Page 58 of Honor Requires

Lucien studied him, then gave a small, thoughtful nod. “Very well. But take care that the distinction remains clear in your own mind. It is easily blurred.”

Darcy inclined his head, though whether in agreement or acknowledgment was not entirely clear.

“The name,” Lucien prompted after a moment.

Darcy considered.

“Vendicarsi,” he said. “Count of Vendicarsi.”

Lucien’s lips curved faintly. “An Italian flavor, with a meaning not entirely concealed.”

“It will suffice,” Darcy replied.

“And your given name?”

Darcy hesitated only briefly. “Sebastian Dantès.”

Lucien laughed. “You do not lack for drama.”

Darcy’s gaze remained stable. “It will serve its purpose.”

“Very well, then,” Lucien said. “Count of Vendicarsi. And who am I? Shall I be your steward?”

“I think it would be more useful for you to be my brother. We are of an age—you are not much older, and I do not think anyone will question me being the heir. Your presence as I move forward will be a boon. I shall have no other friends in Town…none who know me in truth. The extra eyes and ears will be important.”

Lucien chuckled. “Just admit it, Darcy. You do not wish to be parted from me.”

“Of course, I do not. You are the only friend I have in the world.” Darcy reached out and clasped his friend on the shoulder. “Providence was kind when it brought me you.”

“The only friend who knows you are alive, anyway. Very well, Brother. Let us move forward with regaining what is yours.”

Their journey to the mainland was less perilous than had been their boat ride the night before, though no less deliberate. They avoided main routes where possible, keeping to lesser paths, their appearance still rough enough to attract notice if examined too closely.

Lucien steered the boat several miles to Lymington. The port town was busy enough to help keep their presence inconspicuous, and they moved through the laborers without being stopped. Darcy and Lucien walked the streets until they found an out-of-the-way establishment where they could procure clothes that were neither fit for laborers nor the gentry. Rather, they looked like they were merchants or well-off tradesmen.

They also found a barber. Lucien opted for a close cut and no facial hair, jesting with Darcy about looking like a lion for far too long. For his part, Darcy had his hair cut short, all his dark curls falling to the ground around him. He asked the barber to keep his beard and mustache, requesting it be trimmed and oiled.

When he was finished, the barber held a mirror before Darcy. His blue eyes looked out from the face of a stranger. The beard hid his hollow cheeks. His physique was lean—far too lean for his preferences. Still, he was strong and able bodied. Pleased, Lucien and Darcy thanked the man and departed.

Gold smoothed any obstacles in their way. Within days, they had secured passage onward, their funds opening doors that would otherwise have remained closed.

London awaited.

The city rose before them in all its vastness, its noise and motion a stark contrast to the isolation of their recent existence. Carriages rattled over cobblestones, voices carried through the streets, the air thick with the life of a thousand intersecting purposes.

Darcy took it in without outward reaction. But within, something shifted. He had returned, just not as himself.

Not yet.

Their first task was immediate.

Clothing. They would need to be attired appropriately to be taken seriously by solicitors, bankers, and any others with whom they were required to do business.

The establishment they selected was discreet, its proprietor accustomed to clients who required both quality and silence. Darcy allowed himself to be measured, fitted, and outfitted with garments befitting a gentleman of means.

When at last he stood before the mirror, the transformation was unmistakable.

The beard remained, neatly trimmed. His hair, once wild, now lay in order. The garments he wore—dark, well-cut, precise—restored to him a semblance of the man he had been.