Page 73 of Midnight at Pemberley

“Repeat what we have on the list to date,” Mrs. Annesley instructed.

“Does not eat or drink, has the power of the wind, can disappear, carried forward at a great speed, has no reflection, is affected by iron and by holy objects, needs native soil to rest,” Georgiana recited.

Darcy repeated what he learned of Wickham. “We think Wickham is from somewhere in Northumberland because Lord Arawn Benning’s estate was near Forth, along the Scottish border. It only makes sense that he and Lady Ellender D’Arcy were close, and if Winchcombe was one of Ellender’s suitors, he must come from the same area. People did not travel extensively two hundred years prior.”

Georgiana retrieved another list. “The number of ways to kill a vampire grows. A stake through the heart, cut off and burn the head, pile stones on the grave, place a coin in the mouth, drive a nail through the neck, use a silver bullet. The list goes on and on.”

“If I find Wickham, I will use them all for good measure,” Darcy asserted.

Mrs. Annesley read from the book before her. “Burn the heart, producing a plate of ashes. Mix those ashes with local well water to create a drink to cure those infected by the beast.” She laughed. “Sounds delicious. I still think it best if we apply Mrs. Darcy’s dream to interpret what we read.”

“I dreamed of Wickham before my dream in London,” Elizabeth interjected.

Darcy demanded, “When?”

“The day of the attack at the manor house.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I suppose it just slipped my mind.”

Mrs. Annesley interrupted, “What do you remember, Mrs. Darcy?”

“I was running through the woods, attempting to escape. Wickham did not run, but he kept pace. The wind carried him forward or perhaps he floated.” Elizabeth looked up at Darcy, ashamed of the next part. “Wickham bade me come to him, and I could not resist. Then it began to rain, but only on me. Only I was tormented by the wind and the rain.”

Darcy sat down beside her. “Go on.”

“The mud was pulling at my feet and legs, but I reached for where Wickham stood. He waited for me. My body moved without my will. At length, a gigantic deer stepped from the shadows. He had your eyes, William, so I trusted him implicitly. Then he lowered his head, and I caught his antlers. Easily removing them, I charged at Wickham, and the horns pierced his chest. Blood of all different colors poured from him. The blood covered my hands.”

Georgiana leaned closer. “Then?”

“Then nothing.” Elizabeth looked around sheepishly. “Then I woke.”

Georgiana wrinkled her nose in disappointment. “What could such a silly dream mean?”

Mrs. Annesley countered the girl, “I would say Mrs. Darcy’s dream reminds us the legends of vampires not tolerating running water holds merit, as well as what we read yesterday about driving an ash or white thorn stake through the heart with a single strike to destroy them. We must learn more of the significance of the deer and the meaning of the many-colored blood. All the answers are there. I am confident all answers lie within Mrs. Darcy’s dream. We simply must ask the right questions.”

As it was Christmas Eve, he knew he would make little progress in his quest to claim Lydia Bennet as part of his revenge against Darcy, so Wickham took himself off to one of the gaming hells peppering London’s back streets. Even with the religious holiday, patrons packed the place. He supposed it was because the Black Ghost served as both a tavern and a gaming establishment. The tavern, with its locals, was filled with boisterous drunks, while the three private rooms in the back held some of the ton’s finest. Men won and lost fortunes while laborers and sailors pissed away their hard-earned money on a tankard of watered-down ale.

Wickham did not gamble. Just as he did not eat or drink. However, he took a jaunt through the gaming rooms. It did not matter whether his next victim was male or female. The only difference was how he handled them. With a woman, his natural charisma made her an easy mark. He simply seduced her with a few precisely placed caresses. Often the woman did not realize her mistake until he snapped her lovely neck with a well-planned crack. He often did not kill her before he drank. Sometimes he facilitated an exchange, filling his victim with the power he possessed and taking her lifeblood. That was what he had done with Amelia Younge, keeping her as a follower, a soul imprisoned to fulfill his needs. That was his plan for Lydia Bennet. He would bind her to him forever as part of his revenge.

However, if no woman were available, a man or a boy would do, just as well. In such cases, his actions were pure brute force.

Finding no one whom he thought might consider leaving with him, he made his way to the public rooms. In a narrow passageway, he reclaimed the image of James Denny. He could not be seen leaving the bar as himself. Drunken louts spoke loudly. Aware of the alcohol-induced happiness circulating around him, Wickham found a small table in a darkened corner, where he could watch the goings-on. In a few minutes, an older, but bust, bar maid came to the table, swiping at it with a none-too-clean rag. “Require some Christmas cheer, guv’nor?” she asked as she circled the table a second time with the cloth.

“A tankard of ale, if you please.” Wickham’s eyes found hers. She was not what he would normally choose, but as he knew the Christian holiday kept many people at home, he would make do. The woman’s breasts swelled from the tight-fitting bodice of an equally tight dress. He let his eyes trace them and then slide up her neck, where he would have her. “You do not know where a man might find some company for the evening? I have no desire to be alone on Christmas Eve.”

The woman took full note of his appearance, and he offered up a lonely smile. He would prefer to take more time with his seduction, but after what happened in Meryton, the possibility of his disguise fading played on his mind. The chaos swirled behind her as she made the mistake of looking deeply into his eyes to judge his character. “I might be persuaded, dearie, if ye be interested.”

Wickham’s hand lightly stroked her bare forearm. “May I ask your name, sweet lady?”

The woman did not move. “Me mama named me Lucinda. Most call me Lucy.”

“I will call you Lucy or Love or My Heart.” The words made little difference because she could not withdraw even if she wished to do so. She was under his spell. “When do you leave work, my lovely Lucy?”

“Me thinks it be mighty soon. I’ve worked most the day.” She leaned into his light touch.

Wickham winked at her, solidifying his hold. “You have a place we might visit?”