The Phantom of Pemberley (29 page)

“Mother, please!” Anne cried.

“Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude?” Lady Catherine prepared for another assault as Darcy caught her arm and hurried her from the room.

“Darcy!” she protested, but he said nothing, only continued to escort his maternal aunt along the corridor from Pemberley’s ballroom to a nearby sitting room. Once the door had closed, however, he turned on her. “How dare you speak so disrespectfully to my
wife and my cousin in my house and in front of my guests!” He seethed with anger still unspoken. “This family has tolerated your scathing disdain for years out of respect for your position as my dear mother’s sister. However, any latitude you have been allowed ended with your attack on my wife before my marriage. I swore then that all intercourse between us was at an end. I accepted your coming unannounced to Pemberley for my cousin’s sake and because that woman you abuse at every opportunity—my wife—has prevailed on me for some time to overlook the offense and to seek reconciliation. Mrs. Darcy has the most generous of natures and why she would agree to tolerate your continued censure is beyond my limits of understanding. It only speaks of Mrs. Darcy’s devotion to her family!”

Lady Catherine considered making an objection, but a warning glare from Darcy made her change her mind.

“You have a wonderful daughter, and your caustic words are driving her from your life. Do you wish to spend the rest of your days alone? Never knowing Anne’s happiness? Never to meet your own grandchildren? Do you wish to know my heirs or those of Georgiana?” He stalked away from her, needing distance from the woman. “Anne believes that she lost both parents when Sir Lewis passed—that you hardened yourself in order to run Rosings without a husband.” Darcy returned, looming over the woman. “I saw your motives for keeping my cousin under lock and key as more self-serving. I assumed you bullied Anne so you might maintain control of her fortune.You and I both know she inherits it all at age thirty or before, if she marries. Did you fear,Aunt, that the view from the dower house would not be as grand as the one from the main house? Is that why Anne never experienced a Season? Has never known a suitor?”

Lady Catherine’s shoulders sank with each of his accusations.“It was never my intent for Anne to suffer,” she murmured.

“Yet, she did, Aunt. The blame for Anne’s lack of social skills and her overabundance of naïveté lies clearly at your feet. It is my hope
that Mr. Worth pursues a relationship with my cousin. If so, I pray you will have the good sense to swallow your pride and welcome a country gentleman into the family. The man will care for Anne and guide her and give her the open affection she has never known. Please remember my words,Your Ladyship; Anne is of age, and she is determined to find her own place in the world.You may either be part of her transition or be left behind to brood over your loss. It will be your choice, as it is hers.”

Darcy started away from her, unable to be in the same room with Lady Catherine any longer.“I expect you to offer Mrs. Darcy a genuine apology or order your maid to begin packing your bags for an early morning departure. As always, I welcome your insights into running an estate, but I will sanction no disrespect in your interactions with Elizabeth. I shall not question your intelligence, Aunt, by asking if you understand me. I am my father’s son, and he never accepted your disdain under his roof.” Darcy strode from the room, needing to find his family and make things right. Elizabeth, Georgiana, and now Anne needed him to provide them a safe and comfortable home—a place where they knew love and acceptance. He would not fail any of them.

“Mr. Baldwin.”

“Yes, Mr. Darcy.”

“Please send Her Ladyship’s maid to escort my aunt to her room.”

The butler bowed. “Immediately, Mr. Darcy.”

 

Peter knew where all the important members of the household were, so he made his way stealthily through the darkened passageway from the rooms formerly occupied by Miss de Bourgh and her companion to the suite given to Lydia Wickham for her Pemberley stay. He had taken a perverse pleasure in watching Mrs. Wickham. His father would reprimand him thoroughly for ogling a lady—maybe even take a cane to him—but he justified watching a woman in some of her most intimate moments because of his need to know about the opposite sex. His father certainly would
not enlighten him, even if Peter asked him for information. He would consider it sinful to even have such thoughts. Besides, Peter did not consider Lydia Wickham a lady in the strictest sense of the word. He paused twice—waiting for the estate footmen to attend to their duties—before entering Mrs.Wickham’s chamber.

He moved cautiously across the room, lighting two candles along the way. Entering the main bedchamber from the sitting room, Peter slowly surveyed the area, taking in the disarray occupying every corner and draped across every piece of furniture. Clothes—gowns, corsets, chemises, and stockings, every piece of apparel possible for a woman to own—were strewn about the room. Apparently, Mrs. Wickham spent some time in a state of indecision as to what to wear.The way the lady treated her belongings spoke volumes of the woman. Her spoiled behavior—the total disregard for the work she made for others—irritated him. Peter had been brought up to know that all things held a place, and a true person of character never allowed himself to live in squalor. “Everything in its place,” his father had said many times. Yet, despite Mrs. Wickham’s unworthiness to be called a lady, Peter could not help being excited by the idea of touching her personal items. He had never been close to a woman—not like his cohorts—and actually touching a woman’s intimate clothing brought a flush to his skin and made his breathing quicken.

As he gently touched one of the lady’s corsets, he tried to drive from his mind the image of her breasts being raised by the garment.
This touched her,
he thought quite traitorously. Needing to push the thought from his mind, he forced himself to think of the precepts his father had instilled in him—a gentleman’s responsibilities.
One must treat those who serve with respect if one expects respect in return.
That was the one quality that elevated Mrs. Wickham’s sister to a lady’s status.

Peter picked up a rose-hued gown from the floor, examining the quality. “A woman who treats her best wear as if it was rags deserves to be dressed in rags,” he whispered to the room. Impulsively, he caught the seams of the gown in both hands, pulling the
threads until they gave—a rent opening the material. “Nice,” he murmured as he draped the dress across a chair’s back.“This will be great fun…quite capital to see the lady’s things in shreds. She will learn respect in the same way my father taught me respect.”

Reaching for another gown—one lying crumpled on the bed’s end—he took a blade from his boot and sliced the bodice to the waist. “Mrs. Wickham, is this a new style you sport?” he laughed sinisterly as he held up the ruined garment. “What is this?” He grabbed a pair of silk stockings.“One little…two little…three little cuts.” He sliced up one of the expensive leggings, tossing the pieces into the air over his shoulder before moving on to the next item. Without thinking, he slid the second of the pair into his side pocket.

Next, he slit the laces of a deep burgundy day dress. Some pieces he ignored; others he purposely ruined. Slowly circling the bed, Peter left his mark on much of what Lydia Wickham had left behind.

Then he saw it—a miniature of the lady’s husband—a man he knew well and of whom he violently disapproved. “Well, well… what have we here? Mr. Wickham, I presume.” He palmed the frame and brought it closer to examine it. The face, although familiar, did not resemble the man he knew—the portrait showed a man with a future. “No future for you, George Wickham,” he grumbled, “especially not married to such a woman. Can you not see what Mrs. Wickham made me do?” He gestured largely to the chaos surrounding him.

“What be ye doing here?” a soft voice asked close behind him.

Peter stayed in the shadows, but turned slowly, expecting the worst, only to find one of the Pemberley maids. “Doing?” he brought himself up to his full height.“What
would
a gentleman be doing in a lady’s bedchamber?” His voice squeaked with anticipation.

“Be ye tryin’ to ’sinuate that Mrs. Wickham be taken up with a servant—and a boy at that?” She gestured to the Pemberley livery he wore.

Peter glanced down at his attire before inclining his head with cold civility.“I suppose not.” He attempted to saunter away, casually
setting the miniature on the bed’s end.

However, as he moved into the light’s circle, Lucinda recognized him, and then she saw the room’s condition. “Wait!” she barked out, trying to stop his retreat. “It be you.” She rushed toward the bed. “What have ye done?” The maid grabbed up one of the ruined garments.“My God!” she gasped.“Mrs.Wickham will have me job! How will’n I be explainin’ this mess?”

He did not stop to enlighten her on why he was in Mrs.Wickham’s chamber. Instead, Peter moved through the connecting room door, trying to rid himself of the woman.
What would a man do?
He kept asking himself as he quickened his pace. James would certainly know what to do. James would turn and seduce the woman. But he, Peter, had no such worldly experience.

“Ye be goin’ nowhere. I not be takin’ the blame for what ye be doin’.” She rushed forward to catch his arm and turn him away from the sitting room and an escape.“The Master be wantin’ to talk to you.”

Peter looked disgustedly at where her fingers rested on his sleeve. “I would advise you to remove your hand immediately,” he warned menacingly. “No one touches me—not you—not your master. No one but my father has that privilege.”

“Ye not be foolin’ me. I be Lucinda…remember?” she challenged him.

His brow furrowed in a question. “I know not of what you speak, Madam,” he said in a clipped voice.

“Ye know me.We talked before…before the Master be lookin’ for someone who be makin’ trouble.” As the words she spoke took root in her consciousness, Lucinda became fully aware of her mistake in confronting this man. She moved away while his face turned gray and hers blanched. “I be sorry,” she whispered as she backed into the sitting room door.

Peter swiveled slowly to face her.“Not nearly as sorry, my Dear, as you will be.”

“No be hurtin’ Lucinda,” she begged as he closed the distance between them.

“‘Hurting Lucinda,’” he mocked as he caught the maid’s wrist. “Why would a gentleman hurt anyone beneath him?”

“Beneath who?” she rasped as she tried to ram the door closed, attempting to break his grip and shut him out of the bedroom.“Ye be no gentleman!” she shouted.

Peter anticipated her movement and braced the door with his shoulder. Her attempt to thwart him inflamed his temper—made him the man his father was when Peter disobeyed. “Who are you to judge your betters?” He wrenched her arm behind her, pulling the maid against his muscular chest, tightening his hold on her as she struggled to free herself.

“I sees no betters,” Lucinda declared, although her countenance spoke her fears; she jerked her head to the left, searching for an escape.

Peter’s arm came across her neck; while he increased the upward pressure on her arm, she kicked helplessly at his legs. She fought him, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow and throwing her head back hard against his chest. Lucinda fought for air, but the young man crushed her neck in a viselike hold. He tightened his hold, minute degree by minute degree. “Why?” he murmured in regret. “Why did you not let me leave? Why did you make me do this? Why did you pick this day to die?”

In one last effort, Lucinda doubled up her fist and tried to plant him a facer over her shoulder—an act of futility. She flailed—she writhed—she churned—finally, she collapsed against him. “Yes, my Dear, your better,” he snarled. Peter supported the maid’s limp body against him. Suddenly, he panicked. “Now, what am I to do with you?” He jerked her to a standing position. “I must take you to James. James will know what to do.”

He lifted the maid into his arms and made his way to the inside door. He crossed into the empty chamber, which adjoined that of Mrs. Wickham’s to the darkened suite. It felt odd to carry a woman—any woman—thus, but especially a woman of the working class. His father’s edicts demanded that a gentleman not see his servants as vessels for his own pleasure nor should such a man inflict
pain on those who served. That thought stayed him—caused him to go weak in the knees. His father would definitely not be pleased. Peter would need to find a way to hide this one away—away from his father’s ever-watchful eye.“Lord, the old man will take a cane to me for sure.”
James,
he thought again.
James will solve this.
He would take her to James—to his friend.
Is James my friend?
he wondered suddenly. He was, Peter supposed, as much as any adult was who took a liking to a boy. Either way, James would know what to do—it would cost Peter, but he would turn the care of the woman over to James Withey.

The issue settled in his mind, Peter’s feet moved again. He slowly pushed the empty chamber’s exterior door open and surveyed the hallway, looking for Darcy’s men—listening for the other maids. Sensing no one else moved through this section of the house, he slid along the wall, needing to reach a room with an opening before someone spotted him.

The woman’s weight slowed his progress, and Peter had to stop twice to catch her to him again. “Mr. Darcy feeds you well, my Dear.” He chuckled lightly as he reached the door of Georgiana Darcy’s private chambers. Shifting Lucinda to a semi-standing position long enough to toss her over his shoulder like a bag of flour, he turned the latch and entered the girl’s bedchamber. He liked this room—it spoke of the girl he sometimes watched—lilac and sunshine yellow—it reminded him of her—of the sweetness he suspected she possessed. Miss Darcy—the epitome of English innocence—the kind of English womanhood to which a gentleman of the realm aspired and which he revered. He never watched her the way he watched Mrs. Wickham. Despite Miss Darcy’s little episode of make-believe he had witnessed in the ballroom earlier, Peter considered the girl a beautiful English flower—a delicate yellow rose. Yellow roses—he would find yellow roses in the Darcy conservatory and bring her a rosebud—one for her pillow. Peter glanced quickly at the girl’s bed; he should not be here—not in Miss Darcy’s bedroom. He had been furious the night he discovered
that James had invaded the girl’s room, actually watched her sleep, wanting to compromise the woman inside the girl.