Chapter Nineteen #2
Dimly lit, thick with smoke, and alive with the restless energy of risk and desperation. The air was close, the scent of spirits and sweat mingling with the faint metallic tang of coin. Laughter rose and fell without mirth, punctuated by the sharp click of cards and the rattle of dice.
Darcy paused just inside the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust.
He saw Wickham almost at once. The man sat at a table near the center of the room, a glass in one hand, the other resting loosely beside a scatter of coins.
His appearance was altered—less polished, less controlled—but not entirely ruined.
There was still a trace of the charm that had once made him welcome everywhere.
But there was something else as well. A carelessness marked by fatigue.
Darcy approached without haste.
“I am unfamiliar with this game,” he said, taking the empty chair beside Wickham and not bothering to introduce himself. “May I observe?”
Wickham glanced at him, irritation flickering briefly before being replaced by habitual ease.
“Of course,” he said. “Though you may find it less entertaining than you expect.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I shall take my chances.”
The game progressed. Darcy watched. Wickham drank. There was a lull between rounds.
“You are not English,” Wickham said, glancing at him again.
“No.”
“Where from, then?”
“Sardinia.”
Wickham’s brows lifted. “A long way to come for English gaming tables.”
Darcy allowed a faint smile. “I have found that vice travels well.”
Wickham laughed. “That it does.” Another round began. Wickham lost. He swore under his breath and reached for his glass.
Darcy studied him. “You play often?” he asked.
“Too often,” Wickham said lightly.
“And you continue.”
Wickham shrugged. “What else is there?”
Darcy tilted his head. “Surely a man of your position has other claims upon his time.”
Something flickered in Wickham’s expression.
“Position,” he repeated. “Yes. I suppose I do.”
Darcy said nothing.
Wickham drank again.
“It is a curious thing,” he said after a moment, his voice lower now, less performative. “To have everything one once thought desirable.”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened.
“What did it cost you?”
Wickham gave a short, humorless laugh.
“More than I expected,” he said.
The words hung between them. Darcy did not move. Remorse? Or was it merely self-pity?
Wickham shook his head, as though dismissing his own thought. “No matter,” he said, reaching again for the cards. “The game goes on.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Yes,” he said. “But not forever.”
Wickham did not hear him. Or, if he did, he did not understand.
Darcy remained a while longer, observing, listening, committing every detail to memory. Then, when he had seen enough, he rose and took his leave. Outside, the air was cold and clean. Darcy drew a steady breath. Wickham was not content nor was he secure. Wickham was unraveling.
And that could be used. Darcy turned toward home, his mind already moving ahead.
Darcy presented himself at Carlton House precisely at the appointed hour, his carriage drawing to a smooth halt beneath the grand portico where liveried servants moved with practiced efficiency.
The facade, already familiar to all London for its extravagance, did not disappoint upon closer inspection.
Carlton House stood less as a residence and more as a declaration—of wealth, of taste, and of a certain cultivated magnificence that reflected its master’s inclinations.
He gave his name—Sebastian Dantès, Count of Vendicarsi—and was conducted within.
The interior was no less impressive. Rich carpets muffled each step; gilded surfaces caught the light of chandeliers arranged with studied brilliance; and the walls were adorned with paintings and classical motifs that spoke of both refinement and excess.
Darcy moved through it all with outward composure, though his senses were keenly alert.
Every glance, every gesture, every word spoken here held meaning.
He was shown into a reception room where several gentlemen already waited, some conversing in low tones, others standing in expectation. Darcy took his place among them, neither seeking attention nor shrinking from it, and waited.
At length, the doors were opened.
“His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent.”
The company straightened as one.
The Prince entered with practiced ease, his presence immediately commanding the room.
He was richly dressed, as was his habit, his coat exquisitely tailored, his manner one of affable authority.
There was something almost theatrical in the way he moved—conscious, perhaps, of the effect he produced and inclined to maintain it.
Introductions began at once.
When Darcy’s turn came, he stepped forward and bowed with proper deference.
“Your Royal Highness.”
“Count Vendicarsi,” the Prince said, his tone warm with interest. “We have heard a great deal of you. A most welcome addition to our society.”
“You honor me, sir.”
The Prince regarded him with open curiosity. “From Sardinia, are you not? A land of some intrigue at present. We are always pleased to receive gentlemen of consequence from abroad.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I am grateful for Your Royal Highness’s gracious reception.”
“And you have taken a house in Mayfair?” the Prince pressed. “Ashcombe House, I believe. An excellent situation.”
“It has suited my purposes very well.”
“Good, good.” The Prince smiled. “London thrives on new acquaintance. We must not allow ourselves to grow dull.”
There was a ripple of polite amusement among those present.
“You will find,” the Prince went on, lowering his voice in a manner that suggested confidence, “that English society can be most agreeable—provided one knows where to look.”
“I shall endeavor to profit by Your Royal Highness’s guidance.”
“Do so,” the Prince said. “And you must attend us again. We shall expect it.”
“I shall consider it an honor.”
The exchange moved on, as such audiences always did, but Darcy was acutely aware of the scrutiny that lingered even as the Prince turned to the next gentleman. He had been received, acknowledged, and—for the present—accepted.
When at last he took his leave, stepping once more into the crisp air beyond Carlton House, he allowed himself a single breath. The role held. Count Vendicarsi stood secure—even before the Prince himself. And that, Darcy knew, would serve him well in the days to come.