Page 132 of Honor Requires

Lucien did not require further invitation. He resumed his place with an air of interest, folding himself comfortably into the chair as though he had been present for such conversations all his life.

Fitzwilliam, after a moment’s hesitation, took the seat opposite Darcy, though his attention remained fixed upon him with an intensity that had not diminished.

“Begin,” he said.

Darcy inclined his head. He did not attempt to modify what followed. First, he spoke of Ramsgate, of the ride that had seemed so ordinary, of the sudden violence that had torn him from it. He described the confusion, the darkness, the long descent into a reality so far removed from all he had known that it had, at first, seemed unreal. The name forced upon him, the isolation, the slow and terrible understanding of what had been done and why.

Then he spoke of the prison, of the years measured not in days but in endurance. Darcy spoke of Lucien, of the unlikely friendship forged in those depths, of the knowledge gained and the plan that had grown from it.

Fitzwilliam did not interrupt. He listened in silence, his expression shifting as each piece of the narrative fell into place. Shock gave way to anger, anger to something darker still. More than once, his hands clenched where they rested upon his knees, though he did not speak.

Darcy kept speaking.

He related their escape, of the fortune discovered, of the identity assumed not for vanity but for necessity. In detail, he described the return to England, the careful gathering of information, the slow uncovering of the truth that had been hidden beneath layers of deceit.

When he finished, the room fell into a silence that seemed almost to echo.

Fitzwilliam leaned forward, his elbows resting upon his knees, his gaze fixed upon the floor before lifting again. “Hargrave,” he said. “And Langford.”

Darcy inclined his head.

“And Wickham.” At that, Darcy’s expression hardened, though he did not immediately respond.

Fitzwilliam exhaled. “Elizabeth’s uncle, Mr. Gardiner, came to me,” he said. “Some weeks past. He spoke of a proposal. Of shipping interests that did not sit well with him. He suspected more than he could prove.”

Darcy’s gaze sharpened.

“I listened,” Fitzwilliam assured him. “There was enough in what he said to warrant attention. The Home Office has been watching certain movements for some time. Smuggling, forged documents, irregular shipments. We had fragments. Nothing that would hold.” He looked at Darcy directly. “Your intervention has changed that.”

A faint nod acknowledged the point.

“Well played,” Fitzwilliam said.

Lucien’s lips curved slightly. “He has a talent for such things.”

Darcy did not respond.

Fitzwilliam’s expression shifted again, the earlier intensity returning, though now tempered by something more deliberate.

“There is a matter you have not addressed,” he said.

Darcy’s gaze did not waver. “Name it.”

“How do you mean to reclaim your name?” The question settled heavily between them. Fitzwilliam did not allow him time to evade it. “You have constructed this identity with care. You have moved within society under a title that grants you access and influence. But Darcy is not dead. Not truly. If you reveal yourself, what follows?”

Darcy said nothing.

Fitzwilliam continued, his tone steady but firm. “Scandal, at the very least. Questions that cannot be answered without exposing all that has occurred. Georgiana’s position will be drawn into it. The name Darcy will not emerge unscathed.”

His gaze sharpened. “Have you considered that?”

Darcy’s hands tightened in his lap, though his expression remained composed. “Those who harmed me will answer for it,” he said.

Fitzwilliam’s jaw set. “That is not what I asked.” Silence stretched. “And if, in the process, you drag others into ruin?” he pressed. “If the truth, once uncovered, cannot be contained? If Georgiana’s name is tied to it in ways that invite scrutiny, speculation, or worse?”

Darcy’s voice was low. “I will protect her.”

“As you have always done,” Fitzwilliam said. “But protection is not always within one man’s power.” The words struck with more force than any raised voice might have carried.