Page 103 of Honor Requires

Darcy watched him go. The pieces were positioned on the board. Darcy had dropped the breadcrumbs, and Hargrave had gobbled them up. Stone would follow him and ensure he took the bait completely.

Now you will move, and I will see where you lead.

It was Stone who brought the next piece.

“Wickham,” he said simply.

Darcy turned. “What of him?”

“He may be found most evenings at a gaming hell in St. James’s,” Stone said. “He drinks heavily. Gambles with little restraint.”

Darcy’s expression hardened. “And Mrs. Wickham?”

“It is as I heard. She remains at Pemberley. Reports suggest she is…content enough. Though isolated.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened.

Content enough. What have you made of her life, Wickham? He did not ask the question aloud.

Instead, he said, “You will continue to observe.”

“Yes, sir.”

Darcy did not wait. That evening, he went in search of Wickham.

The gaming hell was precisely as he remembered such places to be, though in the past he had frequented them but rarely.

Dimly lit, thick with smoke, and alive with the restless energy of risk and desperation. The air was close, the scent of spirits and sweat mingling with the faint metallic tang of coin. Laughter rose and fell without mirth, punctuated by the sharp click of cards and the rattle of dice.

Darcy paused just inside the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust.

He saw Wickham almost at once. The man sat at a table near the center of the room, a glass in one hand, the other resting loosely beside a scatter of coins. His appearance was altered—less polished, less controlled—but not entirely ruined. There was still a trace of the charm that had once made him welcome everywhere.

But there was something else as well. A carelessness marked by fatigue.

Darcy approached without haste.

“I am unfamiliar with this game,” he said, taking the empty chair beside Wickham and not bothering to introduce himself. “May I observe?”

Wickham glanced at him, irritation flickering briefly before being replaced by habitual ease.

“Of course,” he said. “Though you may find it less entertaining than you expect.”

Darcy inclined his head. “I shall take my chances.”

The game progressed. Darcy watched. Wickham drank. There was a lull between rounds.

“You are not English,” Wickham said, glancing at him again.

“No.”

“Where from, then?”

“Sardinia.”

Wickham’s brows lifted. “A long way to come for English gaming tables.”

Darcy allowed a faint smile. “I have found that vice travels well.”