Page 120 of Honor Requires

Hargrave allowed himself the faintest smile. “She will be persuaded. My sister is quite capable in such matters.”

“I do not doubt it.”

Silence settled again, though it was not idle. Each man considered the shape of what had been said, the adjustments required, the risks recalculated.

“At present,” Langford said at last, “there is no indication that Wickham has acted beyond words.”

“No,” Hargrave replied. “But words are the beginning of action. I prefer not to wait for the conclusion.”

“Quite.”

Hargrave moved back toward the window, though he did not look out this time. “See that nothing in our existing arrangements is disturbed. The renewal must proceed as intended. If Wickham proves…difficult, I expect you to remind him of the obligations already in place.”

Langford’s voice remained calm. “I shall.”

Hargrave inclined his head once, the matter, for him, settled.

“Good,” he said.

There was nothing further to add.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The morning had dawned with a clarity that might, in another season of her life, have invited ease. The light fell cleanly across Grosvenor Square, catching upon the polished glass and pale stone of the houses opposite, rendering every detail sharp and distinct. Elizabeth stood at the window of the small sitting room adjoining Jane’s chambers, her hand resting lightly against the frame as she looked out upon the street below.

She had not meant to linger.

Her purpose in coming there had been simple enough—to speak with Jane before the morning’s engagements began, to consult upon some minor household matter that would, in any case, resolve itself without consequence. Something in the stillness of the hour, in the quiet before the day fully asserted itself, had drawn her to the window and held her there.

Darcy House had long been occupied, though its doors had remained closed to them. Servants came and went, as they must, and there had been occasional signs of habitation, but no formal calls had been made, no cards exchanged. It stood, in effect, as a place reclaimed but not opened.

Elizabeth’s gaze rested upon it without particular expectation.

Then, as she watched, a carriage turned into the square.

It was not one she recognized.

That fact registered at once. She had grown accustomed, whether she wished it or not, to observing the movements of Ashcombe House, to noting the arrival and departure of its well-appointed conveyances. This carriage bore a different character. It was large, well-maintained, but lacking the distinctive elegance that marked the Count’s equipage.

It drew up before Darcy House.

Elizabeth straightened, her attention sharpening.

A footman descended first, followed by another, and then the door of the carriage was opened. One of the footmen stepped forward, offering his hand within.

A lady emerged. Her bonnet was drawn low, its brim casting her features into shadow, but there was something in her carriage, in the slender grace of her form, that struck Elizabeth with sudden force. Another followed, older perhaps, her movements more assured, though she too kept her face carefully concealed.

Elizabeth’s breath caught.

No…

She leaned forward, her fingers tightening unconsciously against the wood of the frame.

The younger lady paused upon the step, turning to speak to her companion. The angle of her head, the line of her profile, revealed just enough—

“Jane,” Elizabeth said, though her sister was not present. The name escaped her before she could check it.

Her heart began to beat more quickly.