Page 4 of The Lost Prophecy

The trace was faint, probably several days old, but careless feeding had left its ugly mark on the town. Human blood clung to the scent, accompanied by the dull, metallic sweetness produced when a victim’s memory had been compelled into silence. Bingley would never leave such obvious evidence. Miss Bingley and the Hursts fed from humans sometimes within established arrangements where discretion mattered far more to them than mercy, and occasionally outside them, whenever a willing offer was presented. He could not be certain it was Wickham, but Darcy knew only one vampire who treated basic concealment as an inconvenience imposed by tedious superiors.

He searched the assembly again, examining every face and shadow, but found no indication that Wickham was nearby. Even so, his presence in Hertfordshire would alter everything. He resented Darcy, coveted whatever another man valued, and had a talent for converting private malice into public disaster. If he discovered the True Blood before Darcy could understand why she had appeared, Miss Elizabeth’s ignorance would leave her defenceless.

The dance ended. She thanked her partner and returned to Miss Lucas, bright colour highlighting her cheeks. Her gaze landed briefly on Darcy. Recognition flickered, followed by renewed amusement, and she turned away before he could arrange his rigid features into indifference.

Avoiding her had become a necessity. It should also have been remarkably easy. She was the daughter of a minor country gentleman, while he owned vast estates, ancient obligations, and several centuries of accumulated reasons not to form attachments. Their paths need never cross beyond the demands of neighbourhood civility.

By the time the assembly finally concluded, Bingley had danced with Miss Bennet twice, introduced her to every member of his party, and developed elaborate plans for three dinners, a shooting engagement, and a gathering at Netherfield. Darcy heard these ambitions unfold while servants brought cloaks, and carriages crowded the muddy street.

Bingley leaned forward the moment their carriage began moving. “Miss Bennet is the sweetest woman I have ever encountered. She has such gentleness, such elegance, and such consideration for everyone around her. Did you notice how patiently she listened to her mother?”

“The entire room listened to her mother.” Miss Bingley arranged her velvet cloak on her knees. “The lady ensured that no one was ignorant of her opinions, her five daughters, or Netherfield’s annual income.”

Mrs Hurst pressed two gloved fingers to her temple. “She informed me that Miss Bennet was considered the singular beauty of the neighbourhood, then waited for me to confirm that the neighbourhood had sound judgement.”

“You did confirm it.” Bingley’s satisfaction survived every criticism. “You agreed that Miss Bennet was remarkably handsome.”

“I feared what might follow if I did not.”

Hurst shifted in his corner. He had spent the first part of the journey attempting to pry open his flask without attracting Darcy’s lethal notice. “The mother has five daughters. Bingley cannot marry all of them, so the rest of us need not become involved in the tragedy.”

Miss Bingley’s fan snapped shut. “No one has mentioned marriage.”

“You have mentioned it four times so far by insisting that no one should mention it,” Hurst countered, without troubling himself by opening his eyes.

Bingley ignored them and looked at Darcy. “You must admit that Miss Bennet is an angel.”

“She is a handsome, well-mannered young woman whom you met only hours ago.”

“She is an angel whom I met only hours ago.”

Miss Bingley turned to the dark window. “Her sister Miss Elizabeth is impertinent. She laughed at Mr Darcy.”

“She laughed because Darcy insulted her.” Bingley settled back against the squabs, pleased to have located the moral centre of the matter. “I thought her response quite good-natured.”

Darcy allowed their ridiculous discussion to continue without him. Beyond the glass, the final, flickering lights of Meryton receded into the darkness. Somewhere among those streets, a vampire’s carelessness lingered. Somewhere behind them, Elizabeth Bennet was travelling home, blissfully unaware of what moved through her blood, or what nightmare might already be moving towards her.

He would avoid her, determine whether Wickham had entered the county, and remove any danger before it reached Longbourn. The plan required discipline, distance, and no further country dances.

Upon arriving at Netherfield, Darcy left Bingley defending Miss Bennet’s loud relations and retired to his private chamber. Fletcher awaited him, immaculate despite the late hour. His human valet had served Darcy for twenty-seven years and regarded vampirism as a minor medical condition requiring careful laundering, reinforced curtains, and the very firm management of luggage.

“Your travelling companion has been restless, sir.” Fletcher indicated a large, silver punch bowl positioned on a table near the curtained windows. “It attempted to leave the packing case twice, and overturned your spare neckcloths before I resettled it.”

Darcy removed his coat and approached the vessel. “It has no business being restless.”

Fletcher accepted the coat with a deep bow. “I conveyed the same opinion, sir. It did not receive the correction graciously.”

The bowl gave a single anticipatory shudder.