Darcy to legally bind or destroy him. Accusation alone would not. The strict law existed to prevent masters from executing lesser vampires through private dislike, although Wickham had devoted years to demonstrating its deficiencies.

Fletcher cleared his throat. “Shall I quietly arrange for his removal from Meryton?”

The prospect of having Wickham deposited outside Meryton in a packing crate offered several seconds of satisfaction. It would also solve nothing. “Not yet. If he is driven out before we obtain evidence, he will simply begin elsewhere and conceal himself with far more care.”