Chapter Seventeen #2
And the fire burned on, steady and unyielding, as the consequences of what lay ahead settled fully upon him.
The rooms at Lady Sotheby’s were already filled to near capacity when Darcy and Lucien arrived, the hum of conversation layered beneath the tuning of instruments and the occasional bright trill of laughter.
The musicale had drawn precisely the sort of company Darcy had anticipated—the haute ton assembled in careful elegance, each person as much on display as the performers who would shortly command the room.
Light from dozens of candles shimmered against polished surfaces, catching in the jewels at ladies’ throats and the buttons of gentlemen’s coats.
The air was warm, faintly scented with perfume and beeswax, and charged with that peculiar energy that attended any gathering where observation mattered as much as participation.
Darcy paused only briefly at the threshold, his gaze sweeping the room with practiced ease.
Lucien, at his side, murmured, “A veritable assembly of consequence. How fortunate we are.”
Darcy’s mouth curved faintly. “Fortunate indeed.”
They moved forward. It did not take long. Langford stood near the far side of the room, his posture rigid, his expression deliberately controlled. Beside him, Hargrave cut a broader figure—confident, expansive, his manner one of easy familiarity that sat uneasily upon Darcy’s senses.
They saw him almost at once.
“Count Vendicarsi,” Hargrave said, stepping forward with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “What a pleasure.”
Darcy inclined his head with perfect courtesy. “Mr. Hargrave. Mr. Langford.”
Langford bowed. “Sir.”
There was a moment’s exchange of polite phrases, each word carefully weighed.
Hargrave wasted little time. “I trust you are settling comfortably into London?” he asked. “Ashcombe House is quite the acquisition.”
“It serves my purposes,” Darcy replied.
“I should very much like to speak with you at greater length,” Hargrave said, lowering his voice, though not so much as to draw notice. “There are matters of business which may be of mutual benefit.”
Darcy met his gaze evenly. “Indeed?”
Hargrave smiled. “If it suits you, perhaps sometime this week.”
Darcy allowed a brief pause, as though considering.
“Thursday afternoon would be acceptable,” he said at last.
“Excellent.” Hargrave inclined his head. “I shall call upon you then.”
Darcy returned the gesture. “I shall expect you.”
There was nothing more to be gained in the moment. He bowed lightly. “Gentlemen.”
Then he turned away.
As they moved through the room, Darcy spoke under his breath. “Keep an eye on them this evening.”
Lucien did not look at him, though his expression sharpened. “Of course.”
They parted without ceremony, Lucien drifting in a direction that would bring him nearer to their quarry without drawing notice.
Darcy continued on. He saw them almost immediately.
The Matlock party occupied a cluster of seats toward the front, their presence commanding acknowledgment from those around them.
Lord and Lady Matlock sat with dignified composure, while Bramley stood nearby, engaged in conversation.
Lady Bramley turned at his approach, her expression brightening at once.
“Count Vendicarsi,” she said warmly. “How good of you to join us.”
Darcy bowed. “Lady Bramley. Lord Bramley. Lord Matlock. Lady Matlock.”
He spoke the words, but his gaze had already moved beyond them.
She stood somewhat apart.
Elizabeth.
She appeared composed, though a subtle tension in her posture betrayed her unease. Her hands were clasped lightly before her, though he saw the subtle movement of her fingers, the faint rise and fall of her breath.
She looked at him. He saw recognition in her eyes, along with an emotion he could not immediately identify.
Darcy inclined his head. “Miss Bennet.”
“Sir,” she replied.
Her voice was calm. But she was not. He felt it—an answering disturbance within himself, sharp and immediate.
“I wonder,” he said, after a moment, “if you would do me the honor of your company during the musicale.”
There was the briefest hesitation. Then—“Yes.”
They took their seats near the Matlocks and the Bramleys, the arrangement natural enough to avoid notice, but close enough that conversation might be carried on without impropriety.
Darcy settled beside her.
Across the room, partially obscured by a pillar, he caught sight of Lucien. His companion had positioned himself with deliberate care—near enough to Hargrave and Langford to observe, sufficiently concealed to avoid scrutiny.
Darcy allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction.
Then his attention returned. To her. The musicians began to play, a prelude filling the room, though Darcy scarcely heard it.
“Do you attend many such gatherings, Count Vendicarsi?” Elizabeth asked, her tone light, though her gaze remained fixed upon him.
“Fewer than society might wish,” he replied.
“I cannot imagine society is easily denied,” she said.
“It is persistent,” Darcy agreed.
There was a brief pause. “You have made quite an impression,” she stated boldly. “Your arrival has been much discussed.”
“I fear that is unavoidable.”
“And still,” she said, “there are some things which remain…less clear.”
Darcy’s gaze shifted, though he did not look away. “Clarity is not always easily obtained,” he said.
Elizabeth studied him. “No,” she said. “Nor is it always freely given.”
The music swelled, filling the space between them.
Darcy’s hand tightened upon the arm of his chair.
Say it.
Tell her.
The impulse rose—sharp, insistent. He forced it down. “There are circumstances,” he said, “which are not as they appear.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught, though she mastered it quickly. “I had begun to suspect as much.”
“They are not easily explained,” he demurred.
“Then perhaps,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “they might be…trusted.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly. Do not. When he looked at her again, his expression was closed. “In time,” he said. “Perhaps.”
Elizabeth held his gaze. “Do you expect matters to be resolved to your satisfaction?” she asked.
Darcy considered her. “Yes,” he said at last. “I do.” There was something in his tone—something firm, unyielding—that he hoped would settle the question, though not the feeling beneath it.
Elizabeth inclined her head. “I am glad of it.”
The music drew to a close, and polite applause followed.
The remainder of the evening passed in a blur of sound and motion.
Darcy remained at Elizabeth’s side for much of it, though conversation was necessarily intermittent.
When they did speak, it was in careful phrases—nothing that might betray too much, nothing that might draw notice, and everything balanced against what remained unsaid.
He was acutely aware of her, of the way she listened. Of the moments when her composure faltered, and of the necklace at her throat.
When at last the musicale concluded, he took his leave with appropriate formality, offering his respects to the Matlocks and Bramleys before departing.
He did not trust himself to linger longer.
The carriage ride was quiet.
Darcy sat opposite Lucien, the rhythmic motion of the wheels beneath them doing little to settle his thoughts.
Elizabeth. The image of her—her voice, her gaze, the pointedness of her questions—pressed upon him with a force he could not entirely resist.
She knows. Certainly not everything, but enough. She knew his identity was assumed, that he was a man declared dead, walking around London in the flesh.
He closed his eyes briefly. “She is not deceived,” he said aloud.
Lucien, who had been watching him with a thoughtful expression, did not immediately respond.
“No,” he said at last. “She is not.”
Darcy opened his eyes. “And you?” he asked. “What did you observe?”
Lucien shifted, leaning back as the carriage turned. “I observed,” he said, “that our friends are engaged in matters of greater interest than polite society.”
Darcy’s attention sharpened at once. “Go on.”
Lucien folded his hands loosely, his tone becoming more deliberate. “Langford and Hargrave spoke at some length. Hargrave is in need of a shipment—something to be brought in discreetly.”
Darcy’s expression darkened.
“Langford replied that his usual contact is unavailable. His ships have gone down—whether by misfortune or design, I cannot say.”
Darcy said nothing.
“They are seeking another vessel,” Lucien said. “The goods must be brought in, or their associates in the north cannot proceed as planned.”
Darcy leaned forward.
“What goods?”
“That,” Lucien said, “was not specified. But the urgency was clear.” He paused. “Hargrave was quite precise in reminding Langford of his role.”
Darcy’s gaze fixed on him.
“Supply the ship,” Lucien said. “Or charter it. Meet the shipment at the docks. Arrange transport north. The entire thing seems rather…suspicious. They spoke in generalities. I suspect whatever is being transported might not be entirely above board.”
The carriage wheels struck a rough patch of road, jolting lightly. Darcy did not seem to notice. “And then?” he asked.
Lucien’s expression grew more serious. “At the conclusion of their conversation, Hargrave inquired after their ‘friend.’”
Darcy’s jaw tightened.
“Langford replied that Wickham is much the same,” Lucien said. “Hargrave added that his sister reports Mrs. Wickham remains at Pemberley.”
Silence fell. The name lingered, souring Darcy’s stomach. Wickham. His hands curled into fists at his sides. Alive, free and in possession of what is mine.
The carriage slowed as it approached Ashcombe House, but Darcy did not move.
At length, he said, “It is time.”
Lucien watched him.
“To locate Wickham,” Darcy finished. And in his voice, there was no hesitation—only purpose. His former friend needed to atone for his crimes.