Page 156 of Honor Requires

She made a sound of protest, though it was weak, ineffective. She was restrained. “Please!” she begged, turning to Darcy. “Have mercy. I have cared for Mrs. Wickham for years, been her friend and companion. Can you not see I was coerced—forced into my brother’s schemes?”

“Were you?” Darcy’s words were cold, completely devoid of emotion. “I find your excuses difficult to believe.” He turned away, content with the knowledge that her confession would be her undoing. He had pressed her just enough to divulge her secrets. And he had no doubt she would offer more against Hargrave and Langford in an attempt to ease her own sentence.

The woman’s removal was conducted with discretion. She was taken not through the main entrance, but through the mews, her departure unseen by those who might carry word too swiftly to the wrong ears.

Darcy remained.

Georgiana had not moved. She stood rooted to the spot, her hands clasped tightly before her, her breath coming in shallow, uneven draws.

“Georgiana,” he said.

She did not respond. Her gaze remained fixed upon the doorway through which Mrs. Younge had been taken, unable to comprehend what she had witnessed.

“I will call upon you,” he said. “In a few days’ time.”

She did not answer.

Only when Elizabeth appeared, her expression filled with concern, did she seem to stir. Having come to call and been told of the commotion, Elizabeth went to her friend at once, drawing her gently away, speaking in low, soothing tones.

Darcy did not remain.

He returned to Ashcombe House in a state of restrained intensity, his thoughts moving rapidly, the events of the day settling into place with a clarity that left little room for doubt.

A note from Richard awaited him.

The ships make port this afternoon. The goods will be moved tonight. Stay clear.

Darcy read it once, then again. It was nearly done.

He found Lucien in the drawing room.

“The end approaches,” Lucien said, observing him closely.

Darcy inclined his head. “So, it seems.”

Lucien studied him intently. “And Wickham?”

Darcy was silent. At length, he spoke. “I do not know what to feel.”

Lucien said nothing.

“He betrayed me,” Darcy said flatly. “He destroyed my life as I knew it. But—” He broke off, his expression tightening. “He was once my friend.”

Lucien’s gaze was speculative. “It is possible,” he said, “to mourn what was, even as you condemn what has been done.”

Darcy closed his eyes briefly. “Yes,” he said. And in that moment, he did.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It was late when Darcy descended the steps of Ashcombe House, the night settled deep and still about the square, the lamps casting long, wavering shadows across the pavement. The world had quieted to that peculiar hour when even London seemed to pause, its endless motion transformed to a distant murmur.

His carriage waited. It was not the same conveyance that had borne the crest of Vendicarsi so prominently upon its doors. That emblem, carefully contrived to lend credence to his assumed identity, had not been added to the small vehicle that waited for him. Where the crest might have been was blank—only the dark, unadorned surface of the panels, polished to a subdued sheen that reflected little and revealed less.

The horses were black. The carriage itself was black. There was a severity to it, a deliberate absence of distinction that suited the purpose of the night.

Darcy paused only briefly before stepping inside. Lucien followed. He settled opposite with his usual ease, though there was a perceptiveness in his gaze that did not go unnoticed. He had, of course, seen and commented on the change in Darcy that day, the shift that had begun not with this night, but in the garden at Matlock House, and had continued, steadily and without retreat, toward something that neither of them could now deny.

The door closed with a finality, shutting out the last familiar sight of the house that had, for a time, served as both refuge and stage for the life he had constructed.