Page 135 of Honor Requires

Wickham leaned back in his chair, studying him with a more focused attention than before. “You have taken an interest in me,” he said. “I confess I am curious as to why.”

Darcy regarded him calmly. “You are an interesting man.”

Wickham gave a low laugh. “I have been called many things, but that is not among the more common.”

Darcy did not smile. For a brief period, silence prevailed between them. Then, as though moved by some impulse he did not entirely examine, Darcy said, “I knew a boy once.”

Wickham’s expression shifted, though he did not interrupt.

“He was the son of a steward,” Darcy continued, his voice casual. “He grew up alongside another boy, one whose circumstances differed considerably from his own. They were taught together, played together, shared in all the small adventures of youth.”

Wickham’s fingers stilled against the side of his glass.

“They were not equals,” Darcy said. “Not in the eyes of the world. In those early years, such distinctions held little meaning. They believed themselves brothers in all but name.”

Silence stretched between them. Darcy did not look at Wickham as he spoke. His gaze rested instead upon the far wall, though his focus lay elsewhere entirely.

“There was a day,” he went on, “when the two of them resolved to fish in a stream that ran along the edge of the estate. It was forbidden, of course. The current was stronger than it appeared, and the bank was steep in places.”

A faint flicker passed through Wickham’s expression.

“They went regardless,” Darcy said. “The steward’s son slipped. The current took him before he could regain his footing. He might have drowned, had the other not followed him in.”

Wickham’s grip tightened.

“He was dragged out,” Darcy said. “Half-conscious, soaked through, thoroughly chastened. The other boy stood over him, dripping and furious, demanding to know what possessed him to act so foolishly.”

He paused. “The answer was simple,” Darcy said. “He had wanted what the other had. Freedom. Confidence. The belief that no consequence could truly touch him.” Darcy fell silent. The memory lingered between them, unspoken but unmistakable.

Wickham let out a slow breath, his gaze dropping briefly to the table before lifting again.

“I recall a similar incident in my own childhood,” he said at length.

Darcy turned his head, though his expression did not change.

Wickham gave a short, humorless laugh. “For my part, I was thoroughly scolded. Not by my father, but by my friend who did me the great service of rescuing my sorry hide. I believe the phrase he used was something to the effect that if I intended to drown myself, I might at least have the courtesy not to inconvenience anyone else in the process.”

Darcy said nothing.

Wickham studied him more closely now. “Strange,” he said. “How similar your tale is to mine. Boyish antics, no doubt.”

“Indeed,” Darcy replied.

The words settled heavily.

Wickham did not move at once.

Then, slowly, he set his glass down.

“What became of him?” he asked. “The other boy.”

Darcy’s gaze met his at last.

“He was betrayed.”

Wickham flinched.

The reaction was slight. Easily missed.