Page 153 of Honor Requires

He had scarcely stepped into the drawing room when Richard entered without ceremony. The door closed behind him with a firmness that left no doubt as to the gravity of his errand. He did not wait for greeting, nor did he trouble himself with formality.

“Wickham is dead.”

The words struck with the force of a blow. Darcy did not move. “How?”

“In his bed,” Richard said, his tone clipped and controlled. “Found by his valet this morning.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “I half thought you might have done it, but your reaction says otherwise. The coroner has already attended. Brucine poisoning.”

Darcy drew a breath, slow and deliberate. “Administered how?”

“In his tea,” Richard replied. “Apparently he called for a tray in the early hours of the morning.”

A silence followed. Darcy’s thoughts moved quickly, assembling what little was known into a coherent whole. The timing, the method, and the implications.

“The household?” he asked.

“Detained,” Richard said. “All of them. The servants are being questioned. Brisby—”

Darcy’s gaze sharpened.

“—is to bear the blame,” Richard finished grimly.

“No.” The word came at once, without hesitation.

Richard studied him. “You are certain?”

“I saw him last night,” Darcy said. “He attended Wickham when I brought him home. I left him there. Brisby came to Ashcombe House within ten minutes of my departure and stayed until the early hours of the morning. I assume it was he who found Wickham?”

Richard’s expression shifted. “Yes. Your testimony may not be sufficient to exonerate him, but it is worth a try.”

Darcy crossed the room. “It will be,” he said. “I must send for the coroner.”

Richard nodded once, his expression grim.

Darcy rang for Gibbs. When the man appeared, he issued his instructions with precision. “You will send a message to the coroner at once. Inform him that I have information relevant to his inquiry and request his immediate attendance.”

“Yes, sir.” Gibbs withdrew without question.

Darcy remained where he stood, his hands clasped behind his back, his thoughts moving with increasing clarity.

Brucine. It was not a common poison. Not one easily obtained without purpose. Not one administered by chance. This was planned well in advance.

The coroner arrived within the hour. He was a practical man, neither overly impressed by rank nor dismissive of it, and he listened with careful attention as Darcy laid out his account.

“You saw the valet in question?” he asked.

“I did.”

“And at what hour did this man, Brisby, depart?”

Darcy named it precisely.

The coroner nodded. “And you are prepared to attest that he remained within your house for the rest of the night?”

“I am,” Darcy replied. “Moreover, I may add that I had reason to meet with him that evening.”

The coroner’s brows lifted.

“I had considered engaging him in my service,” Darcy stated smoothly. “We spoke privately, after Mr. Wickham had retired. It was my intention to make him an offer of employment. I have no valet of my own, you see.”