Page 150 of Honor Requires

The decision had not been made with deliberation, nor had it arisen from any sudden necessity. Rather, it came upon him gradually, as so many of his recent actions did—born of a restless thought that would not be restrained, of a question left too long unanswered. The conversation with Elizabeth lingered still in his mind, her gentle insistence upon mercy threading through his thoughts in a manner both disquieting and compelling.

He had resisted it at first.

As the hours passed and the light faded from the sky, the impulse returned with greater force, until at last he found himself calling for his carriage, giving directions without pause, and setting out into the darker reaches of Town where respectability thinned and vice grew bold.

The establishment in question lay off a narrower street, its entrance discreet but not so well concealed as to escape the notice of those who sought it. A pair of lamps cast an uneven glow upon the doorway, and the low murmur of voices drifted outward each time it opened to admit or release its patrons. There was a scent upon the air—wine, tobacco, something heavier beneath—that spoke of indulgence unrestrained.

Darcy stepped down from his carriage with an air of prestige, though inwardly he felt the familiar tightening that such places inspired. Once, he would have turned away without hesitation. Now, he crossed the threshold.

The interior was dimly lit, the air thick with smoke and the hum of conversation. Men clustered in small groups, some intent upon their cards, others upon their drink, their voices rising and falling in tones that spoke of both amusement and desperation. A musician in one corner attempted a tune that was half lost beneath the general din.

Darcy’s gaze moved quickly over the room. He did not search long.

Wickham sat at a table near the back, his posture careless, his coat unbuttoned, his cravat loosened to a degree that bordered on neglect. A glass stood before him, half empty, and another already waited at his elbow. His expression was animated, though the animation carried none of its former charm. It was the brightness of excess, of a mind too far removed from clarity to govern itself with any consistency.

Darcy approached. “Mr. Wickham.”

Wickham looked up, his focus wavering before settling with effort.

“Well,” he said, his voice thick but still touched with the remnants of his old ease. “If it is not my generous friend. Come to observe my decline at closer quarters?”

Darcy did not smile.

“I have come to speak with you.”

Wickham laughed, though there was little humor in the sound.

“Then you have chosen your moment poorly. I am not at my most coherent.”

“That is precisely why I have come.”

Wickham raised his glass in a mock salute.

“How considerate.”

Darcy did not sit. Instead, he reached forward and removed the glass from Wickham’s hand, setting it aside without ceremony.

“That is enough.”

Wickham blinked at him, seemingly uncertain whether to be offended or amused.

“Now you command me?” he asked lightly.

“I assist you,” Darcy replied. “Come. You will not remain here.”

Wickham appeared inclined to resist.

Then, with a shrug that suggested more weariness than defiance, he allowed himself to be drawn to his feet.

“Very well,” he said. “Lead on, then. I am at your mercy.”

Darcy guided him from the room, ignoring the curious glances of those who took note of the exchange. He secured a private parlor with little difficulty, the promise of coin smoothing any hesitation, and within moments they were alone. The door closed behind them. The silence, though relative, was a marked improvement.

Darcy directed Wickham to a chair and poured a cup of coffee from a tray that had been hastily provided. He set it before him.

“Drink.”

Wickham regarded the cup with a faint grimace. “You are determined to deprive me of all comfort.”