Chapter Twenty-Four #2
A faint, incredulous sound escaped Lucien. “Vendicarsi,” he said lightly. “A name that proclaims revenge; even so, we are assured the intention is justice. I suspect more than one gentleman of Italian acquaintance has found the choice…interesting.”
Fitzwilliam glanced at him, then back to Darcy.
Darcy’s mouth tightened. “I cannot stop now.”
Fitzwilliam studied him. “Because you are close.”
“Yes.”
“Then finish it,” Fitzwilliam said. “But understand this. The Home Office has been watching Hargrave and Langford for some time. Gardiner’s information has provided some of what we lacked. We will act eventually. Your involvement is not needed.”
Lucien inclined his head. “Darcy has gathered a considerable amount of evidence. Their activities are well-documented. It would bring a quick end to everything.”
“They are impatient,” Darcy added. “A shipment has been delayed. Hargrave grows restless.”
Fitzwilliam nodded slowly. “Then we move soon.”
Quietude descended again.
“What of Elizabeth?” Fitzwilliam asked again.
Darcy’s gaze shifted, though not toward either of them. It rested somewhere beyond the walls of the room, beyond the present moment entirely.
“I hardly know,” he said. “But I do love her.”
The words were low, almost indistinct, though they carried more import than any declaration.
Fitzwilliam watched him for a long moment, then rose.
Lucien remained seated, his expression thoughtful.
Darcy did not move.
The path before him remained unchanged. It no longer felt quite so singular as it once had.
The house had gone to bed long before Darcy sought his chamber, but sleep did not come.
Fitzwilliam’s words lingered with a persistence he could not easily dismiss.
They had not been spoken in anger, nor even in reproach, but with a clarity that made them more difficult to evade.
Questions of consequence had been placed before him—of name, of reputation, of Georgiana—and he had answered none of them to satisfaction, not even his own.
And Elizabeth. Her name alone unsettled the careful balance he had maintained for so long. Every reservation, every bit of resistance was at an end. He would tell her everything on the morrow.
Darcy stood at the window, looking out over the dimly lit street, though he saw little of it.
His reflection stared faintly back at him, altered but unmistakable.
The beard, the closer cut of his hair, the bearing he had cultivated—all of it served its purpose.
It allowed him to move unseen among those who had wronged him.
It gave him access where Fitzwilliam Darcy would have been watched.
It did not change who he was.
And if you lose your soul in the process?
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.
No. He would not be turned aside. Not now. Not when the truth lay so near to the surface, when the men responsible had begun, at last, to reveal themselves through their own impatience.
There was one among them, however, who remained an enigma. Wickham.
Darcy had sought him out more than once in recent weeks, not as an adversary, but as an observer.
The man he found bore little resemblance to the polished charmer of their youth.
Indolence remained, as did a certain careless ease, but beneath it lay something darker.
Weariness. Restlessness. At times, it might almost be called regret.
It did not absolve him. But it complicated matters. He seemed to have fabricated his own punishment and suffered it on a daily basis.
Darcy turned from the window. If there were answers to be had, they would not come from solitude. He would find Wickham again.
The gentleman’s club was neither the most fashionable nor the most reputable establishment in London, but it occupied a convenient middle ground between the two.
Its members were of varied character, its atmosphere one of subdued indulgence rather than open excess.
It was the sort of place where a man might be observed without being remarked upon too closely.
Darcy entered without drawing undue attention, his presence acknowledged with the customary glances afforded any unfamiliar face, though none lingered long enough to speak with him.
The air was thick with the scent of tobacco and brandy.
Low conversation filled the room, punctuated occasionally by the sharper sounds of laughter or the clink of glass against wood.
Lamps cast a warm glow over the scene, illuminating card tables and small clusters of men engaged in private discussion.
It did not take long to find Wickham. He sat at a table near the far wall, a glass in one hand, his posture once more relaxed to the point of carelessness.
A small group surrounded him, though their attention seemed divided.
Wickham spoke easily, his tone light, even while there was a tension in his movements that did not entirely escape notice.
Darcy approached without haste. “Mr. Wickham.”
Wickham looked up. For a moment, recognition did not appear in his bleary eyes. Then it settled into something like familiarity, though not suspicion.
“Ah,” he said, with a faint smile. “The count. Or should I say—my lord? One never knows quite how best to address our continental friends.”
“Your first attempt will suffice,” Darcy replied evenly.
Wickham gestured to the empty chair beside him. “Join us, then. We were just engaged in a most edifying discussion on the merits of restraint.”
Darcy took the offered seat. “An unusual topic for such a setting,” he said.
“Indeed,” Wickham agreed lightly. “Which is perhaps why none of us are particularly inclined to practice it.”
The others at the table exchanged glances, then, sensing perhaps that the conversation was turning in a direction less suited to their interests, began to excuse themselves one by one. Within a few minutes, Darcy and Wickham were left alone.
Wickham leaned back in his chair, studying him with a more focused attention than before. “You have taken an interest in me,” he said. “I confess I am curious as to why.”
Darcy regarded him calmly. “You are an interesting man.”
Wickham gave a low laugh. “I have been called many things, but that is not among the more common.”
Darcy did not smile. For a brief period, silence prevailed between them. Then, as though moved by some impulse he did not entirely examine, Darcy said, “I knew a boy once.”
Wickham’s expression shifted, though he did not interrupt.
“He was the son of a steward,” Darcy continued, his voice casual. “He grew up alongside another boy, one whose circumstances differed considerably from his own. They were taught together, played together, shared in all the small adventures of youth.”
Wickham’s fingers stilled against the side of his glass.
“They were not equals,” Darcy said. “Not in the eyes of the world. In those early years, such distinctions held little meaning. They believed themselves brothers in all but name.”
Silence stretched between them. Darcy did not look at Wickham as he spoke. His gaze rested instead upon the far wall, though his focus lay elsewhere entirely.
“There was a day,” he went on, “when the two of them resolved to fish in a stream that ran along the edge of the estate. It was forbidden, of course. The current was stronger than it appeared, and the bank was steep in places.”
A faint flicker passed through Wickham’s expression.
“They went regardless,” Darcy said. “The steward’s son slipped. The current took him before he could regain his footing. He might have drowned, had the other not followed him in.”
Wickham’s grip tightened.
“He was dragged out,” Darcy said. “Half-conscious, soaked through, thoroughly chastened. The other boy stood over him, dripping and furious, demanding to know what possessed him to act so foolishly.”
He paused. “The answer was simple,” Darcy said. “He had wanted what the other had. Freedom. Confidence. The belief that no consequence could truly touch him.” Darcy fell silent. The memory lingered between them, unspoken but unmistakable.
Wickham let out a slow breath, his gaze dropping briefly to the table before lifting again.
“I recall a similar incident in my own childhood,” he said at length.
Darcy turned his head, though his expression did not change.
Wickham gave a short, humorless laugh. “For my part, I was thoroughly scolded. Not by my father, but by my friend who did me the great service of rescuing my sorry hide. I believe the phrase he used was something to the effect that if I intended to drown myself, I might at least have the courtesy not to inconvenience anyone else in the process.”
Darcy said nothing.
Wickham studied him more closely now. “Strange,” he said. “How similar your tale is to mine. Boyish antics, no doubt.”
“Indeed,” Darcy replied.
The words settled heavily.
Wickham did not move at once.
Then, slowly, he set his glass down.
“What became of him?” he asked. “The other boy.”
Darcy’s gaze met his at last.
“He was betrayed.”
Wickham flinched.
The reaction was slight. Easily missed.
Darcy saw it.
“By the one he trusted most,” Darcy said. “The one he had called brother.”
Silence fell.
Wickham looked away, his jaw tightening.
“That is a poor end to such a story.”
Darcy rose.
“It is not ended.”
Wickham’s head turned sharply.
“Wait.”
Darcy paused.
Wickham observed him, a trace of disquiet now evident beneath his customary composure.
“What was his name?”
Darcy held his gaze.
Without answering, he inclined his head and turned away.
He did not look back.
Behind him, he suspected that Wickham remained seated, his hand lifting once more to his glass. Darcy imagined it trembled as he raised it to his lips.
“Impossible,” he heard Wickham mutter under his breath.
The seeds had now been sown. Whether Wickham remembered the encounter in the morning was another matter entirely.