Thread: Scarlet Letters -DEAD RP-

RE Scarlet Letters -QuixoticXCandy- His head thumped, his throat was parched, and Darcy Oxenham's memory of the previous night was filled with gaps, all of which he'd become accustomed to waking up with at least twice a week since his thirtieth birthday. Darcy was the eldest, and sole surviving, child of wealthy Landowner, Peter, and wife Laura, and if his father had had his way, would never have relocated to London. However, after almost a decade of exasperation, the Patriarch had eventually conceded that, as well as a hatred of getting his hands, literally, dirty, Darcy lacked the work-ethic to run the land as his forebears had. Consequently, he'd reluctantly sent the boy off to the big city, placing him under the supervision of his friend, the Honourable Reginald Bailey, Solicitor at Law, to be trained as an articled clerk. The kid, despite his other flaws, did possess a brain, and the hope of Peter was that, with expert tutelage, he'd at least be able to carry on the good family name in another discipline. The change had suited Darcy just fine, the further from the eyes of his parents the better, and for the first couple of years he'd behaved as required, attending the office each day, pretending interest in the Law, and even easily passing every bi-annual exam. That was until on the Fifteenth of September, in the year Ninety Hundred and Eighty Eight, the trust fund his Father had bequested him, and often threatened to rescind, finally came into effect. Once he'd gained access to the proceeds, and there was naught that could be done to remove his right to spend as he wished fuck the larger inheritance, the old bastard probably wouldn't die for another century anyway any semblance of ambition that had existed in the young man swiftly departed. He continued to attend the office on most days, however that was purely for the purpose of garnering contacts and social invitations, and done so regularly with bleary eyes and the smell of alcohol on his breath. Fortunately, this particular hangover occurred on a Sunday, which meant much of the morning had already passed when the man stretched, yawned, stumbled out of bed, and peered down at the woman who remained wrapped up in the sheets that adorned the four-poster bed, attempting to recall if they'd fornicated on their return home. Most likely, thought Darcy, and the man smiled at his good luck. One of the advantages of possessing wealth was that it granted you access to the best pussy, and Olivia was close to, if not the best, he'd ever had, although that didn't mean he intended to ever request her hand in marriage, or for them to spend the remainder of their lives together. Regardless of the affection he held for Olivia, the man was aware that he'd eventually become bored, as he had with previous lovers - What was the point in settling with one, when there was a smorgasbord available for the sampling? , - however, until that day arrived, he'd remain faithful and continue to savour her charming company, both in and out of the sack. With those haphazard musings occupying his brain, Darcy, attired in a pair of trousers, accompanied by a woolen undergarment that covered his athletic physique, eased his sore throat with a glass of water from the kitchen tap, then entered the living room to draw the curtains. The sudden bright sunlight elicited a blinking fit, and he didn't notice Olivia's presence until he pirouetted and unexpectedly laid eyes on her. Oblivious to the fact that she'd even greeted him, let alone that the 'morning' had not been preceded by a 'good', Darcy took a second to appreciate the visage. The woman looked so damn adorable in the morning, and he felt the stirrings of lust in his loins. That quickly receded when the subject matter she spoke of reigned in his wandering thoughts, and he approached to slip the folded newspaper out from under her finger. After scanning the article, he tossed it back on the table, and focused on his lover. The man is a pervert and a coward, murdering and dismembering the weak and defenceless. He'll be caught, believe me, men like that are stupid and careless, so they'll have him within the week. A good thing it will be too. A pause, and his brow furrowed as he briefly contemplated whether to reveal the gossip overheard in the office, before, unable to contain boasting of his access to information, it spilled out. The man never could keep his lip buttoned. Jack the Ripper he calls himself, and the press haven't disclosed the half of it, you wouldn't credit the acts the authorities claim he perpetrated. When they found the first one, her eyeballs and tongue had been plucked out whilst she still breathed, her insides, what was left of 'em, were scattered all over the room, and he'd sawed her head clean off. It was like a slaughter-house, the coppers never seen anything like it, most of them dead fainted on sight. According to Darcy Oxenham, it was an incontrovertible fact of life that women's sensibilities were too frail to handle this level of grisly detail, and a cheeky grin formed on his features as he teased, and comfortingly patted her arm. Hope that's not too much, I believe you're starting to look a touch pale yourself, so maybe we should return to bed, I've just the tonic to help you feel better. Pity, cause I was contemplating heading over to take a gander at the scene.