Page 125 of Honor Requires

“In the sense,” Wickham said, his words beginning to blur at the edges, “that no matter where you go, or how far you run, something follows. Not a person. Not precisely. Something…less forgiving.”

Darcy did not immediately answer.

Wickham smiled again, though it was a hollow thing. “I see I have lost you already. Forgive me. I am not at my most coherent.”

“You are troubled,” Darcy said.

Wickham let out a breath that might almost have been a laugh. “Troubled. Yes. That is a polite way of putting it.” He leaned back again, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling. “My wife has come to Town.”

Darcy stilled. He had not expected to hear it so plainly. “I had thought you would be pleased,” he said, his tone carefully neutral.

Wickham’s head turned sharply. “Pleased?” He laughed then, more openly this time, though there was a note in it that bordered on something far less pleasant. “Yes, of course. A husband should be pleased to see his wife. That is the proper sentiment, is it not?”

Darcy said nothing.

“She is everything good,” Wickham went on, his voice dropping. “Everything that is gentle. Everything I am not.” The words came more easily now, loosened by drink, unguarded in a way that would have been impossible in sobriety. “She looks at me,” he said, his expression shifting, “and there is no accusation in it. No reproach. Only…kindness. Can you imagine it? To be regarded with such—such undeserved regard?”

Darcy’s jaw tightened.

“It is intolerable,” Wickham said.

Darcy’s gaze sharpened. “You find her goodness intolerable?”

“I find myself intolerable,” Wickham corrected, with a faint, bitter smile. “She merely reminds me of it.” He rubbed a hand over his face, trying unsuccessfully to clear his thoughts. “She speaks to me like a man still worthy of her affection. Like one who has done nothing to forfeit it. It is…exhausting.”

Darcy’s voice was gentle. “You might endeavor to become what she believes you to be.”

Wickham’s head snapped toward him, his expression briefly alert. Thereafter, it assumed a tone akin to weary amusement once again. “My dear sir,” he said, “that would require a degree of effort to which I am no longer inclined.” He leaned forward again, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Besides, my very name testifies against me. Wickham. Wicked. It is all there, if one cares to see it.”

Darcy did not smile. “You jest,” he said.

“Do I?” Wickham replied. A fleeting but distinct moment of lucidity appeared in his gaze. Then it was gone.

Darcy studied him in silence. “You will take her into society,” he said after a moment.

Wickham gave a small, dismissive wave of his hand. “I shall be compelled to, no doubt. Appearances must be maintained. One cannot neglect one’s duties entirely, however tiresome they may be.”

Before Darcy could respond, a figure approached.

Hargrave.

He did no more than glance at Darcy as he came to a stop beside Wickham’s chair, though the awareness of his presence was unmistakable. “Mr. Wickham,” he said smoothly. “Might I have a word?”

Wickham's demeanor altered once more, his previous indolence replaced by a more acute sense of caution.

Darcy rose at once. “I shall leave you,” he said. Wickham nodded, though his gaze remained fixed upon Hargrave.

Darcy moved away, though not so far as to lose all sense of what transpired. A column partially obscured him from view, affording just enough concealment that he might remain without drawing attention.

He remained there, unmoving, listening to his adversaries speak.

“Well?” Wickham said, his tone edged now with something less careless. “You have me.”

Hargrave’s voice was muted, controlled. “How did you like my surprise?”

Wickham let out a short, humorless laugh. “You refer to my wife.”

“I do.”