He opened his eyes again, startled by his own emotion, and gently placed the gloves in a pile of things for Georgiana. Best that he let go, while he still could.
He breathed in deeply, trying to clear his head. He had a choice to make, a future to build, even if it meant a life alone.
Darcy had just begun to fold his two spare cravats when the latch turned and the door to his flat pushed open with a clatter.
“Packing already?” Richard called out, striding in like he owned the place, though his smile came too quickly and sat too loosely on his face. “You could have told me. I would have brought a bottle of brandy and made a ceremony of it.”
Darcy did not turn. He closed the trunk with care, then fastened one of the latches. “I have little enough to take. The rest is of no use to me now.”
Richard looked around the modest apartment, taking in the spartan furnishings, the half-filled shelves, the solitary trunk resting at the center like a coffin. “Still feels a bit grim, does it not? You are quite sure about this?”
Darcy straightened slowly, lifting his eyes to meet his cousin’s. “Yes. I am quite sure.”
Richard rubbed the back of his neck, then wandered further in, tapping a knuckle absently against the mantle. “Portugal,” he said at last. “Not exactly the tonic I would prescribe. But I suppose if the plan is to put the whole of England behind you, that is one way to do it. You do set off in a dashed hurry, though.”
Darcy moved to the writing desk and began sorting a few items into a leather folio—letters, a few clippings, a folded map. “You would not understand.”
Richard scoffed. “You are right. I cannot possibly comprehend the desire to flee to the farthest corner of Europe because you are too pigheaded to—”
He broke off, sighing. Then, as if deciding something in that instant, he reached into his coat and drew out a square of torn paper. He crossed the room and held it out.
Darcy frowned, glancing at it without taking it. “What is that?”
“Read it,” Richard said, flatly. “You are the one always harping on about reading the evidence.”
Darcy took it, unfolded the scrap. It was from the society pages, a narrow column trimmed unevenly from its neighbors. His eyes scanned the words, his stomach twisting as he read:
One of the ton’s brightest gems seems to shine a little less brilliantly today, as whispers abound of a certain lady’s recent refusal of a royal offer from none other than the Prince of Württemberg. Speculations run rampant about the reasons behind such a surprising demurral.
Darcy said nothing. He folded the page again, carefully, too carefully. He held it out to Richard. “Why have you brought me this?”
Richard did not move to take it. “I thought you might like to know what the rest of London has been whispering about for the last few days. You remember London, do you not? The place you live in, where the woman you are running from still resides?”
“Her affairs are no concern of mine,” Darcy replied, placing the scrap on the edge of the writing desk with a precision that betrayed him.
“You are insufferable.”
“I am aware.”
Richard paced away, stopped at the window, then turned back. “You love her.”
Darcy’s voice was low. “It makes no difference.”
“Then why do you look like that?”
Darcy did not answer.
After a long moment, Richard reached for the torn page and stuffed it into the pocket of Darcy’s own coat, hanging on the hook. “I came to walk with you. You will want to bid Georgiana farewell, and I have a few matters to settle with Father.”
Darcy nodded once, reached for his coat. Neither man said anything more as they stepped into the hall, the door closing behind them.
Richard hailed a carriage with a sharp whistle, stepping into the street with a confidence that brooked no argument. Darcy followed, his steps dragging somewhat.
“Come now, Darcy,” Richard chided, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Must you always pinch pennies? Allow me to indulge in this extravagance. My treat.”
“Your generosity is noted, though unnecessary.”
Richard only grunted in response, tossing a few coins to the driver as he ushered Darcy into the waiting carriage. His eyes flicked once—just once—toward the far end of the street, where the familiar corner of Grosvenor and Upper Brook loomed. “Humor me,” he said, too casually, climbing in behind him. “Even you must admit that limping up Mayfair on foot with half your shoulder still stitched is not the ideal farewell.”
