Chapter Nineteen
Darcy did not immediately return to Ashcombe House.
Though he had parted from Elizabeth at the steps of Matlock House with every appearance of composure, he found that composure a fragile thing once he was alone. He walked on without direction for some minutes, his hands clasped behind his back, his pace steady though his thoughts were anything but.
The park stretched before him in modest order, its gravel paths and winter-bare trees offering none of the distraction he might have wished.
Everywhere he looked, he saw not the present, but the past—Ramsgate, the sea, the shifting light upon the water, and Elizabeth walking beside him with that same thoughtful attentiveness she had shown today.
Only now there was something altered.
Before, she had been open—curious, perceptive, quick to meet him where he stood.
Now she held herself with care, her questions edged with restraint, her confidence tempered by uncertainty.
She knew him. Of that he could no longer pretend ignorance.
She knew him and did not name him, and the discipline required to maintain such silence must cost her dearly.
She trusted me once without reservation. The thought came unbidden, and with it something sharper than regret. And now I ask her to trust me again—without explanation. He exhaled slowly and turned toward home.
By the time he reached Ashcombe House, his mind had begun, if not to settle, then to order itself. Emotion, however persistent, must yield to purpose. There was too much left unfinished, too much at stake, to allow himself the indulgence of distraction—even one so dear.
Still, as he entered the house and handed off his gloves and hat, one thought remained stubbornly present.
The Gardiners.
He had not expected it. Walking beside Elizabeth, hearing her speak, had drawn his mind not only to her, but to those with whom she had first welcomed him—her aunt and uncle, whose easy kindness and practical good sense had made Ramsgate feel less a retreat and more a home.
Mr. Gardiner. A man of trade, certainly, but of a sort far superior to most. Upright, discreet, observant. A man who knew the world without being corrupted by it.
Darcy paused in the entrance hall.
Then, decisively—“Gibbs.”
The butler appeared at once. “Sir?”
“Send for Mr. Stone.”
“At once, sir.”
Darcy moved into the study and did not sit. He paced the length of the room once, twice, his thoughts aligning with increasing clarity.
If Hargrave required a ship—
If Langford supplied the means—
Then they must be given a channel. One that could be observed. One that could be trusted not to collapse under scrutiny that Darcy could tightly control.
When Stone was shown in, Darcy had already reached his conclusion.
The runner bowed. “Sir.”
“Mr. Stone.” Darcy inclined his head. “Be seated.”
Stone complied, though he sat with the alert stillness of a man accustomed to being called upon for immediate action.
“I require information,” Darcy said. “On one Edward Gardiner of Gracechurch Street.”
Stone’s brows lifted almost imperceptibly. “A merchant, sir?”
“Yes.” Darcy paused only briefly. “He is a man I knew once.” That was all.
Stone inclined his head. “I will have what you need.”
“Discreetly.”
“Of course.”
Stone departed, and Darcy was left once more with his thoughts.
The days that followed were not idle.
Darcy applied himself with renewed focus, dividing his time between the demands of his assumed identity and the methodical work of uncovering what had been done in his absence.
He received calls, returned them when necessary, attended to correspondence, and maintained the delicate balance required of a foreign nobleman newly established in London society.
Beneath it all ran a current of anticipation.
He waited.
When Stone returned, it was in the early evening, just as the light began to fade from the windows of the study.
“Mr. Stone,” Darcy said, gesturing him in. “You have news.”
“I do, sir.”
Stone remained standing, though he was invited to sit. “Edward Gardiner of Gracechurch Street is indeed engaged in imports and exports. His business is well established, his reputation solid. He is known to be fair in his dealings and cautious in his ventures.”
Darcy listened without interruption.
“There is no suggestion of impropriety,” Stone went on. “On the contrary, he is considered a man of integrity. Those who deal with him trust him.”
Darcy’s mouth curved faintly. “As they should.”
Stone inclined his head, then added, “He has connections to several shipping concerns, though he does not own vessels himself. He arranges, facilitates, and oversees.”
“Just so.” Darcy turned away, his mind already moving ahead. A man of integrity who was known to be cautious. A man whose name would invite trust where others might provoke suspicion.
“Yes,” Darcy said. “He will serve.”
Stone watched him. “You intend to use him, sir?”
Darcy glanced back. “I intend to provide an opportunity.” There was a difference. He would do nothing to harm Elizabeth’s relations.
Stone did not question it. “There is more,” he said. “Regarding your cousin.”
Darcy’s attention sharpened at once. “Go on.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam is presently attached to the Home Office,” Stone said. “He has been engaged in investigations relating to smuggling and the movement of illegal goods.”
Darcy stilled. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, sir.”
Darcy drew a slow, deliberate breath, struggling to quell the feeling rising in his chest. Richard. So, you have not been idle either. Darcy turned back toward the window, his expression thoughtful. “This is useful,” he said.
Stone did not miss the shift. “Very.”
Darcy inclined his head. “You will continue to observe. Report anything further regarding his activities—particularly where they intersect with Hargrave and Langford.”
“Yes, sir.”
When Stone had gone, Darcy stood alone in the fading light.
The pieces were assembling. Hargrave required transport.
Instead of Langford, Darcy would provide the answer by way of information.
Gardiner would provide the means. And if Gardiner was still the man Darcy had known years ago, he would not hesitate to report any illegal activity—to the Home Office… and Fitzwilliam.
Darcy allowed himself one brief moment of satisfaction. Then he moved on.
The meeting with Hargrave took place precisely as arranged on a Thursday afternoon at Ashcombe House. Darcy preferred to host his enemies. The familiar atmosphere gave him the advantage.
He received Hargrave in the smaller drawing room, the one that faced the quieter street and admitted a more subdued light. The setting was deliberate—intimate enough to encourage confidence, but formal enough to maintain distance.
Hargrave entered with the easy assurance of a man accustomed to success. “Count Vendicarsi,” he said, bowing. “I thank you for receiving me.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Mr. Hargrave.”
They sat opposite one another, a small table between them. Wine was offered and accepted, though neither man drank more than a token measure.
Hargrave wasted little time. “I shall speak plainly,” he said. “There are opportunities in England at present which are not always apparent to those newly arrived. Trade is shifting. Demand is rising. Those who are positioned to take advantage of it may profit exceedingly.”
Darcy regarded him with mild interest. “And you consider yourself so positioned?”
Hargrave smiled. “I do more than consider it. I have proved it.”
“I see.”
Hargrave leaned forward. “With the right partners, Count, there is no limit to what may be accomplished.”
Darcy let a brief silence fall.
“And what,” he asked at last, “would you require of such a partner?”
“Flexibility,” Hargrave said. “Discretion and resources.”
Darcy’s gaze remained unbroken. He waited a few moments before replying, giving the impression he contemplated Hargrave’s words.
“Shipping interests,” he said, as though the thought had only just occurred to him. “Are these among your concerns?”
Hargrave’s eyes sharpened. “They are.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I do not possess a vessel myself.”
“No?” Hargrave asked, though there was no disappointment in his tone.
“No,” Darcy said. “But I have, in the past, made use of certain…arrangements.”
Hargrave waited.
Darcy allowed himself the smallest pause. “A merchant in Gracechurch Street,” he said. “Gardiner.”
Hargrave’s attention fixed at once. “Gardiner,” he repeated. “I know the name.” There was a sour aspect to his tone. Perhaps he had lost business to the man before.
“He is reliable,” Darcy said. “Discreet. I have trusted him with…sensitive cargo.”
Hargrave leaned back, speculation evident in his expression. “This is most interesting,” he said.
Darcy inclined his head. “I thought it might be.” There was little more to be said. The seed had been planted.
Hargrave took his leave not long after, his manner betraying a barely concealed eagerness.
Darcy watched him go. The pieces were positioned on the board. Darcy had dropped the breadcrumbs, and Hargrave had gobbled them up. Stone would follow him and ensure he took the bait completely.
Now you will move, and I will see where you lead.
It was Stone who brought the next piece.
“Wickham,” he said simply.
Darcy turned. “What of him?”
“He may be found most evenings at a gaming hell in St. James’s,” Stone said. “He drinks heavily. Gambles with little restraint.”
Darcy’s expression hardened. “And Mrs. Wickham?”
“It is as I heard. She remains at Pemberley. Reports suggest she is…content enough. Though isolated.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened.
Content enough. What have you made of her life, Wickham? He did not ask the question aloud.
Instead, he said, “You will continue to observe.”
“Yes, sir.”
Darcy did not wait. That evening, he went in search of Wickham.
The gaming hell was precisely as he remembered such places to be, though in the past he had frequented them but rarely.