Cursing Mr Darcy-It’s release day!

It’s release day for Cursing Mr Darcy, for anyone who is ready for spooky season! (Get out the pumpkins everyone!) Hope you enjoy the excerpt below–leave me a comment, and you might just win a copy! And of course it is always available to read in kindle unlimited.

The butler, Reynolds, showed Mrs Younge and her companion, an aged crone who looked like she might once have been a lady, into Darcy’s study. Darcy greeted her very properly, offering her a seat. The crone sank into a chair by the fire, staring at him in a manner most unsettling.

Mrs Younge fixed him with deep blue eyes, licking her lips. “Do you remember me, Fitzwilliam? Jessabelle.”

He recoiled from the familiarity as well as the tone of contempt which accompanied it. “You may call me Mr Darcy, madam. And yes, I believe you are George Wickham’s sister. Is that correct?”

“Maybe I am your sister.” On that enigmatic remark, she rose from the seat she had so recently claimed, strolled to the window of the study, and looked down on his mother’s garden below. “A veritable Garden of Eden,” she remarked.

Discomfited by her attitude as well as her proclamation of being his sister, he said nothing. He only watched her perambulate about with occasional glances towards the crone, whose gaze remained peculiarly unwavering.

Suddenly, she turned, glaring at him. He drew back, seeing pure hatred on her countenance. He ran his hand over the back of his neck, feeling the prickle of his hairs standing on end.

“George Darcy is dead, is he?”

“Have you called to condole with me?” he shot back.

“Hardly.” Her eyes glittered with spite as her lips curled into a sneer. “I hope he is rotting in Hell even as we speak.”

Darcy’s mouth dropped for a moment, then he recovered himself. He stood, summoning his most imperious air. “Reynolds will see you out. Do not call here again, I shall not—”

Jessabelle raised her chin, her own imperious manner brought to fore. “Will you banish me just as he did? I am not surprised. Pride is the primary trait of any Darcy, is it not?”

A cackle, high-pitched and watery, came from the corner, causing Darcy to startle. The crone was apparently amused.

“I have no idea who you think you are to me, madam, but I assure you, I have neither the time nor the inclination for such nonsense. Do you want money? Is that it? Trying to present yourself as someone entitled to something of the estate?”

This time the crone hissed at him.

“You would like that, would you not? Then you could rob me of my inheritance just as you did George.”

“George was fairly compensated for—”

She interrupted. “Not every problem can be solved by paying to make it go away. I have no wish to watch the son recreate the sins of his father. My time is now, and the day is upon me. I have prepared for this for many, many years and can only deeply regret that your father will not have his share.”

She came across the room, her eyes—large and bluish-violet in colour—never leaving his countenance. She was a beautiful woman and yet, in that beauty was a terrifying coldness, an evil that somehow turned beauty into something ugly.

“No one has ever wanted me, not my natural father, not the Wickhams, not the Younges, who thought me too wicked to tolerate. Sent off again at seventeen to yet another cousin, but in the last, I proved victorious. I was thought wicked, so I decided to be wicked and learnt the power of wickedness from the only person in my life who hated George Darcy as much as I did.”

Jessabelle directed a smile at the crone, who cackled with seeming approval. “The former Miss Elizabeth Parham from Pendle Hill in Lancashire.”

Darcy shook his head. What any of this had to do with him, he could not say. “Fascinating. But I must insist that you—”

“My friend is adept in the cunning arts,” she added, her smile menacing.

Darcy laughed, despite his growing unease. “Would you have me believe that woman performs witchcraft? A dangerous assertion—people have swung for less. In any case, I do not believe that sort of silliness. Pemberley has always been a God-fearing home. Now, if you will excuse me, I must insist you leave.”

He strode rapidly to the door, intending to call for Reynolds or a footman, anyone who could remove this person and her nonsense from his study. Yanking open the door, he gasped as he nearly fell over Reynolds, lying prone on the floor just outside of his door.

“Reynolds!” Darcy dropped to his knees, feeling the man’s throat to determine whether his heart still beat. Something in the texture of his flesh, the already-cooler temperature of his body, told him what he needed to know.

Bile rose in his throat, and for the first time, he felt real fear. Are these women mad? What have they done to Reynolds? Have they killed anyone else? Would they kill me?

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