Page 100 of Honor Requires

He turned to go.

Bruno whined. The sound, low and unmistakably reproachful, made Elizabeth close her eyes for the briefest instant. When she opened them again, Darcy had gone several paces, his figure already assuming once more the reserved distance of the Count of Vendicarsi.

Bruno looked from him to Elizabeth, his expression saying he found both humans unaccountably foolish.

“So do I,” she murmured, laying a hand upon his head. Then she turned toward the house, her heart no steadier than before, but her questions mounting.

He lived. That much was beyond dispute. What she still lacked was any understanding of why he had returned under another name, or what danger compelled him to maintain the deception.

Chapter Nineteen

Darcy did not immediately return to Ashcombe House.

Though he had parted from Elizabeth at the steps of Matlock House with every appearance of composure, he found that composure a fragile thing once he was alone. He walked on without direction for some minutes, his hands clasped behind his back, his pace steady though his thoughts were anything but.

The park stretched before him in modest order, its gravel paths and winter-bare trees offering none of the distraction he might have wished. Everywhere he looked, he saw not the present, but the past—Ramsgate, the sea, the shifting light upon the water, and Elizabeth walking beside him with that same thoughtful attentiveness she had shown today.

Only now there was something altered.

Before, she had been open—curious, perceptive, quick to meet him where he stood. Now she held herself with care, her questions edged with restraint, her confidence tempered by uncertainty. She knew him. Of that he could no longer pretend ignorance. She knew him and did not name him, and the discipline required to maintain such silence must cost her dearly.

She trusted me once without reservation. The thought came unbidden, and with it something sharper than regret. And now I ask her to trust me again—without explanation. He exhaled slowly and turned toward home.

By the time he reached Ashcombe House, his mind had begun, if not to settle, then to order itself. Emotion, however persistent, must yield to purpose. There was too much left unfinished, too much at stake, to allow himself the indulgence of distraction—even one so dear.

Still, as he entered the house and handed off his gloves and hat, one thought remained stubbornly present.

The Gardiners.

He had not expected it. Walking beside Elizabeth, hearing her speak, had drawn his mind not only to her, but to those with whom she had first welcomed him—her aunt and uncle, whose easy kindness and practical good sense had made Ramsgate feel less a retreat and more a home.

Mr. Gardiner. A man of trade, certainly, but of a sort far superior to most. Upright, discreet, observant. A man who knew the world without being corrupted by it.

Darcy paused in the entrance hall.

Then, decisively—“Gibbs.”

The butler appeared at once. “Sir?”

“Send for Mr. Stone.”

“At once, sir.”

Darcy moved into the study and did not sit. He paced the length of the room once, twice, his thoughts aligning with increasing clarity.

If Hargrave required a ship—

If Langford supplied the means—

Then they must be given a channel. One that could be observed. One that could be trusted not to collapse under scrutiny that Darcy could tightly control.

When Stone was shown in, Darcy had already reached his conclusion.

The runner bowed. “Sir.”

“Mr. Stone.” Darcy inclined his head. “Be seated.”

Stone complied, though he sat with the alert stillness of a man accustomed to being called upon for immediate action.