Page 160 of Honor Requires

Darcy inclined his head once more.

“Take care,” Richard said.

“And you.”

Richard stepped down from the conveyance and was gone, his figure soon lost among the remaining activity at the dock.

Darcy closed the door. For a moment, he remained still, the sounds of the night filtering in faintly through the carriage walls. The movement outside proceeded apace, though it no longer held his attention. He lifted his walking stick and tapped it once against the roof.

The signal was understood. The carriage lurched gently as it began to move, turning away from the docks and back toward the streets beyond.

Darcy leaned back into the squab, the tension that had held him upright easing at last. His gaze drifted to the darkened window, where the faint reflection of his own face met him, altered but unmistakable. Lucien sat silently across from him.

It is finished.

The thought came not with force, but with certainty.

Not everything, perhaps. Not entirely. There remained matters to be resolved, questions unanswered.

The weight—the great, oppressive burden that had defined so much of his existence—had lifted.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Elizabeth’s face rose in his mind, clear and resolute, her voice echoing faintly.

Let mercy guide you.

He drew a breath. The future was finally taking shape and did not appear as an empty expanse, but formed by possibility.

The carriage carried him on through the night, away from the docks, away from the final unraveling of the past, and toward whatever lay beyond it.

The morning came gray and quiet, the light filtering through the tall windows of Ashcombe House in a way that seemed at odds with the events of the previous night. London had resumed its usual rhythm, the distant rumble of carriage wheels and the faint calls of street vendors carrying through the stillness, as though nothing extraordinary had transpired upon the docks.

Darcy had not slept. He had dismissed his staff at a late hour, before leaving the house, and upon returning, remained wakeful long after the house had settled into silence. At first, he had attempted rest, lying in the dark with his thoughts moving in continuous patterns, but sleep had not come. The mind, once so long disciplined to endure confinement and uncertainty, seemed unwilling now to relinquish its vigilance. Even when the outcome was no longer in doubt, it refused to yield.

He had risen before dawn.

The drawing room bore witness to his restlessness. A decanter of port stood untouched upon the table. Papers lay arranged but unread. The fire, stirred to life in the early hours, cast a constant warmth into the room, though it did little to ease the tension that lingered beneath his composed exterior.

He stood at the window when Mr. Gibbs entered.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam, sir.”

Darcy turned at once. “Show him in.”

Richard did not wait for ceremony. He entered with the brisk efficiency of a man who had not had the leisure to rest, though there was a certain satisfaction in his expression that had not been present the day before.

“It is done,” he said without preamble.

Darcy inclined his head. “I am pleased to hear it.”

Richard crossed the room and dropped into a chair with a weariness that spoke of long hours spent in labor rather than leisure. “Hargrave and Langford have been secured,” he announced. “They are held at Newgate for the present, pending formal charges and examination. There is no possibility of their escape. The evidence is too substantial, the interest too great.”

Darcy remained standing. “And the shipment?”

“Confiscated,” Richard replied. “Every crate accounted for. The Crown is already making arrangements to see the contents properly disposed of. There will be no question as to their intent.”

A pause followed. Darcy absorbed the information in silence, the finality of it settling with a feeling both expected and unfamiliar. “They will stand trial?” he asked.