Chapter Thirteen #2
Gold smoothed any obstacles in their way. Within days, they had secured passage onward, their funds opening doors that would otherwise have remained closed.
London awaited.
The city rose before them in all its vastness, its noise and motion a stark contrast to the isolation of their recent existence. Carriages rattled over cobblestones, voices carried through the streets, the air thick with the life of a thousand intersecting purposes.
Darcy took it in without outward reaction. But within, something shifted. He had returned, just not as himself.
Not yet.
Their first task was immediate.
Clothing. They would need to be attired appropriately to be taken seriously by solicitors, bankers, and any others with whom they were required to do business.
The establishment they selected was discreet, its proprietor accustomed to clients who required both quality and silence. Darcy allowed himself to be measured, fitted, and outfitted with garments befitting a gentleman of means.
When at last he stood before the mirror, the transformation was unmistakable.
The beard remained, neatly trimmed. His hair, once wild, now lay in order. The garments he wore—dark, well-cut, precise—restored to him a semblance of the man he had been.
But not entirely. True, he looked every inch the wealthy gentleman, but he did not look like Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.
Lucien, similarly attired, regarded him with open approval. “You see, Brother? You look every inch the Count of Vendicarsi.”
The shopkeeper made a strangled sound. Darcy barely spared him a glance. The man would likely spread gossip about the foreign count before nightfall.
Darcy adjusted his cuffs. He spoke in an affected French-Italian accent, matching Lucien’s tone and cadence. “Appearances are easily restored.”
“Not always,” Lucien replied.
Darcy did not answer immediately. Then, “It is a shame discretion required us to travel without luxury.” There, that should give him more fodder for the gossips. A foreign count, come to England in disguise.
Their next step was financial.
Dressed as wealthy gentlemen from Sardinia, they had no issue entering the bank and receiving expeditious service.
The bank received them with all the courtesy due to wealth.
Darcy—now Sebastian Dantès, Count of Vendicarsi—established his accounts with calm authority, his accent carefully moderated, his manner assured.
Lucien was introduced as his younger brother and added to the accounts.
The fiction held. Lucien shared Darcy’s lean physique and dark hair, though his eyes were brown instead of blue.
The bankers bowed and scraped, eager to have the Count’s money in their establishment. Money, properly displayed, silenced doubt.
After settling things at the bank, Darcy went in search of a solicitor.
It was, perhaps, too risky to write Smith and Smithson, the solicitors who had handled his affairs for years.
Instead, he went to the earl’s businessman, a Mr. Weston.
The man proved himself to be competent. Darcy set him to finding a house in Mayfair.
Meanwhile, he and Lucien took rooms at a hotel.
They stayed at the hotel for some time. Darcy wished to begin his investigation immediately, but Lucien convinced him to be at his leisure until they had a house.
“We have not been masters of our fates for years, my friend. It would be much better for us to ease into this rather than jump in without being prepared.” Lucien’s lightly accented speech soothed Darcy, and he agreed. There would be time enough for everything else.
The house in Mayfair was selected with equal care.
Its location was deliberate—close enough to Darcy House and Matlock House to observe, but not so near as to invite scrutiny. It required refurbishment, which suited their purposes well.
They kept their rooms at the hotel while the work was undertaken.
As the weeks passed, they settled into a pattern that suited them both.
Darcy devoted his days to gathering information, cultivating acquaintances, and quietly observing those who had profited from his disappearance.
Lucien, by contrast, proved incapable of remaining in Town for long.
Every few weeks he disappeared for several days on what he described only as business upon the Continent or along the southern coast. He never offered particulars, nor did Darcy inquire.
Lucien had managed his own affairs for many years before they met, and his comings and goings soon became so commonplace that Darcy scarcely remarked upon them beyond wishing him a safe journey and welcoming him home again.
Darcy stood one evening at the window of his temporary lodgings, looking out over the street below. London moved as it always had, unchanged and unaware of the great crime that had been committed against him.
Behind him, Lucien poured wine. “You have returned,” he said. “Still, you stand as though you are apart from it.”
Darcy did not turn. “I am.”
“For now,” Lucien allowed.
Darcy’s gaze shifted, his focus sharpening. “It begins with Hargrave,” he said.
Lucien set the glass aside. “You are certain.”
“I am,” Darcy replied. “There are too many coincidences otherwise. I have recalled that conversation, the one where my captor mocked me, over and over again. Hargrave is the only answer.”
Lucien nodded slowly. “Then you require information.”
“Yes.” He needed to confirm his suspicions, find out if Hargrave had the mining rights to Pemberley, and how he had managed that.
“And how do you propose to obtain it?”
Darcy turned at last. “I shall employ someone who knows how to find what others would conceal.”
The Bow Street office was not an imposing place, but it was a necessary one.
Darcy did not seek the most prominent runner. He sought the most capable. Over the last week, he had sought information on the runners, pursuing an appropriate candidate. The man he chose did not immediately inspire confidence.
He was unremarkable in appearance, his clothing plain, his manner unassuming. In a crowd, no one would look twice at him. There was a sharpness in his eyes, an attentiveness that suggested a mind accustomed to observation.
“I wish to know everything about a certain gentleman and his business dealings.”
“You require discretion,” the man said after Darcy had outlined his needs in discreet terms. He did not give any more information than what was needed.
“I do,” Darcy replied. “It is imperative, and your salary is contingent upon it.”
He nodded. “And truth, I suppose.”
“Above all.”
The runner, Tobias Stone, considered him. “That has a cost.”
Darcy named a sum. “As you can see, I am willing to pay more than what this task is worth. All I demand in return is complete loyalty and results. You will have a place on my staff, in my household, and be only in my employ.”
The man’s brow lifted. “Indeed.”
“You will be paid more upon satisfactory completion,” Darcy added. “I do not know how long this particular investigation will take.”
A pause.
Then, “Very well.”
Darcy inclined his head. “You will begin with a man named Hargrave.” Carefully, he described the information he sought. Who was Hargrave? What were his weaknesses, his darkest secrets? With whom was he involved? What had happened to his estate?
Mr. Stone nodded once. “I know the name.”
Darcy’s gaze did not waver. “Then you know where to begin.”
“Indeed. I shall be in touch, Count Vendicarsi.”
That night, as the city settled into its restlessness, Darcy stood once more at the window.
The path before him had begun to take shape.
He had a new name, one that came with an elevated position. He had resources in abundance and an investigator.
And now—information would follow.
Behind him, Lucien watched in silence. “Do not lose yourself,” he said at length.
Darcy did not turn. “I have not lost myself,” he replied. But his hand, resting lightly against the glass, tightened ever so slightly. Though his voice remained steady, there was something within it now that had not been there before.
A colder and more resolute purpose had taken hold. The Count of Vendicarsi had come to London. And he did not intend to leave without answers.
The afternoon was gray and cool when Darcy’s carriage turned at last into the street newly made his own.
The horses moved at a slow pace, their harness polished to brilliance, while the conveyance itself rolled forward with such smoothness that the motion scarcely jarred at all.
It had been recently purchased, chosen not only for elegance but for comfort and solidity, and Darcy could not deny that he appreciated the excellent springs each time the wheels passed over uneven stones without violence.
Beside him, Lucien sat with his usual appearance of easy interest, though Darcy knew him well enough by now to detect the alertness beneath it.
Nothing in London, not even their arrival at Ashcombe House, was met by Lucien with true carelessness.
He observed everything, filed it away, and spoke of only half of what he noticed.
“It is a handsome street,” Lucien remarked, glancing out the window as the carriage slowed. “Respectable, but not ostentatious. You have chosen well.”
Darcy inclined his head. “It is well situated.”
That was true in more ways than one. The house, once plain and somewhat neglected, had been transformed in the weeks since its leasehold.
The renovations had been extensive, but discreet, carried out with a precision Darcy had supervised closely.
He had no wish for vulgar display. A man newly come from the Continent, bearing a title and fortune, must live well enough to justify both, but extravagance invited scrutiny where elegance inspired admiration.
The carriage came to a stop before the house.
Two footmen stepped forward at once and opened the doors with practiced exactness. Darcy descended first, then turned to allow Lucien to follow. He remained where he was, taking in the facade with a gaze at once critical and satisfied.
Ashcombe House.