His hand tightened on the post. And then the door opened.
He could not see her face. Only the flash of pale silk, a gloved hand. A woman’s figure descending with care and a barely concealed limp—the same posture he had seen her adopt while carrying his pistol in her sleeve and blood on her knuckles. The royal livery moved to surround her, to escort her to the carriage with the same polished elegance used for foreign princesses and Her Majesty’s own daughters.
She did not look back.
And then the door closed. The driver snapped the reins. The wheels turned, and the carriage—her carriage—vanished into the turning curve of Pall Mall.
He let go of the post. And forced himself to walk away.
Summoning what little strength remained, he signaled for a hackney cab. The driver eyed him warily, noting his disheveled appearance and the pallor of his skin. Darcy managed to instruct, “Whitehall. The Home Office.” The driver hesitated, but, seeing the coin glinting in Darcy’s palm, nodded and set the horses in motion.
The carriage wheels clattered over cobbles slick with rain, but Darcy barely registered the sound. His vision blurred; every jolt of the vehicle sent knives of pain lancing through his shoulder, his spine, his skull. He kept upright only by force of will, one hand braced against the wall of the compartment, the other pressed to his side. Sweat clung cold beneath his cravat. His coat, still stained dark with blood beneath the shoulder seam, stuck to him like a second skin.
London unspooled around him, grey and indistinct. Streets he knew by heart—Brook Street, Piccadilly, the turn toward Whitehall—blurred past without meaning. The chill in the air pressed in through the cracks in the frame. But he was beyond cold. Beyond exhaustion. All that remained was the mission.
The Home Office loomed ahead like a sentry in stone—cold, massive, watching. He nearly stumbled on the step down, catching himself with a grunt of pain that tore across his bruised ribs. The footman offered a hand; Darcy ignored it. He had to walk in under his own power.
He passed through the entrance and into the interior hush of bureaucracy. The familiar scent of ink and old paper replaced the smoke and ash that had clung to him since last night. His boots echoed down the corridor—too slow, too uneven—and heads turned. A junior clerk dropped his quill. A secretary stilled mid-conversation. They knew who he was, of course. Knew enough to whisper.
But no one dared stop him, or ask why his shirt bore crusted red stains.
His hand trembled as he reached for the key to his office. The brass stuck in the lock before clicking open, and the door swung inward to reveal the small, orderly room where he had spent countless hours unravelling treason.
He crossed to the writing desk, swaying slightly. With stiff fingers, he unlocked the drawer beneath. Inside, wrapped in linen and bound with twine, lay the bulk of the evidence. Folded ledgers. Crumbling correspondence. A banker’s receipt in coded script, signed by a false name—one they now knew to be Cunningham’s. Letters that would unwind him. Ruin him.
Darcy laid each piece on the blotter with reverence, as though touching something holy. Or dangerous.
Darcy left the Home Office with the documents tucked close to his chest, wrapped in oilskin and tied with twine. The corridors had quieted as he passed, but whispers rose in his wake. He did not look at them. Did not slow. Let them gawk. He was beyond the reach of their curiosity.
Outside, the cold bit through the linen at his collar. The weak moon had begun its ascent, and the damp air clouded in like a second weight on his shoulders. He turned west, toward his flat.
The walk should have taken fifteen minutes.
It took nearly forty.
By the time he reached his door, his right arm hung limp at his side, and his vision danced with light. He fumbled with the key three times before the lock finally yielded. The door opened inward to silence and dust. No fire laid. No supper waiting.
He made straight for the desk.
There, beneath a pile of military reports provided by his cousin and a discarded greatcoat, lay the rest of it. More evidence. Copies of letters he had once shown to Richard—ciphered notes, household accounts from the Bellingham estate, a sworn statement from a disgraced footman who once served in Cunningham’s town house. He gathered them all, hands shaking, and then sat down to pen a cover letter for His Highness that he hoped would connect all the ruinous dots.
Then, and only then, did he pull the bell rope.
His manservant had been on leave for weeks—probably forgot the name of his employer by now. But Darcy had made arrangements months ago for such a moment as this. A trusted courier, paid well for discretion, appeared within a quarter hour. He was a broad-shouldered man with pale brows and a weathered coat, and he said nothing about the state of the flat—or of Darcy himself.
“You are to take these to Carlton House,” Darcy said, forcing the words out though his vision spotted. “Directly to His Highness. No detours. No intermediaries. Do you understand me?”
The courier nodded once, solemnly. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Go.”
The moment the door shut behind him, Darcy staggered back to the sitting room. He leaned against the wall, willing the world to hold still—but it swayed beneath him. His knees buckled.
He made it to the bedroom. Just.
His coat dropped somewhere between the door and the edge of the mattress. His boots he did not bother with. He collapsed half onto the bed, one arm flung across his eyes, breath ragged and shallow.
The fever came for him like a rising tide.
