Page 151 of Honor Requires

“Drink,” Darcy repeated.

Wickham obeyed, though not without a muttered complaint. He took a sip, then another, his expression shifting gradually from distaste to reluctant acceptance.

For a time, neither spoke. Darcy watched him closely, noting the unsteadiness of his hands, the unfocused quality of his gaze. Nonetheless, a distinct strain, independent of intoxication, remained palpable.

At length, Wickham leaned back in his chair and gave a short, humorless laugh.

“You know,” he said, “I believe I have been waiting for this.”

Darcy’s expression did not change. “For what?”

“For you.”

Darcy’s gaze sharpened. “You mistake me.”

Wickham shook his head, a slow, deliberate movement. “No. I do not.” He lifted his hand, gesturing vaguely toward Darcy’s face. “You may call yourself what you like,” he went on, “and you may hide behind whatever title you have purchased or borrowed, but you cannot fool me.”

Darcy remained still. “I do not know what you mean.”

Wickham laughed again, bitterly this time. “Do you not?” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as though to focus more clearly. “Even through that beard, I can see it.”

Darcy said nothing.

“The scar,” Wickham clarified. “Here.” He gestured toward his own chin. “From when we fought as boys. You remember it. I struck you harder than I intended, and you—” He broke off, his expression shifting. “You would not yield. You never would.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“And then there was the river,” Wickham went on, his voice taking on a distant quality. “I nearly drowned. Foolish boy that I was, I thought you quite the hero for pulling me out. I suppose…” He gave a crooked smile. “I suppose I owe you my life.”

Darcy met his gaze. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose I did save your life.”

A silence followed.

“And how did I repay you?” Wickham asked, his tone altering once more. “With loyalty? With gratitude?” He shook his head slowly. “No.” The word fell heavily between them. “With treachery.”

Darcy felt it settle, though he did not allow it to show. “Why?” he asked.

The question was simple. It required no elaboration. Wickham let out a breath that seemed to drain some of the animation from him. “Why?” he repeated. He looked down at his hands, turning them in a manner suggesting examining something unseen. “I was a fool,” he said at last. “Blinded by envy. By resentment. You had everything I did not, and I…” He laughed faintly. “I told myself I deserved it more.”

Darcy did not interrupt.

“I thought I could take it,” Wickham murmured. “Take your place. Your fortune, your future. I convinced myself it was all within my reach, if only I were bold enough to grasp it.” He looked up then, meeting Darcy’s gaze directly. “And I was bold,” he said. “Bold enough to betray the one man who ever treated me as a brother.”

Darcy maintained a composed countenance, yet a subtle alteration took place internally.

“I begged them to spare you,” Wickham added suddenly.

Darcy’s attention sharpened.

“I did not wish your death,” Wickham said. “Not truly. When the moment came—when it was no longer a matter of speculation, but of action—I…hesitated.”

Darcy recalled, with a clarity that sent a faint chill through him, the words that had been spoken to him in that dark cell so many years before.

You would be dead if I had my way… but my partner insisted… He had not understood it then. He did now.

“I asked them to spare you,” Wickham repeated. “I told myself it was a kindness.” He laughed again, though the sound was hollow. “A kindness,” he said. “To condemn you to something worse.”

Darcy was silent for a long moment.