“Watts, Pence, and Drummond?” Darcy asked. “I saw them, too. They were swept up near the Tuileries.”
“Yes, them. I’ve a few contacts in Paris who might be able to help. Businessmen and diplomats. If there’s a way to get those boys out, I’ll find it.”
“You cannot be serious!” Richard blurted. “You’ve done enough. More than enough. You’ve got us this far—”
“And those boys?” Sir Thomas cut him off. “Nineteen years old without a friend in the country? I’ll not leave them to rot in some French cell because it’s inconvenient for me to go back.”
“But you’ve secured your own passage,” Richard argued, like a man reasoning with a stubborn child. “Your name is on the manifest. If you’re captured—”
“I am a baronet, Fitzwilliam. They shan’t harm me. In the worst case, I will be held until someone can negotiate my release. And the French are not fools—they would rather trade me than keep me. I will be safe enough.”
“You hope,” Darcy said. “Sir Thomas, you would be a valuable hostage. They could hold you for months—years, even.”
“Perhaps.” Sir Thomas adjusted his coat, and for a moment, Darcy could see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes. “But those boys won’t be. They’re young, not a penny on them, I’d wager, and far from home. If we wait for the crown to act, it could be months before their families even hear a word, and much longer before anyone can secure their release. By then, who knows what condition they will be in? I have a chance to help now, and I am going to take it.”
Darcy opened his mouth to argue, but Richard laid a hand on his arm. “You’re sure about this?” Richard asked. “Going back?”
“I won’t abandon them, not when there’s something I can do. Besides,” he added, a glint of wry humor in his eye, “someone has to keep these diplomats honest. They’ll find it difficult to brush me off when I’m standing in front of them.”
“You’re risking everything,” Darcy said. “For boys who aren’t even your own.”
Sir Thomas stepped closer, and when he spoke, it was as if he were addressing Darcy alone. “They’re someone’s boys, Darcy. Someone’s sons, brothers—your friends, if I’m not mistaken. And that’s reason enough.”
Richard gave a stiff nod, his jaw clenched. “Then we wish you Godspeed.”
Sir Thomas smiled—a sad, knowing smile—and took Richard’s hand, shaking it firmly. “Take care of yourselves,” he said, his gaze shifting between the two of them. “Get on that ship and get home.”
As Sir Thomas turned to leave, Darcy reached out and grabbed his arm, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Don’t do this alone. Let me come with you.”
Sir Thomas shook his head. “No, Darcy. I need you on that ship. You’ve a clearer head on your shoulders than most. Get home and see that the others are accounted for. That’s your duty now.” He paused, his expression softening. “I need to know there’s someone I can count on if things go wrong.”
Darcy let go, his throat tight, unable to find a response that did not sound hollow. Sir Thomas clapped him on the shoulder and then turned, striding across the docks toward a waiting carriage.
Darcy watched as he climbed inside, the door closing with a soft click. The carriage driver flicked the reins, and within moments, the wheels were churning over the cobblestones, heading back toward the shadow of Paris.
The wind had picked up, a sharp, biting chill that sliced through the bustling docks. Around them, sailors and passengers hurried to and fro, shouts and whistles mingling with the distant clamor of waves crashing against the pier. The ship that would take them home loomed ahead, its hull swaying gently as it tugged against the ropes.
Richard’s expression was tight, his mouth set in a grim line. “Sir Thomas will manage,” he said, as if trying to convince himself as much as Darcy. “He’s too stubborn to let the French keep him.”
“I hope you are right.” As they approached the gangplank, Darcy slowed.
Richard glanced over his shoulder at him. “Coming aboard?”
“In a moment,” said Darcy. “I’ll catch up.”
“Don’t be long. The tide won’t wait for you.” He gave Darcy a firm pat on the back before striding up the plank, disappearing among the clusters of passengers.
Darcy turned his steps aside. Charles Bingley, the fool who had saved him in Paris, was leaning against a crate by the rail, gazing out toward the harbor. His right arm was balanced in a sling and bandaged beneath his coat, the wound from the bayonet still soaking through the linens when he moved too much. But Bingley wore the same easy, half-smile he always did. As if the world had not just turned upside down.
Darcy crossed the dock and came to stand beside him. “Bingley.”
Bingley turned, his eyes brightening. “Ah, there you are, Darcy. You looked rather conflicted a moment ago. Thought you might’ve decided to stay in France and keep Sir Thomas company.”
“I nearly did. But I had to see you before we boarded. I… wanted to thank you, properly. You did not have to do what you did back there—saving me from those soldiers. If you had not…” He trailed off, the words catching, before he forced himself to continue. “I owe you a debt. Anything you need, at any time, I am at your service. Just say the word.”
Bingley’s expression shifted, a flicker of hesitation passing over his face. “Funny you should say that,” he began, with a hint of nervous laughter. “While we were in Paris, I had this idea. Bit of a mad one, perhaps, but… bother it, the notion kept rattling around in my head, and I thought, well, if I made it back to England, I’d give it a try.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “Go on.”
