Page 172 of Honor Requires

Darcy turned toward him.

“The quiet of the country appeals to me more than it once did,” Lucien said thoughtfully. “After all that has passed, I find I have little desire to remain amidst the noise of London.”

Darcy inclined his head. “You will be welcome.”

Lucien’s smile deepened. “I do not doubt it.”

A brief silence followed. Darcy hesitated.

Lucien observed it at once. “There is more,” he said.

Darcy did not immediately reply. “There is,” he admitted at last.

Lucien waited.

Darcy moved away from the mantel, his thoughts turning toward a matter not resolved, though it pressed upon him with increasing urgency. “I must make a call,” he said.

Lucien’s brows rose. “At this hour?”

Darcy did not answer the question directly. “It cannot be delayed,” he said instead. Not any longer.

Lucien regarded him with curiosity. “And may I inquire as to the nature of this call?”

Darcy met his gaze, though he did not offer explanation. “In due time,” he said.

Lucien inclined his head, though the curiosity did not entirely leave his expression. “Very well.”

Darcy reached for the doorknob. “I shall not be long.”

Lucien watched him as Darcy opened it to leave, his gaze thoughtful, though he did not press the matter further.

Darcy paused only briefly before departing. There remained one final thread to be drawn together. And he would see it done.

The carriage turned toward Newgate just as the last of the afternoon light began to fade.

Darcy sat within, composed as ever, though there was a sober gravity to his demeanor that marked the purpose of his journey. He had not spoken to the driver beyond the single instruction, nor had he summoned Lucien to accompany him. This, he knew, was a task he must complete alone.

His hand rested lightly upon his knee. The ring upon his finger caught the dim light. Georgiana had given him the Darcy signet upon his last call. He turned his hand in the light, regarding it. It felt at once familiar and strange, as though it belonged to a life both his and not his. Once, he had worn it without thought. It had been a symbol of inheritance, of expectation, of a future that seemed fixed and unassailable. Then it had been taken.

Now, it was returned, not as a simple restoration, but as something earned, reclaimed through endurance rather than granted by right.

I have come full circle, he thought.

The carriage slowed. The looming structure of Newgate rose before him, its heavy stone walls casting long shadows that seemed to swallow what little light remained. The air here carried a different quality, one tinged with confinement and consequence, a place where the influence of a man’s actions was no longer abstract.

Darcy stepped down.

The guard who received him did so with proper deference, his manner respectful without excess. Darcy gave his name—his assumed name—and was admitted without difficulty.

“I wish to see Mr. Langford,” he said.

The guard inclined his head. “This way, sir.”

They passed through narrow corridors, the sound of their steps echoing faintly against the stone. The air was cooler within, the silence broken only by distant murmurs and the occasional metallic clang of a door secured or opened.

At length, they stopped. The guard stepped forward and unlocked the outer door that shielded the bars of the cell beyond. It opened with a dull creak.

Darcy stood just outside.