Page 104 of Honor Requires

Wickham laughed. “That it does.” Another round began. Wickham lost. He swore under his breath and reached for his glass.

Darcy studied him. “You play often?” he asked.

“Too often,” Wickham said lightly.

“And you continue.”

Wickham shrugged. “What else is there?”

Darcy tilted his head. “Surely a man of your position has other claims upon his time.”

Something flickered in Wickham’s expression.

“Position,” he repeated. “Yes. I suppose I do.”

Darcy said nothing.

Wickham drank again.

“It is a curious thing,” he said after a moment, his voice lower now, less performative. “To have everything one once thought desirable.”

Darcy’s gaze sharpened.

“What did it cost you?”

Wickham gave a short, humorless laugh.

“More than I expected,” he said.

The words hung between them. Darcy did not move. Remorse? Or was it merely self-pity?

Wickham shook his head, as though dismissing his own thought. “No matter,” he said, reaching again for the cards. “The game goes on.”

Darcy inclined his head. “Yes,” he said. “But not forever.”

Wickham did not hear him. Or, if he did, he did not understand.

Darcy remained a while longer, observing, listening, committing every detail to memory. Then, when he had seen enough, he rose and took his leave. Outside, the air was cold and clean. Darcy drew a steady breath. Wickham was not content nor was he secure. Wickham was unraveling.

And that could be used. Darcy turned toward home, his mind already moving ahead.

Darcy presented himself at Carlton House precisely at the appointed hour, his carriage drawing to a smooth halt beneath the grand portico where liveried servants moved with practiced efficiency. The façade, already familiar to all London for its extravagance, did not disappoint upon closer inspection. Carlton House stood less as a residence and more as a declaration—of wealth, of taste, and of a certain cultivated magnificence that reflected its master’s inclinations.

He gave his name—Sebastian Dantès, Count of Vendicarsi—and was conducted within.

The interior was no less impressive. Rich carpets muffled each step; gilded surfaces caught the light of chandeliers arranged with studied brilliance; and the walls were adorned with paintings and classical motifs that spoke of both refinement and excess. Darcy moved through it all with outward composure, though his senses were keenly alert. Every glance, every gesture, every word spoken here held meaning.

He was shown into a reception room where several gentlemen already waited, some conversing in low tones, others standing in expectation. Darcy took his place among them, neither seeking attention nor shrinking from it, and waited.

At length, the doors were opened.

“His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent.”

The company straightened as one.

The Prince entered with practiced ease, his presence immediately commanding the room. He was richly dressed, as was his habit, his coat exquisitely tailored, his manner one of affable authority. There was something almost theatrical in the way he moved—conscious, perhaps, of the effect he produced and inclined to maintain it.

Introductions began at once.