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Darcy listened until the end. “Conversion will give you strength, hunger, and time. It will not confer wealth, judgement, or rank.”

“Judgement may be acquired.”

“You have shown no inclination towards it,” Darcy replied.

“Then I shall have eternity to begin.”

Darcy’s expression suggested that eternity had already become too long.

He refused again. Wickham returned the following evening, the following week, and every suitable opportunity thereafter. He submitted a formal petition, gave consent before witnesses, and swore obedience to vampire law with the same ease he brought to all promises expected to become inconvenient.

Eventually, Darcy relented.

For the first year, Wickham believed eternity had fulfilled every promise he invented for it. He could cross a room before a mortal eye followed him. He could hear heartbeats through doors, compel inconvenient witnesses, and feed without waiting for invitation, affection, or payment. Human law no longer concerned him because human magistrates rarely suspected that the gentleman smiling at them had consumed the principal witness.

He did not deliberately kill anyone during that year. Several people awakened as vampires because he misjudged when to stop feeding, but accidents attended every new skill. A young man learning to ride occasionally fell from the saddle. A young vampire learning to feed occasionally left the saddle immortal and screaming. It was unreasonable to demand perfection from either.

Darcy disagreed.

He called the conversions violations. Wickham called them sustenance. Darcy insisted that each new vampire required instruction, sponsorship, and protection. Wickham considered this a boring chore.

Immortality nevertheless developed one serious defect: it did not produce money.

Wickham remained dependent on Darcy’s tolerance and subordinate to his authority. He had endless years in which to improve his situation, but no estate on which to enjoy them. Pemberley remained Darcy’s. Every servant obeyed Darcy, every vampire in the household recognised Darcy’s rank and every door opened for Darcy before Wickham reached it.

Then Wickham considered Georgiana.

She was nearly three hundred years old and remained physically as she had been when her mother converted her at fifteen. Pemberley had protected her so thoroughly that centuries had given her knowledge without experience. She could discuss music, languages, and changes of dynasty, but one sincere compliment from an unrelated man left her uncertain where to place her hands.

Darcy treated her as something precious and perpetually endangered. Wickham treated her as a woman.

At least, that was how he explained his attention to her.

He listened when she complained of her brother’s restrictions. He described places she had never visited and societies where an immortal woman might move without her brother’s permission. He told her that her youth belonged to her rather than the family who preserved it. Most importantly, he told her that he loved her.

Georgiana believed him because no one had taught her that love could be performed.

She agreed to a binding ritual. Among vampires, the bond carried the weight of mortal marriage and several additional inconveniences involving blood, obedience, and property. Once joined to Georgiana, Wickham would acquire consequence within the hidden world, access to her fortune, and a position too near Darcy’s own for easy removal.

He had not intended to harm her. He had intended to marry her, enjoy her money, and allow her to remain happy, which seemed a fair division of the spoils.

Unfortunately, Darcy returned to Pemberley before the ritual.

Wickham never discovered what brought him home early. At the time, he suspected divine intervention, although any deity responsible had shown a regrettable preference for Darcy.

The confrontation occurred in Darcy’s study. Wickham entered expecting argument and found Darcy standing behind the desk with the written terms of the proposed binding in one hand.

“You will leave Pemberley tonight,” Darcy ordered.

Wickham closed the door and leaned against it. “Georgiana has consented.”

“She does not understand what you are.”

“She understands that I love her.”

Darcy placed the papers on the desk with extraordinary care. “You do not love her.”

Wickham should have lied. He had lied successfully for most of his mortal life and the whole of his immortal one. But his first year as a vampire had given him the confidence that he could survive hanging, and therefore he considered judgement optional.