Page 139 of Honor Requires

The reports had come in gradually at first, little observations from men who had no cause to embellish. Wickham was drinking more heavily. He had neglected appointments. He had shown himself in company at hours when prudence would have advised discretion. More troubling still, he had begun to speak—carelessly, though not with precision—of withdrawing from certain arrangements, of setting matters “to rights,” as though conscience had taken hold of him at last. Hargrave had hoped his threats had been enough to convince Wickham against such ideas.

He did not believe in sudden conscience. He believed in pressure. And Wickham, he judged, was beginning to crack beneath it.

He stood now in Langford’s office, one hand resting upon the back of a chair, though he did not sit. The room was well appointed, the sort of place designed to reassure clients of order and legitimacy, though Hargrave knew better than most how much of that order was merely constructed.

“He is becoming unstable,” Hargrave said.

Langford, seated behind his desk, regarded him with continuous attention. “In what manner?”

“In every manner that signifies a man no longer in command of himself,” Hargrave replied. “He drinks to excess. He neglects his part of our…arrangement. He speaks of withdrawing from agreements he has neither the right nor the capacity to abandon.”

Langford’s expression did not change, though his fingers stilled against the surface of the desk. “He has approached you again?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He still speaks of restoring Pemberley,” Hargrave said, the words edged with disdain. “Of ceasing the extraction and repairing what he now claims to regret having permitted.”

Langford leaned back. “That is…manageable.”

“It is premature,” Hargrave corrected.

Silence followed, though it was not empty. Each man understood the nature of what was being discussed. This was no longer a matter of minor correction or temporary pressure. Wickham’s usefulness had diminished. Worse, his instability now posed a risk.

“He has always been weak,” Langford said. “That remains his advantage.”

“And now it is his defect,” Hargrave replied.

Langford inclined his head. “What do you propose?”

Hargrave moved to the window, though his gaze did not linger upon the street below. His thoughts had already moved beyond Wickham as an individual and toward the broader structure of the situation. Control of Pemberley had been secured through him, yes—but it need not remain so dependent.

“Mrs. Wickham is in Town,” he said.

Langford’s attention sharpened. “Yes.”

“She is her husband’s heir,” Hargrave reminded him. “And entirely within my sister’s influence.”

Langford considered this. “You mean to…circumvent…the obstacle.”

Hargrave turned from the window. “He is no longer necessary.” His fingers tapped once against the window frame, the only outward sign of impatience. The words were spoken without emphasis, but their meaning was unmistakable.

Langford did not immediately respond. “You propose a…permanent solution.”

“I propose the removal of a liability,” Hargrave said. “Our fortunes depend on it.”

Langford studied him, weighing not the morality of the suggestion—for that had never entered into their dealings—but its practicality. “There will be questions,” he said.

“Only if it is poorly managed. Hargrave’s expression did not change. “It will be seen as regrettable. Unfortunate. A consequence of habits long indulged.”

Langford exhaled slowly. “It would not be difficult to make such a narrative credible.”

“No,” Hargrave agreed. “It would not.”

Silence fell again, though this time it carried a different feeling.

“With Mrs. Wickham in Town,” Langford said, “and under your sister’s guidance, the transition of control could be effected with little resistance.”