Page 95 of Honor Requires

“Then perhaps,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “they might be…trusted.”

Darcy closed his eyes briefly. Do not. When he looked at her again, his expression was closed. “In time,” he said. “Perhaps.”

Elizabeth held his gaze. “Do you expect matters to be resolved to your satisfaction?” she asked.

Darcy considered her. “Yes,” he said at last. “I do.” There was something in his tone—something firm, unyielding—that he hoped would settle the question, though not the feeling beneath it.

Elizabeth inclined her head. “I am glad of it.”

The music drew to a close, and polite applause followed. The remainder of the evening passed in a blur of sound and motion. Darcy remained at Elizabeth’s side for much of it, though conversation was necessarily intermittent. When they did speak, it was in careful phrases—nothing that might betray too much, nothing that might draw notice, and everything balanced against what remained unsaid.

He was acutely aware of her, of the way she listened. Of the moments when her composure faltered, and of the necklace at her throat.

When at last the musicale concluded, he took his leave with appropriate formality, offering his respects to the Matlocks and Bramleys before departing.

He did not trust himself to linger longer.

The carriage ride was quiet.

Darcy sat opposite Lucien, the rhythmic motion of the wheels beneath them doing little to settle his thoughts.

Elizabeth. The image of her—her voice, her gaze, the pointedness of her questions—pressed upon him with a force he could not entirely resist.

She knows. Certainly not everything, but enough. She knew his identity was assumed, that he was a man declared dead, walking around London in the flesh.

He closed his eyes briefly. “She is not deceived,” he said aloud.

Lucien, who had been watching him with a thoughtful expression, did not immediately respond.

“No,” he said at last. “She is not.”

Darcy opened his eyes. “And you?” he asked. “What did you observe?”

Lucien shifted, leaning back as the carriage turned. “I observed,” he said, “that our friends are engaged in matters of greater interest than polite society.”

Darcy’s attention sharpened at once. “Go on.”

Lucien folded his hands loosely, his tone becoming more deliberate. “Langford and Hargrave spoke at some length. Hargrave is in need of a shipment—something to be brought in discreetly.”

Darcy’s expression darkened.

“Langford replied that his usual contact is unavailable. His ships have gone down—whether by misfortune or design, I cannot say.”

Darcy said nothing.

“They are seeking another vessel,” Lucien said. “The goods must be brought in, or their associates in the north cannot proceed as planned.”

Darcy leaned forward.

“What goods?”

“That,” Lucien said, “was not specified. But the urgency was clear.” He paused. “Hargrave was quite precise in reminding Langford of his role.”

Darcy’s gaze fixed on him.

“Supply the ship,” Lucien said. “Or charter it. Meet the shipment at the docks. Arrange transport north. The entire thing seems rather…suspicious. They spoke in generalities. I suspect whatever is being transported might not be entirely above board.”

The carriage wheels struck a rough patch of road, jolting lightly. Darcy did not seem to notice. “And then?” he asked.