Page 152 of Honor Requires

“At least you have the truth now,” Wickham said, his voice subdued. “Such as it is.”

Darcy drew a breath. “And Georgiana?” he asked.

Wickham’s expression shifted once more, the sharpness of his earlier speech giving way to a more subdued intonation. “She is…good,” he said. The word seemed insufficient, but he did not amend it. “She is more than I deserve,” he continued. “I know that. Every time I see her, I am reminded of it.”

Darcy studied him. “By all accounts,” he said, “she loves you.”

Wickham closed his eyes briefly. “Yes,” he said. “And that is the worst of it.” He leaned back, his head resting against the chair. “I do love her,” he said after a moment. “In my fashion. Such as it is. But I cannot bear to be near her. She looks at me like she believes I am worthy of her affection, and I…” He shook his head. “I am not.”

Darcy did not speak.

Wickham opened his eyes again, his gaze unfocused. “I have everything I once thought I wanted,” he said. “And now—” He did not finish the thought.

Darcy rose. “Come,” he said. “You will return home.”

Wickham did not resist.

The journey passed in relative silence, broken only by the occasional, disjointed remark that Wickham did not seem to expect an answer to. Upon arrival at Darcy House, his initial vivacity had been replaced by a more subdued demeanor.

Darcy assisted him from the carriage and guided him inside. He experienced a subtle emotional reaction to the customary setting, but he maintained an unreserved demeanor. The hall, the arrangement of the furnishings, the very air of the place—it all bore the imprint of a life that had once been his.

Wickham gave a faint, unsteady laugh. “You do not require direction,” he said. “That is evident.”

Darcy did not respond. They ascended the stairs, Wickham leaning more heavily upon him than before. At last, they reached the bedchamber, where a servant stood ready.

Darcy paused. The man who stepped forward was not unfamiliar.

Brisby.

The valet’s eyes widened as he took in Darcy’s face. The recognition was immediate, unmistakable. Darcy met his gaze. He lifted a finger to his lips. Brisby hesitated only a moment before inclining his head in silent acknowledgment. Understanding passed between them without need of words.

“See that he is attended,” Darcy said. “Then come to me at Ashcombe House.”

“Yes, sir,” Brisby replied, though his tone carried a subtle shift, as though he addressed not merely the Count, but the man he had once served.

Darcy released Wickham into his care. Without further pause, he turned and left.

The night air struck cool against his face as he stepped once more into the street. He drew a breath, girding himself, and returned to his carriage.

As it carried him back toward Ashcombe House, his thoughts moved not with the sharp clarity of purpose that had once defined them, but with a more restrained consideration.

Wickham’s words lingered. So did Elizabeth’s. Between them lay a path he had not chosen.

This marked the first time, however, that he perceived the choice as potentially being authentically his.

Darcy had not finished dressing when Mr. Gibbs was announced.

There was an unusual quality in the butler’s manner that arrested his attention at once. Gibbs was not a man easily discomposed, nor one inclined to interrupt without cause. Now, however, there was a contained urgency about him, a precision sharpened by more than routine necessity.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam has called, sir.”

Darcy stilled. “So early?”

“Yes, sir.”

A pause followed, brief but substantial. Darcy met the man’s gaze and saw there what confirmed his own instinct—that this was no ordinary call.

“Show him in,” Darcy said.