Chapter Seventeen
Darcy entered the principal drawing room at Ashcombe House with a composure that might, to a casual observer, have appeared entirely unchanged.
There was, in the set of his shoulders and the steadiness of his step, something lighter than had been present even that morning.
The house itself, newly restored and appointed to his exacting standards, bore the character of a gentleman’s residence—rich, deliberate, and restrained.
Dark paneling rose along the walls, broken by shelves of books and the occasional painting, each chosen not for ostentation but for effect.
The fire burned low but constant, casting a warm, amber glow across the room.
Lucien had taken possession of one of the chairs near the hearth, though his posture suggested anything but formality.
He sat at ease, one leg thrown over the arm of the chair, a glass of port balanced carelessly in his hand, his expression one of idle amusement that sharpened the moment Darcy crossed the threshold.
“Well,” Lucien said, without rising, “this is a development.”
Darcy removed his gloves with deliberate precision and set them aside upon a small table near the door. “What is?”
Lucien’s lips curved. “You, in such an uncommonly agreeable humor. I confess, I had nearly forgotten you were capable of it. The sight is exceedingly rare.”
Darcy did not deny it. Instead, he moved further into the room, pouring himself a measure of port before taking up a position near the hearth. “You exaggerate.”
“Do I?” Lucien took a slow sip, watching him over the rim of his glass. “Tea at Matlock House has wrought a transformation, it seems. One might almost call it miraculous.”
Darcy’s gaze flickered briefly toward him, though there was no irritation in it. “Hardly miraculous.”
Lucien leaned forward, lowering his glass. “Then perhaps you will enlighten me. Tell me—what of the necklace the lovely Miss Bennet wore?”
Darcy stilled.
The faintest shift in his expression—so slight it might have escaped another’s notice—did not escape Lucien’s. There was a pause. Then Darcy’s gaze turned from the room, settling somewhere distant, as though drawn backward in time.
“It was not always a necklace,” he said.
Lucien did not interrupt.
“It was a shell,” Darcy recalled. “No more than that. We were walking along the shore at Ramsgate. The tide had only just begun to recede, and there was a narrow stretch of sand left between the rocks and the water. Miss Bennet remained behind with me—her aunt had persuaded my sister to return, as she had grown fatigued.”
His voice lowered, though it retained its cadence.
“There was nothing remarkable in the moment. We spoke as we often did—of small things, of observations, of whatever presented itself.”
He paused briefly. “I remember it with a clarity that defies reason.”
Lucien shifted, lowering his leg from the arm of the chair and setting his glass aside.
“I saw it among the rocks,” Darcy said. “Half buried, lodged between two stones. It caught the light in such a way that I could not ignore it. I retrieved it—more from curiosity than intention.”
He allowed himself the faintest breath of a smile.
“It was delicately formed. A pale blush of color—ivory and rose. Nothing of great value.”
His gaze flicked briefly toward Lucien.
“It seemed singular.”
“And you gave it to her,” Lucien said.
Darcy inclined his head. “She admired it. Not with affectation. Not with any attempt to please—but because she found it pleasing. There was a simplicity in her regard that…” He trailed off, then resumed, “I placed it in her hand.”
The fire shifted, sending a cascade of sparks upward.
“She accepted it as though it were something of worth,” Darcy said. “As though I had given her something more than a simple shell.”
Lucien studied him closely. “And now she wears it still.”
Darcy’s gaze darkened, though not with displeasure—with something deeper.
“Yes.”
A brief silence settled between them.
Lucien leaned back once more, though the earlier indolence had left him. “My dear Darcy,” he said at last, satisfaction evident in his tone, “the lady obviously still loves you.”
Darcy did not immediately respond.
“You were very wrong, then, my friend.” Lucien's smile widened. “Miss Bennet was not forced by circumstance to marry.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, setting his glass aside upon the mantel. “Her sister’s marriage to my cousin likely contributed to that.”
Lucien’s brow furrowed. “Your cousin—the viscount?”
“Yes. Bramley.” Darcy clasped his hands behind his back, beginning to pace slowly before the fire. “He has married Miss Bennet’s elder sister—Jane. It is a match of affection, and one that has evidently placed Miss Bennet in a position of comfort and independence.”
Lucien considered this. “And the rest of the family?”
Darcy’s steps slowed.
“I find myself curious on that point,” he admitted.
He turned, his gaze thoughtful. “She spoke often of them. Not idly, nor with exaggeration, but with that particular clarity which allows one to see both virtue and fault without diminishing either.”
Lucien smiled faintly. “You admired that.”
“I did.”
Darcy resumed pacing.
“My cousin’s wife is her favorite sister, Jane.
But she had three others. Mary—serious, inclined toward reflection.
Kitty—easily influenced, though not without sense.
Lydia…” He paused. “Lydia was spirited. Perhaps too much so.” How well he recalled Elizabeth’s exasperation as she described them each in turn.
Lucien watched him with mild interest. “You remember them all.”
Darcy’s lips curved faintly. “She made it impossible not to.”
He grew thoughtful once more.
“I wonder what has become of them. Whether they are well settled. Whether…” He shook his head. “It would be prudent to know.”
Lucien nodded. “You intend to send Stone.”
“Yes.”
Darcy turned back toward the fire, his expression settling once more into composure. “He will discover what he can. It may prove…useful.”
Lucien rose then, crossing the room with unhurried steps. “And what of Miss Bennet herself?”
Darcy stilled.
Lucien’s gaze sharpened. “Her countenance says she recognized you.”
Darcy did not turn at once. When he did, his expression was controlled, though not untouched. “She did,” he said. He could feel it in his soul. Everything—every mannerism, hesitation, and blush—told him his dear Elizabeth had recognized him instantly.
“And what do you mean to do about it?”
Darcy shook his head once, sharply. “Nothing.”
Lucien’s brows lifted. “Nothing?” His incredulous tone almost made Darcy smile. “Whyever not, man?”
“I cannot think about Elizabeth now,” Darcy said, more firmly. “There are matters of far greater consequence that must first be addressed. My estate. My sister. The circumstances of my imprisonment.” His jaw tightened. “What has been taken must be restored.”
Lucien fell silent.
Darcy drew in a slow breath. “I need to focus on claiming what is rightfully mine.”
The silence stretched between them. At length, Darcy added, “I rather think you disapprove.”
Lucien's countenance changed, conveying not disapproval, but a more deliberate demeanor. “I do not,” he said.
Darcy glanced at him.
Lucien regarded him thoughtfully. “We have secured a fortune beyond anything either of us might once have imagined. You have the means to reclaim your position, your name, your place in society.” He paused. “But the only thing you truly need to set matters right—fully—is love.”
Darcy’s expression hardened, though not in anger. “Love,” he repeated.
Lucien held his gaze. “Yes. Your position is understandable...but is it necessary?”
Darcy turned away, his hands once more clasped behind his back.
“Disguise of any sort is my abhorrence,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I will not force the woman I love to live a lie.”
Lucien inclined his head. “No. I cannot imagine you would wish that.”
“To ask her to accept me under false pretenses—to bind herself to a man who does not bear his own name—would be an injustice I cannot commit.”
Lucien considered his words, then nodded. “I concede the point.”
The tension in the room eased somewhat. Lucien exhaled, his tone shifting deliberately. “Very well. We shall set aside philosophy for the present. Tell me instead—what horrors does our social calendar hold? I was not born to mingle in such exalted circles. The prospect has grown tedious.”
Darcy gave a groan, one that was almost reminiscent of his former self.
“In the best of circumstances, I dislike milling about in society. Styling myself as a count has made it infinitely worse.”
Lucien laughed. “You astonish me.”
“We are to attend a musicale hosted by Lady Sotheby,” Darcy said, his tone dry. “The haute ton will all be in attendance.”
Lucien lifted a brow. “Then we must prepare ourselves for admiration of the most tiresome kind.”
“Indeed.”
Before Darcy could say more, the door opened. Mr. Gibbs entered, his manner as composed as ever, though there was a faint suggestion of unease in his expression.
“My lord,” he said, inclining his head, “a missive has just arrived.”
Darcy accepted it, his gaze settling at once upon the seal.
His expression shifted.
He sighed, the sound unmistakably significant.
Gibbs withdrew without further word, closing the door behind him.
Lucien watched him closely. “Well?”
Darcy turned the letter over once in his hand before breaking the seal. “I expected it,” he said. “And now it has come.” He unfolded the paper and read.
Lucien waited.
At length, Darcy lowered the letter, his expression unreadable.
Lucien stepped closer. “From whom?”
Darcy’s gaze lifted.
“Carlton House.”
Lucien stilled. “That is your prince regent’s residence, is it not?”
Darcy nodded.
For a breath, neither spoke. Then Lucien said, very seriously, “Are you prepared to lie to your future king?”
Darcy looked down at the letter once more, his thoughts shifting, calculating, colliding.
What choice have I?
He exhaled slowly. “I hardly know,” he said.