Page 136 of Honor Requires

Darcy saw it.

“By the one he trusted most,” Darcy said. “The one he had called brother.”

Silence fell.

Wickham looked away, his jaw tightening.

“That is a poor end to such a story.”

Darcy rose.

“It is not ended.”

Wickham’s head turned sharply.

“Wait.”

Darcy paused.

Wickham observed him, a trace of disquiet now evident beneath his customary composure.

“What was his name?”

Darcy held his gaze.

Without answering, he inclined his head and turned away.

He did not look back.

Behind him, he suspected that Wickham remained seated, his hand lifting once more to his glass. Darcy imagined it trembled as he raised it to his lips.

“Impossible,” he heard Wickham mutter under his breath.

The seeds had now been sown. Whether Wickham remembered the encounter in the morning was another matter entirely.

Hargrave was shown into the smaller drawing room shortly after noon, at an hour when the light lay broad across the carpet and touched the crystal decanters upon the sideboard with a pale, deceptive brilliance. Darcy had chosen the room deliberately. It was not his grandest apartment, nor the one in which he most often received visitors of consequence, but it possessed an intimacy suited to conversations that required careful management. The proportions were elegant without being overly formal, the furnishings rich enough to reassure and subdued enough not to distract. A coal fire burned in the grate, though the day was not severe, and the order of the room stood in marked contrast to the agitation Darcy had carried within himself all morning.

He rose as Hargrave entered.

“Mr. Hargrave.”

“Count Vendicarsi.” Hargrave bowed with the smooth assurance of a man who had lately seen his expectations rewarded. There was a satisfaction in him today, not loudly displayed, but impossible to miss. It sharpened his eyes and lent a greater ease to the set of his mouth. “You are kind to receive me with so little notice.”

“You implied your errand was of some importance.”

“It is,” Hargrave said, smiling as he accepted the chair Darcy indicated. “And of the most gratifying sort.”

Darcy resumed his own seat with deliberate calm. “Then I am pleased to hear it.”

Wine was offered and declined. Hargrave did not appear in need of external encouragement. Whatever news he brought had already intoxicated him sufficiently.

“I have come,” he said, settling one hand against his knee, “to thank you for your advice.”

Darcy lifted his brows with polite interest. “My advice?”

“To call upon Gardiner.” Hargrave leaned back, clearly savoring the effect of his own words. “You were right. The man is useful. Cautious, yes, but practical where practicality is required. Things are working out very well indeed.”

Darcy inclined his head, though inwardly his thoughts moved at once toward Richard. So, the matter had advanced. Gardiner’s participation had been secured, or so Hargrave believed. Fitzwilliam, then, had moved quickly after their meeting and had done so without betraying the least outward sign of interference. Darcy felt a pulse of approval, swift and sharp, at the knowledge.