Page 124 of Honor Requires

“I am just now going to the club,” he said, turning to Georgiana. “I shall be gone the greater part of the day.”

Georgiana’s expression fell. “So soon? I have only just arrived.”

“I have engagements,” he said, the edge in his tone unmistakable.

She flinched.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the sharpness vanished. He smiled again, though it did not reach his eyes. “This evening, then. I shall return early, and we will spend it together.”

Georgiana nodded, though the disappointment remained. “Very well.”

He inclined his head once more and departed. The door closed. Georgiana sank back into her chair, her composure faltering.

Elizabeth reached for her hand. “You must not be troubled,” she said gently.

Georgiana managed a small smile, though it trembled. “I do not wish to be. I love him very much. Even so, he is so often absent. And when he is present, he seems…” She hesitated. “Not quite himself.”

Elizabeth’s heart tightened.

“He avoids me,” Georgiana said. “I cannot think why.”

Elizabeth did not answer. There were too many possibilities, none of them comforting.

“I am sure it will improve,” she said instead, though she could not say she believed it.

Georgiana nodded, though her expression remained uncertain.

They spoke a little longer, of lighter things, though the earlier ease did not fully return. At last, Elizabeth rose, sensing that the visit must come to an end.

“I am very glad to have seen you,” she said.

“And I you,” Georgiana replied.

Elizabeth took her leave, her mind already turning toward what she must say upon her return.

As she stepped back into the street, the air felt sharper than before. She did not look back at the house. Her course was set. She would return to Matlock House. And she would tell the family everything.

The club was more crowded than on Darcy’s previous visits, though the atmosphere remained much the same—low voices, muted laughter, the continuous clink of glassware, and the ever-present haze of smoke that obscured the edges of everything it touched. It was a place where men came not merely to pass the time, but to avoid it, to lose themselves in habits that required little thought and less accountability.

Darcy moved through the room with purpose, his attention fixed upon a single figure.

Wickham sat as he always did, slouched in a chair near the far wall, one arm draped carelessly over the back, the other loosely holding a glass that had long since ceased to interest him. His coat was unfastened, his cravat askew, and though his posture suggested ease, there was nothing truly relaxed in it. His movements were uneven, his gaze unfocused, his expression bearing the unmistakable signs of a man who had been drinking too long and too freely.

Darcy approached without haste.

“Mr. Wickham.”

Wickham lifted his head with some effort, his eyes taking a moment to settle upon Darcy’s face. “Ah,” he said, after a pause, a crooked smile forming. “My foreign friend. Come to observe my decline?”

Darcy took the chair opposite him. “I had thought to find you in better spirits.”

Wickham gave a short laugh, though it held little amusement. “Then you have chosen your moment poorly.”

Darcy’s gaze moved briefly to the untouched decanter at Wickham’s side, then back again. “It would seem so.”

Wickham lifted his glass, stared at it as though uncertain how it had come to be there, then set it aside without drinking. “Tell me,” he said, leaning forward, his voice lowering, “do you ever find yourself haunted?”

Darcy regarded him steadily. “In what sense?”