Page 134 of Honor Requires

“I hardly know,” he said. “But I do love her.”

The words were low, almost indistinct, though they carried more import than any declaration.

Fitzwilliam watched him for a long moment, then rose.

Lucien remained seated, his expression thoughtful.

Darcy did not move.

The path before him remained unchanged. It no longer felt quite so singular as it once had.

The house had gone to bed long before Darcy sought his chamber, but sleep did not come.

Fitzwilliam’s words lingered with a persistence he could not easily dismiss. They had not been spoken in anger, nor even in reproach, but with a clarity that made them more difficult to evade. Questions of consequence had been placed before him—of name, of reputation, of Georgiana—and he had answered none of them to satisfaction, not even his own.

And Elizabeth. Her name alone unsettled the careful balance he had maintained for so long. Every reservation, every bit of resistance was at an end. He would tell her everything on the morrow.

Darcy stood at the window, looking out over the dimly lit street, though he saw little of it. His reflection stared faintly back at him, altered but unmistakable. The beard, the closer cut of his hair, the bearing he had cultivated—all of it served its purpose. It allowed him to move unseen among those who had wronged him. It gave him access where Fitzwilliam Darcy would have been watched.

It did not change who he was.

And if you lose your soul in the process?

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.

No. He would not be turned aside. Not now. Not when the truth lay so near to the surface, when the men responsible had begun, at last, to reveal themselves through their own impatience.

There was one among them, however, who remained an enigma. Wickham.

Darcy had sought him out more than once in recent weeks, not as an adversary, but as an observer. The man he found bore little resemblance to the polished charmer of their youth. Indolence remained, as did a certain careless ease, but beneath it lay something darker. Weariness. Restlessness. At times, it might almost be called regret.

It did not absolve him. But it complicated matters. He seemed to have fabricated his own punishment and suffered it on a daily basis.

Darcy turned from the window. If there were answers to be had, they would not come from solitude. He would find Wickham again.

The gentleman’s club was neither the most fashionable nor the most reputable establishment in London, but it occupied a convenient middle ground between the two. Its members were of varied character, its atmosphere one of subdued indulgence rather than open excess. It was the sort of place where a man might be observed without being remarked upon too closely.

Darcy entered without drawing undue attention, his presence acknowledged with the customary glances afforded any unfamiliar face, though none lingered long enough to speak with him.

The air was thick with the scent of tobacco and brandy. Low conversation filled the room, punctuated occasionally by the sharper sounds of laughter or the clink of glass against wood. Lamps cast a warm glow over the scene, illuminating card tables and small clusters of men engaged in private discussion.

It did not take long to find Wickham. He sat at a table near the far wall, a glass in one hand, his posture once more relaxed to the point of carelessness. A small group surrounded him, though their attention seemed divided. Wickham spoke easily, his tone light, even while there was a tension in his movements that did not entirely escape notice.

Darcy approached without haste. “Mr. Wickham.”

Wickham looked up. For a moment, recognition did not appear in his bleary eyes. Then it settled into something like familiarity, though not suspicion.

“Ah,” he said, with a faint smile. “The count. Or should I say—my lord? One never knows quite how best to address our continental friends.”

“Your first attempt will suffice,” Darcy replied evenly.

Wickham gestured to the empty chair beside him. “Join us, then. We were just engaged in a most edifying discussion on the merits of restraint.”

Darcy took the offered seat. “An unusual topic for such a setting,” he said.

“Indeed,” Wickham agreed lightly. “Which is perhaps why none of us are particularly inclined to practice it.”

The others at the table exchanged glances, then, sensing perhaps that the conversation was turning in a direction less suited to their interests, began to excuse themselves one by one. Within a few minutes, Darcy and Wickham were left alone.