Chapter Twenty-Four
Darcy had just dismissed a footman with instructions regarding the afternoon’s correspondence when Mr. Gibbs appeared in the doorway, composed as ever, though there was a certain gravity to his expression that did not escape notice.
“A gentleman to see you, sir,” the butler said. “Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
Darcy stilled. For a brief moment, he said nothing at all.
The name settled heavily in his mind, bringing with it a flood of memory so immediate and vivid that it threatened to break through the careful order he had imposed upon himself.
He had known this moment must come. Ever since Lady Jersey’s ball, ever since that brief exchange of glances across a crowded room, he had been aware that concealment could not be maintained indefinitely.
Still, knowledge did little to lessen the impact of reality.
“Show him in,” Darcy said at last.
Gibbs inclined his head and withdrew.
Darcy remained where he stood, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed upon nothing in particular. He did not pace. He did not attempt to arrange his thoughts. There would be no time for preparation. Whatever was to pass between them would do so without artifice.
The door opened.
Richard Fitzwilliam entered with none of the calculated composure expected of a gentleman calling upon an acquaintance. His step was swift, his expression unguarded, his eyes already searching.
Gibbs closed the door behind him.
The moment the latch settled into place, Fitzwilliam crossed the room in three long strides and seized Darcy by the shoulders, pulling him into a fierce embrace.
Darcy stiffened. The instinct to resist, to hold himself apart, rose sharply, shaped by years of discipline and, more recently, by necessity. For the briefest instant, he remained rigid beneath the unexpected contact, his mind struggling to reconcile the present with all that had come before.
His resolve faltered. Darcy’s arms lifted of their own accord, returning the embrace with a force that surprised even himself.
Fitzwilliam drew back almost at once, though his hands remained upon Darcy’s arms as if to assure himself he was real.
“You are alive,” he said, his voice breaking.
“Heavens above, Darcy—how—where have you been? We thought—” He stopped, dragging a hand across his face, though it did little to conceal the tears that had already begun to fall.
“There was a body! There were reports of highwaymen, but nothing certain, nothing that made sense. I identified the body myself. It was your clothing, your signet ring.”
The words came quickly, tumbling over one another, each question pressing against the next before Darcy could form any answer.
Darcy said nothing. He stood as he had stood before, though his composure was no longer quite so complete. He experienced an internal change, where something long held back began to stir due to the man standing before him.
Fitzwilliam’s grip tightened. “Why did you not come to us? Why did you not send word? Do you know what it did to Georgiana? To your family? To—” He broke off again, breath coming short, his emotions too near the surface to be contained.
Before Darcy could speak, another voice entered the moment. “I confess,” Lucien said from his seat near the fire, rising with unhurried ease, “there is a certain satisfaction in witnessing such a reunion.”
Fitzwilliam turned sharply.
Lucien inclined his head with a faint, knowing smile. “It seems, dear brother, that nothing may be concealed from those who truly know us.”
Darcy exhaled slowly and passed a hand over his face. “So, it would appear,” he said.
He gestured toward the chairs. “Sit, Richard.”
Fitzwilliam did not immediately comply. His gaze moved between Darcy and Lucien, taking in the latter with a keen, assessing look that spoke of long habit and sharper instincts.
“And this is—?”
“My friend,” Darcy said. “You may as well join us, Lucien.”
Lucien did not require further invitation. He resumed his place with an air of interest, folding himself comfortably into the chair as though he had been present for such conversations all his life.
Fitzwilliam, after a moment’s hesitation, took the seat opposite Darcy, though his attention remained fixed upon him with an intensity that had not diminished.
“Begin,” he said.
Darcy inclined his head. He did not attempt to modify what followed.
First, he spoke of Ramsgate, of the ride that had seemed so ordinary, of the sudden violence that had torn him from it.
He described the confusion, the darkness, the long descent into a reality so far removed from all he had known that it had, at first, seemed unreal.
The name forced upon him, the isolation, the slow and terrible understanding of what had been done and why.
Then he spoke of the prison, of the years measured not in days but in endurance. Darcy spoke of Lucien, of the unlikely friendship forged in those depths, of the knowledge gained and the plan that had grown from it.
Fitzwilliam did not interrupt. He listened in silence, his expression shifting as each piece of the narrative fell into place. Shock gave way to anger, anger to something darker still. More than once, his hands clenched where they rested upon his knees, though he did not speak.
Darcy kept speaking.
He related their escape, of the fortune discovered, of the identity assumed not for vanity but for necessity. In detail, he described the return to England, the careful gathering of information, the slow uncovering of the truth that had been hidden beneath layers of deceit.
When he finished, the room fell into a silence that seemed almost to echo.
Fitzwilliam leaned forward, his elbows resting upon his knees, his gaze fixed upon the floor before lifting again. “Hargrave,” he said. “And Langford.”
Darcy inclined his head.
“And Wickham.” At that, Darcy’s expression hardened, though he did not immediately respond.
Fitzwilliam exhaled. “Elizabeth’s uncle, Mr. Gardiner, came to me,” he said. “Some weeks past. He spoke of a proposal. Of shipping interests that did not sit well with him. He suspected more than he could prove.”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened.
“I listened,” Fitzwilliam assured him. “There was enough in what he said to warrant attention. The Home Office has been watching certain movements for some time. Smuggling, forged documents, irregular shipments. We had fragments. Nothing that would hold.” He looked at Darcy directly. “Your intervention has changed that.”
A faint nod acknowledged the point.
“Well played,” Fitzwilliam said.
Lucien’s lips curved slightly. “He has a talent for such things.”
Darcy did not respond.
Fitzwilliam’s expression shifted again, the earlier intensity returning, though now tempered by something more deliberate.
“There is a matter you have not addressed,” he said.
Darcy’s gaze did not waver. “Name it.”
“How do you mean to reclaim your name?” The question settled heavily between them.
Fitzwilliam did not allow him time to evade it.
“You have constructed this identity with care. You have moved within society under a title that grants you access and influence. But Darcy is not dead. Not truly. If you reveal yourself, what follows?”
Darcy said nothing.
Fitzwilliam continued, his tone steady but firm. “Scandal, at the very least. Questions that cannot be answered without exposing all that has occurred. Georgiana’s position will be drawn into it. The name Darcy will not emerge unscathed.”
His gaze sharpened. “Have you considered that?”
Darcy’s hands tightened in his lap, though his expression remained composed. “Those who harmed me will answer for it,” he said.
Fitzwilliam’s jaw set. “That is not what I asked.” Silence stretched. “And if, in the process, you drag others into ruin?” he pressed. “If the truth, once uncovered, cannot be contained? If Georgiana’s name is tied to it in ways that invite scrutiny, speculation, or worse?”
Darcy’s voice was low. “I will protect her.”
“As you have always done,” Fitzwilliam said. “But protection is not always within one man’s power.” The words struck with more force than any raised voice might have carried.
Darcy did not answer.
Fitzwilliam leaned back, studying him.
“You speak of justice,” he said. “You speak of righting what was done. Yet you walk a path that may cost you more than you intend.”
Darcy’s gaze lowered briefly, then lifted again.
“They will not go unpunished,” he repeated.
“And if you lose yourself in the process?”
Darcy frowned. For a long moment, he did not move, did not speak, did not even appear to breathe. The long-standing certainty that propelled him remained, though unease had begun to creep into it.
Fitzwilliam did not press further. Instead, he shifted the ground of the conversation.
“What of Elizabeth?”
The name struck deeper than all that had come before.
Darcy’s composure faltered, though only slightly.
“She knows—she allows you your concealment. She speaks to you as you present yourself, though she sees beyond it.”
Darcy’s expression tightened.
“She has loved you without interruption. Through your absence. Through your presumed death. She has held to you when all reason would have counseled otherwise.” Fitzwilliam paused. “I gave her the miniature. She keeps it still.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly.
“She did not know of the connection between our families,” Fitzwilliam said.
“Not until after Jane’s engagement to my brother.
For years, she has been the only true link between Georgiana and those who would care for her.
Letters passed without display, without expectation.
” His voice hardened. “And this is how you would repay her?”
Darcy did not answer.
“Marry her,” Fitzwilliam said, the words simple and direct. “Take your place. Leave this pursuit behind. There is happiness within your reach, if you would only claim it.”