Page 80 of The Lost Prophecy

The master’s command entered the words. Wickham’s body stiffened before he concealed the reaction, and his eyes travelled to the card room, the staircase, and the closed doors beyond the hall. The permitted boundaries had been established. He could enter the ballroom, drawing room, card room, supper room, and study. The private passages, bedrooms, cellars, and grounds would resist him.

“You wound me.” Wickham placed one hand against his coat. “I had hoped for a tour.”

“You have mistaken hospitality for freedom.”

Hurst joined them after Denny and Carter moved to the ballroom. His face held none of the murderous pleasure he had displayed in Meryton. The absence of humour made him more dangerous.

“Have you settled any of your debts since morning?”

Wickham’s smile stayed in place, charming and cruel at once. “Immortality provides ample time.”

“Patience should not be mistaken for forgiveness.”

“Nor boredom for principle.”

Hurst stepped closer, keeping his voice too low for Colonel Forster, who had turned to greet someone. “Johnson.”

For one instant, Wickham’s charm failed.

Darcy remembered the valet clearly. Johnson had served Hurst for more than twenty years, endured his temper, managed his clothes, and declined every offer of conversion. Wickham had fed from him during a journey, lost control, and transformed him without consent. Johnson had awakened cold, hungry, and incapable of returning to the life he had chosen. Before Hurst could teach him restraint or offer him any reason to continue, the man had walked into the morning sun. There had been little left to bury.

Wickham recovered and smoothed one hand down the front of his uniform. “Johnson made his own decision.”

“After you removed every other choice.”

“He might have discovered advantages in time.”

“He did not want your advantages.”

Hurst’s fangs were concealed, but the violence in his stillness required no visible weapon.

Darcy placed himself between them. “Not here.”

Hurst’s gaze did not leave Wickham. “No. Not here.”

Wickham adjusted his smile and entered the ballroom under Colonel Forster’s protection. Hurst remained in the hall for several seconds, then drew a slow breath he did not need.

“He remembers him,” Darcy murmured.

“He remembers everyone. He merely mistakes memory for remorse.”

They returned to their positions before Wickham could interpret Hurst’s anger as weakness.

The musicians began the first set. Bingley had received enough guests to escape the entrance and claimed Miss Bennet. Mrs Bennet arranged herself where she could see every step. Sir William joined the dancers with Lady Lucas, Miss Lydia secured Denny, and Wickham turned towards Miss Elizabeth only to find that Collins had claimed her first.

Darcy watched Miss Elizabeth place her hand in Collins’s while regarding the walking stick with understandable doubt.

“Surely you do not intend to dance with that, Cousin.”

“My injured toe requires support.” Collins positioned the stick beside his right foot. “I assure you that it will not impede the figures.”

The first turn disproved him. The ferrule struck the floor, slid between Miss Elizabeth’s slippers, and forced her into a sideways step which she converted into part of the dance before anyone beyond Darcy noticed. During the next figure, Collins brought the stick down on the edge of her left slipper.

Miss Elizabeth drew a sharp breath. “You appear determined to injure my toe as well.”

Collins apologised, shifted the stick, and nearly caught Sir William behind the knee. Yet beneath the clumsiness lay purpose. Whenever the figures carried Miss Elizabeth near Wickham, Collins altered his position so that his own body and the ash stick stood between them. He watched Wickham constantly, abandoning elegance, rhythm, and the safety of surrounding dancers in service of Darcy’s instruction.

Miss Elizabeth recognised the design during the final turn. Her irritation softened, though she continued guarding her slippers. When Collins returned her to Miss Lucas, she thanked him with a sincerity which restored his confidence far more effectively than praise of the dancing might have done.