Chapter Thirteen
Darcy woke to the sound of water. For a moment—one brief, disorienting moment—he did not know where he was.
The continuous rush of the tide against stone, the faint echo of movement within the cavern, the absence of iron bars and suffocating walls; all of it stood in such stark contrast to the years he had endured that his mind struggled to reconcile it.
Then memory returned. The escape. The crossing. The narrow passage through the Needles.
Freedom.
He drew a slow breath, the air cool and touched with salt, and opened his eyes to the dim gray light filtering into the cave.
Dawn had come, though the sun itself had not reached them.
The entrance lay behind, casting a pale glow across the sand, while deeper within, the shadows remained thick and impenetrable.
Lucien was already awake. He stood near the edge of the water, his figure outlined against the faint light, watching the tide with the easy familiarity of a man accustomed to the sea.
“You sleep heavily for a man newly escaped,” he said without turning.
Darcy pushed himself upright, his body protesting the movement. “Exhaustion has its advantages,” he replied.
Lucien glanced back, a faint smile touching his lips. “So, it does.” He paused. “I heard the alarms around an hour ago. We will need to remain hidden here for some time before we attempt anything. It would not do for us to be captured.”
The thought sent a frisson of anxiety racing through Darcy’s heart. For a time, neither spoke. The lack of discourse between them was not strained, but contemplative. The enormity of what they had done—and what remained before them—settled slowly into place.
At length, Lucien gestured toward the darker recesses of the cave. “It lies within. It was concealed well.”
Darcy rose, brushing sand from his clothing, and followed.
The cave narrowed as they moved inward, the air growing cooler, the light diminishing until Lucien produced a small taper from somewhere behind a chest, shielded carefully as he coaxed it to life.
The flickering glow revealed rough stone walls, uneven and damp, the ground beneath their feet shifting from sand to rock.
They moved deeper still, until at last Lucien stopped.
“There,” he said.
Darcy stepped forward.
At first, he saw nothing but shadow. Then, as his eyes adjusted, shapes emerged—a large quantity of small chests, their surfaces worn but intact, tucked into a natural recess in the rock. They had been concealed with care, positioned so as to escape notice unless one knew precisely where to look.
Lucien knelt, prying one open with practiced ease. Gold gleamed within. Coins, jewels, small objects of value—enough to change the course of a life, or many lives.
Darcy did not speak. He stood in silence, taking in the sight, the value of it settling upon him not as temptation, but as necessity. This was not plunder to him. It was means. It was the beginning of reclamation.
“How much do we take?” he asked at last.
“Enough,” Lucien replied. “No more than we can carry without drawing attention. The rest remains. We shall have to return for it later.”
Darcy's gaze lingered upon the chests. “Will we be permitted to claim it?” he asked. “Treasure of this nature is often seized by the Crown.”
Lucien smiled faintly. “Ordinarily, perhaps. But this is not abandoned treasure, my friend. Before my arrest, I concealed more than gold upon this island.” He reached into his coat and produced a small oilcloth packet.
“The original deeds, inventories, and family papers remain here. I left them hidden with the hoard, protected against damp and discovery. The treasure belonged to my family before it belonged to me, and the documentation establishes that chain of ownership beyond reasonable dispute.”
Darcy accepted the packet and glanced over the contents. Though worn by time, the papers appeared genuine.
“Then it may be lawfully claimed.”
“Precisely,” Lucien said. “The process may require patience and discretion, but the claim is valid.”
Darcy released a breath he had not realized he was holding.
Lucien laughed softly. “You need not look so relieved. And before you begin arguing, we shall divide it equally.”
Darcy immediately shook his head. “It is your inheritance.”
“It is ours,” Lucien corrected. “Without you, I should still be imprisoned. Without me, you would never have found the treasure. We escaped together, and we shall share it together.”
Darcy started to object again, but Lucien raised a hand.
“No. On this matter, I shall not be persuaded otherwise.”
After a brief silence, Darcy inclined his head. “Then I thank you.”
“You may thank me later,” Lucien replied. “At present, we must concern ourselves with remaining free long enough to enjoy it.”
Darcy nodded.
They worked in silent efficiency, selecting what would serve their immediate needs—coins primarily, with a few smaller valuables that might be converted discreetly. Darcy handled each piece with care, not out of reverence, but calculation.
This would fund their return and aid in their transformation.
This will help me accomplish my purposes.
When at last they were finished, Lucien secured the remaining treasure as it had been before, concealing it once more within the stone.
“It will keep,” he said. “Until we return for it.”
Darcy inclined his head.
They made their way back toward the mouth of the cave, the light now stronger, the day fully begun. The sea lay calmer than it had the night before, though its surface still bore the restless energy of the open water.
Darcy stood at the threshold, looking out.
For years, he had been confined, reduced, stripped of all that had once defined him. Now, standing upon that narrow stretch of sand, the world open before him once more, he felt the first true stirrings of something long suppressed.
It was not relief just yet, but something resembling purpose. Yes, that adequately described the feeling.
Lucien studied him. “You are thinking of what comes next.”
“I am,” Darcy said.
“And what is that?”
Darcy did not answer at once.
His gaze remained fixed upon the horizon, his expression thoughtful, though something sharper lay beneath it.
“I must take a name,” he said at last. “One that will not be questioned. One that carries influence.”
Lucien’s brow lifted. “You intend to become someone else.”
“For a time,” Darcy replied. “Until I understand fully what has been done—and by whom. I need to know what everyone thinks has become of me.”
“And then?”
Darcy turned, meeting his gaze. “Then I decide what must be done.”
Lucien held his look for a long moment.
“Be cautious,” he said. “Revenge has a way of consuming more than its object.”
Darcy’s expression did not change. “I do not seek revenge.”
“No?” Lucien’s tone held a hint of skepticism.
“I seek only to regain what is mine,” Darcy said.
“To ensure that those entrusted to my care have not suffered in my absence.” He knew he was not being entirely truthful.
Rage burned hot and steady in his gut as he stared out at the sea.
He wanted Hargrave to pay for what he had done, to suffer for the life he had stolen from Darcy.
Lucien studied him, then gave a small, thoughtful nod. “Very well. But take care that the distinction remains clear in your own mind. It is easily blurred.”
Darcy inclined his head, though whether in agreement or acknowledgment was not entirely clear.
“The name,” Lucien prompted after a moment.
Darcy considered.
“Vendicarsi,” he said. “Count of Vendicarsi.”
Lucien’s lips curved faintly. “An Italian flavor, with a meaning not entirely concealed.”
“It will suffice,” Darcy replied.
“And your given name?”
Darcy hesitated only briefly. “Sebastian Dantès.”
Lucien laughed. “You do not lack for drama.”
Darcy’s gaze remained stable. “It will serve its purpose.”
“Very well, then,” Lucien said. “Count of Vendicarsi. And who am I? Shall I be your steward?”
“I think it would be more useful for you to be my brother. We are of an age—you are not much older, and I do not think anyone will question me being the heir. Your presence as I move forward will be a boon. I shall have no other friends in Town…none who know me in truth. The extra eyes and ears will be important.”
Lucien chuckled. “Just admit it, Darcy. You do not wish to be parted from me.”
“Of course, I do not. You are the only friend I have in the world.” Darcy reached out and clasped his friend on the shoulder. “Providence was kind when it brought me you.”
“The only friend who knows you are alive, anyway. Very well, Brother. Let us move forward with regaining what is yours.”
Their journey to the mainland was less perilous than had been their boat ride the night before, though no less deliberate. They avoided main routes where possible, keeping to lesser paths, their appearance still rough enough to attract notice if examined too closely.
Lucien steered the boat several miles to Lymington.
The port town was busy enough to help keep their presence inconspicuous, and they moved through the laborers without being stopped.
Darcy and Lucien walked the streets until they found an out-of-the-way establishment where they could procure clothes that were neither fit for laborers nor the gentry.
Rather, they looked like they were merchants or well-off tradesmen.
They also found a barber. Lucien opted for a close cut and no facial hair, jesting with Darcy about looking like a lion for far too long.
For his part, Darcy had his hair cut short, all his dark curls falling to the ground around him.
He asked the barber to keep his beard and mustache, requesting it be trimmed and oiled.
When he was finished, the barber held a mirror before Darcy. His blue eyes looked out from the face of a stranger. The beard hid his hollow cheeks. His physique was lean—far too lean for his preferences. Still, he was strong and able bodied. Pleased, Lucien and Darcy thanked the man and departed.