The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy by Regina Jeffers

Author:Regina Jeffers
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Ulysses Press
Published: 2012-03-21T22:00:00+00:00

Wickham did not care for the man sitting across from him. Despite the fellow’s congenial pose, he suspected the man lacked scruples. Likely lower than his own. Until this journey to Scotland, he had never done more than to cheat at cards, to walk out on a few debts, or to tell a pretty woman what she wanted to hear.

But the man with whom he shared a card table was of a different nature. The stranger turned a palm-sized glass disc in his free hand. Red-orange streaks of color met in a yellow cat’s eye in the center. The prop spoke of the hunter who had a desire for the unusual. The one known as Munro to the locales would be in the thick of whatever was thrown at him. In it for good or evil.

Wickham knew his own limits. His skills rested in the area of manipulation, but this stranger possessed untold skills. Like a chameleon, the man assumed the color of his surroundings. His black gaze fell on Wickham, and George shifted uncomfortably. “What be yer business in Cumnock?”

He tensed and waited for the group’s attention to lessen before he forced himself to nonchalantly say, “I have been sent by my family to address an issue at Alpin Hall.”

“There be truble?” Munro asked suspiciously.

“No trouble. Some concerns for my cousin.” The fact that this man insisted on questioning him came as a warning. Men of Munro’s disposition did not make simple conversation. In fact, his presence would normally be statement enough. Despite despising every moment of his service in the British army, Wickham was still a soldier, and he had developed specific skills to recognize an enemy. He had endured hours of training to fight a foe he had never met. His instincts now said that the man called “Munro” could be involved in Georgiana’s disappearance. As he carefully observed the man through slitted eyes, he added, “My cousin has lost her way on the moor.”

Munro rearranged his cards, but Wickham became aware of an unusual stillness about the man—a stillness that spoke of death. “What be the gel’s looks? Mayhap we be seeing her.” The other men at the table chimed in their agreements.

Wickham took no heed of the others. Only this dangerous stranger mattered. He thought to tell Munro a lie, but then he reconsidered. It would be best to observe carefully the man’s reaction. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam is of a little less than twenty years of age. In truth, it has been several years since I last beheld her, but I suspect my cousin has altered little. She should be to my shoulder in height, very lithe, with golden blonde hair, and eyes of blue.”

One of the other men asked, “Ye say the lady be a missus. Where be her husband?”

Wickham constructed his tale as he shuffled the cards. “In all reality, the Major General likely lies on a bloody battlefield in Belgium.”

“So no one searches for the lady?” Munro rearranged his hand.

“Only me and a few the Earl’s staff.

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