Page 173 of Honor Requires

Langford sat within, his posture slumped, his expression drawn. At the sound, he looked up, a flicker of something—hope, perhaps—crossing his features.

“Count Vendicarsi,” he said, rising quickly. “You have come.”

Darcy inclined his head. “I have.”

Langford stepped forward, his hands grasping the bars.

“I knew my true friends would not abandon me,” he said, his voice gaining strength. “There has been some mistake, some gross misunderstanding. If you would but speak on my behalf—”

“No,” Darcy said.

Langford faltered.

“I have come,” Darcy stated, “for quite the opposite purpose.”

Confusion replaced the earlier hope. “I do not understand.”

Darcy regarded the man steadily. “Do you not?”

Langford’s brow furrowed. “But your position! It carries power. You are the Count of Vendicarsi.”

Darcy’s gaze did not waver. “No,” he said. “I am not. Look closer.”

Langford frowned, peering closer, his grip tightening upon the bars until his knuckles were white as he studied Darcy’s face with increasing intensity. At the first, there was only uncertainty. Then recognition struck. It came like a blow, draining what little color remained from his face, leaving him staring with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Darcy,” he whispered. The name seemed to hang between them. “How?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

Darcy did not answer.

Understanding dawned on Langford’s face. His expression shifted, the pieces falling into place with a clarity that could not be denied. “It was you,” he said slowly. “You who recommended Gardiner.”

Darcy remained silent.

“You,” Langford repeated, his voice gaining a sharper edge. “You are the architect of my ruin.”

Darcy’s expression did not change. “No,” he said.

Langford stared at him.

“You wrote your own story,” Darcy insisted. “Your decisions, and their consequences, belong solely to you.”

Langford’s grip tightened further, his knuckles whitening against the iron. “You presume to judge me?” he demanded.

Darcy met his gaze. “I do not presume,” he said calmly. “I observe that which has occurred.”

A silence followed.

Langford’s breath came unevenly, his earlier composure entirely gone. “You have no right,” he said, though the force of the words had begun to falter.

Darcy inclined his head. “Good day, sir.” He turned. The guard closed the door. Darcy did not look back.

His escort led him onward, his red coat a bright spot of color against the gray walls.

The corridors seemed longer now, though perhaps it was only that his thoughts had begun to settle into a different rhythm. The encounter with Langford had stirred no great surge of feeling. There had been no satisfaction in it, no triumph. Only clarity.

It is finished, he thought. Or nearly so. They stopped once more.

“Mr. Hargrave,” the guard said. The door was opened. Hargrave stood within.