Page 59 of Honor Requires

But not entirely. True, he looked every inch the wealthy gentleman, but he did not look like Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.

Lucien, similarly attired, regarded him with open approval. “You see, Brother? You look every inch the Count of Vendicarsi.”

The shopkeeper made a strangled sound. Darcy barely spared him a glance. The man would likely spread gossip about the foreign count before nightfall.

Darcy adjusted his cuffs. He spoke in an affected French-Italian accent, matching Lucien’s tone and cadence. “Appearances are easily restored.”

“Not always,” Lucien replied.

Darcy did not answer immediately. Then, “It is a shame discretion required us to travel without luxury.” There, that should give him more fodder for the gossips. A foreign count, come to England in disguise.

Their next step was financial.

Dressed as wealthy gentlemen from Sardinia, they had no issue entering the bank and receiving expeditious service. The bank received them with all the courtesy due to wealth. Darcy—now Sebastian Dantès, Count of Vendicarsi—established his accounts with calm authority, his accent carefully moderated, his manner assured.

Lucien was introduced as his younger brother and added to the accounts.

The fiction held. Lucien shared Darcy’s lean physique and dark hair, though his eyes were brown instead of blue.

The bankers bowed and scraped, eager to have the Count’s money in their establishment. Money, properly displayed, silenced doubt.

After settling things at the bank, Darcy went in search of a solicitor. It was, perhaps, too risky to write Smith and Smithson, the solicitors who had handled his affairs for years. Instead, he went to the earl’s businessman, a Mr. Weston. The man proved himself to be competent. Darcy set him to finding a house in Mayfair. Meanwhile, he and Lucien took rooms at a hotel.

They stayed at the hotel for some time. Darcy wished to begin his investigation immediately, but Lucien convinced him to be at his leisure until they had a house.

“We have not been masters of our fates for years, my friend. It would be much better for us to ease into this rather than jump in without being prepared.” Lucien’s lightly accented speech soothed Darcy, and he agreed. There would be time enough for everything else.

The house in Mayfair was selected with equal care.

Its location was deliberate—close enough to Darcy House and Matlock House to observe, but not so near as to invite scrutiny. It required refurbishment, which suited their purposes well.

They kept their rooms at the hotel while the work was undertaken.

As the weeks passed, they settled into a pattern that suited them both. Darcy devoted his days to gathering information, cultivating acquaintances, and quietly observing those who had profited from his disappearance. Lucien, by contrast, proved incapable of remaining in Town for long. Every few weeks he disappeared for several days on what he described only as business upon the Continent or along the southern coast. He never offered particulars, nor did Darcy inquire. Lucien had managed his own affairs for many years before they met, and his comings and goings soon became so commonplace that Darcy scarcely remarked upon them beyond wishing him a safe journey and welcoming him home again.

Darcy stood one evening at the window of his temporary lodgings, looking out over the street below. London moved as it always had, unchanged and unaware of the great crime that had been committed against him.

Behind him, Lucien poured wine. “You have returned,” he said. “Still, you stand as though you are apart from it.”

Darcy did not turn. “I am.”

“For now,” Lucien allowed.

Darcy’s gaze shifted, his focus sharpening. “It begins with Hargrave,” he said.

Lucien set the glass aside. “You are certain.”

“I am,” Darcy replied. “There are too many coincidences otherwise. I have recalled that conversation, the one where my captor mocked me, over and over again. Hargrave is the only answer.”

Lucien nodded slowly. “Then you require information.”

“Yes.” He needed to confirm his suspicions, find out if Hargrave had the mining rights to Pemberley, and how he had managed that.

“And how do you propose to obtain it?”

Darcy turned at last. “I shall employ someone who knows how to find what others would conceal.”

The Bow Street office was not an imposing place, but it was a necessary one.