Prologue

May 1803, Paris The End of the Peace of Amiens

T he air in Paris had changed overnight. Ancient streets, once thrumming with lively conversations and the hum of commerce, had grown tense, crackling with unspoken threats. War again.

Darcy could feel it as a living thing—something unseen, hunting, shifting in the shadows. He tightened his grip on the walking stick he’d borrowed from the rooming house. Not that it would make much of a weapon if it came to that, but it gave his hands something to do.

He’d lost Richard. Of course, he had. His cousin had run off to meet with someone, a half-baked plan to secure papers. “Stay here, Darcy,” Richard had barked, and then disappeared into the chaos. As if Darcy could stand by and wait for fate to collect him. That had been hours ago, and the rooming house was no longer safe.

Sir Thomas Ashford had been their lone voice of reason since yesterday. Originally in Paris on some vague business matter—Darcy and the others never knew what, nor did they care—the man was some twenty years their senior and a friend of half their fathers. Such a friend, a man who remembered Paris from better days, was a valuable ally when a young man embarked upon his Grand Tour.

But there was to be no Tour for them now. Ashford had held them all in check when the initial waves of panic struck, and reminded them who they were—Englishmen, not cowards. Wise counsel in a foreign land, and Ashford was someone with the right connections to get them all out of the middle of a war zone.

If only they knew where he had gone just now.

So, Darcy and the others—nearly a dozen British sons of wealth and privilege, not a one of them older than two and twenty—had turned out. They were a panicked lot, and three of them had promptly rounded the first street corner and marched right into the hands of the French.

Now, Darcy was navigating the streets alone, his mind half on the ships that might yet be waiting at Calais, half on the soldiers that seemed to multiply at every corner. All he wanted… he just wanted to go home. To hear his father’s welcoming voice, catch Georgiana as she leaped into his arms, drink in the familiar air of Pemberley, and sleep in peace once more. But that did not seem likely now.

The rumors had begun flying as early as last night—British citizens detained by the dozens. Some dragged out of their beds, and some plucked from the street as they tried to leave. There was no rhyme or reason to it, just the thick tension of a city closing its grip, clenching its teeth as war loomed once more.

A noise behind him. Darcy’s pulse quickened. He kept walking, slower now, glancing casually to the side—nothing. Just a couple of boys, no older than twelve, darting between stalls. Still, he had the distinct impression of being watched.

Then he saw them.

French soldiers. Four of them, walking with that casual swagger that made their purpose clear. A man in uniform could always be dangerous in times such as these, but these men were something more. Their eyes were hunting. Darcy turned his head forward, heart thumping now. He was wearing a French coat and a French style hat. Perhaps they noticed nothing odd. No need to rush. No need to panic.

He didn’t need to. Not yet.

But they were gaining. He could hear their boots against the cobblestones, feel the weight of their gaze, and his stomach twisted into icy knots.

Keep walking, Darcy.

His shoulders straightened, spine taut with pride, as if he could outpace fear with posture alone.

“Vous, là-bas!” A voice, sharp and commanding.

Darcy didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. He kept his pace steady. A marketplace was up ahead, thick with carts and milling bodies. Blend in . He’d make it into the crowd, lose himself for a few minutes, then slip down one of the alleys.

“Arrêtez!”

They were closer. He swallowed hard, muscles tightening. His instincts screamed at him to run, but there was nowhere to go. Panic bloomed at the base of his throat. This was it. They’d seen him, a British aristocrat, in a city that no longer had room for him.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder, jerking him back with enough force to spin him halfway around. Darcy staggered, heart lurching in his chest as the soldiers closed in. One, with a face like a bulldog, grinned in triumph, stepping closer, barking French at him—too fast for Darcy to catch.

They were trying to bind him, hands already tearing at his coat, when someone crashed into the soldiers from the side. A blur of movement, and suddenly, one man was knocked off balance, stumbling into his comrades.

Darcy blinked in shock. What the devil?

“Sorry, terribly sorry!” The voice was bright, too bright, a half-hearted attempt at levity in the middle of a disaster. Charles Bingley. One of the young twits from the rooming house.

Only, he did not seem such a twit now. What the devil was he doing?

Before Darcy could process it, Bingley was already grabbing his arm, dragging him sideways, feet stumbling over each other as they veered off the path. “Time to go, Darcy,” Bingley panted, still grinning like a lunatic, eyes darting behind them.

The soldiers shouted—one swore loudly—but Bingley did not stop. He was pulling Darcy through the crowd, weaving between carts and startled vendors, knocking over a crate of apples with a crash that sent fruit skittering across the cobblestones.

Darcy ran out of air, and his heart pounded as if it were trying to escape his chest entirely. “Are you insane?” he managed, glancing back over his shoulder. The soldiers were giving chase now, fury in their faces as they shoved past the crowd.

“Quite possibly!” Bingley huffed, not slowing in the slightest. “This way!”

They darted down a narrow alley, the sound of boots hammering behind them. The smell of sweat and fear mixed with something metallic, sharp in the back of Darcy’s throat. They were boxed in, walls too high, and there was no way—

Bingley suddenly stopped short, a hand on Darcy’s chest. “Hold on.” The alley turned sharply ahead. Bingley motioned for silence, gasping for breath as they pressed against the wall, barely concealed by a stack of barrels.

Darcy’s pulse thundered in his ears, and his limbs trembled as he tried to flatten himself against the rough brick. This was madness. This was utterly—

The soldiers rounded the corner at full speed, just missing them, the sound of their pursuit fading into the next street. Bingley let out a low breath, turning with a grin, though his face was pale.

“That,” he said, still panting, “was close.”

Darcy swallowed hard, his mouth dry, but there was no time for gratitude yet. “We’re not safe,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

Bingley nodded, and for the first time, Darcy noticed the blood. It was seeping through the shoulder of Bingley’s coat, a deep crimson spreading fast.

“Good God.” Darcy reached out instinctively. “You are wounded!”

Bingley glanced down at the gash as if it had just occurred to him. “Ah. Yes, well. It’s not as bad as it looks.” He winced, waving off Darcy’s concern. “Bayonet, I think. Lucky it wasn’t worse.”

Darcy stared at him, his throat tightening. The man was an idiot. A bloody, reckless idiot.

And he owed him his life.

The thought settled in his chest like a stone. Darcy, who had always believed in careful planning, in prudence, had just been saved by a man who had leaped headfirst into danger without a second thought.

Bingley, the boy from trade, who Darcy had barely spared a glance for. And now—

Now he could not think of anything but the fact that this foolish, smiling young man had just thrown himself between Darcy and a blade without hesitation.

“Why?” Darcy heard himself ask, his voice hoarse. He did not mean to say it, but the question hung between them in the damp air. “Why would you do that?”

Bingley looked at him for a moment, blue eyes bright with a mix of pain and mischief, then shrugged. “Couldn’t very well let them have you, could I?”

Darcy blinked, stunned into silence. There was nothing else to say. No one had ever done anything like that for him before.

And just like that, the world shifted, subtly but irrevocably, in the space of a heartbeat.

“We need to get to Calais,” Darcy finally said. “But first—let us get that shoulder seen to.”

Bingley smirked. “Don’t suppose you know how to sew?”

Darcy, against all odds, felt a laugh bubble up through his chest. It was ridiculous. The entire day had been chaos, but somehow, standing in a filthy Parisian alley with a man who had just saved his life, it did not seem quite as dark as it had moments ago.

“No. But I will figure something out.”

T he salt-tinged air whipped across the docks at Calais, the sky a gray smear that promised either a dismal rain or a quick escape, depending on how fortune played her hand. Ships bobbed in the harbor, their masts swaying in the wind, and the dockworkers moved with frenetic energy, hauling crates, securing lines, and barking orders. It felt like the last breath before a storm.

Darcy stood with his cousin Richard, his eyes scanning the chaotic scene. Beside them, Sir Thomas Ashford was issuing brisk instructions to a clerk, who was scribbling furiously on a sheaf of papers. Every so often, Sir Thomas would glance up, his eyes flicking across the crowds, watching for familiar faces—anyone he might have missed. It was as if he carried the weight of every young Englishman stranded in France on his shoulders.

“That’s the last of the names I’ve managed to track down,” Richard said, holding up a small list. “We should have everyone on board within the hour.”

“Good,” said Sir Thomas without looking up. “But I am not finished yet.”

Darcy frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’m going back to Paris.” He straightened, folding the clerk’s notes and tucking them inside his coat. “There are still a few boys from the rooming house unaccounted for. I saw them arrested the night the peace broke.”

“Watts, Pence, and Drummond?” Darcy asked. “I saw them, too. They were swept up near the Tuileries.”

“Yes, them. I’ve a few contacts in Paris who might be able to help. Businessmen and diplomats. If there’s a way to get those boys out, I’ll find it.”

“You cannot be serious!” Richard blurted. “You’ve done enough. More than enough. You’ve got us this far—”

“And those boys?” Sir Thomas cut him off. “Nineteen years old without a friend in the country? I’ll not leave them to rot in some French cell because it’s inconvenient for me to go back.”

“But you’ve secured your own passage,” Richard argued, like a man reasoning with a stubborn child. “Your name is on the manifest. If you’re captured—”

“I am a baronet, Fitzwilliam. They shan’t harm me. In the worst case, I will be held until someone can negotiate my release. And the French are not fools—they would rather trade me than keep me. I will be safe enough.”

“You hope,” Darcy said. “Sir Thomas, you would be a valuable hostage. They could hold you for months—years, even.”

“Perhaps.” Sir Thomas adjusted his coat, and for a moment, Darcy could see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes. “But those boys won’t be. They’re young, not a penny on them, I’d wager, and far from home. If we wait for the crown to act, it could be months before their families even hear a word, and much longer before anyone can secure their release. By then, who knows what condition they will be in? I have a chance to help now, and I am going to take it.”

Darcy opened his mouth to argue, but Richard laid a hand on his arm. “You’re sure about this?” Richard asked. “Going back?”

“I won’t abandon them, not when there’s something I can do. Besides,” he added, a glint of wry humor in his eye, “someone has to keep these diplomats honest. They’ll find it difficult to brush me off when I’m standing in front of them.”

“You’re risking everything,” Darcy said. “For boys who aren’t even your own.”

Sir Thomas stepped closer, and when he spoke, it was as if he were addressing Darcy alone. “They’re someone’s boys, Darcy. Someone’s sons, brothers—your friends, if I’m not mistaken. And that’s reason enough.”

Richard gave a stiff nod, his jaw clenched. “Then we wish you Godspeed.”

Sir Thomas smiled—a sad, knowing smile—and took Richard’s hand, shaking it firmly. “Take care of yourselves,” he said, his gaze shifting between the two of them. “Get on that ship and get home.”

As Sir Thomas turned to leave, Darcy reached out and grabbed his arm, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Don’t do this alone. Let me come with you.”

Sir Thomas shook his head. “No, Darcy. I need you on that ship. You’ve a clearer head on your shoulders than most. Get home and see that the others are accounted for. That’s your duty now.” He paused, his expression softening. “I need to know there’s someone I can count on if things go wrong.”

Darcy let go, his throat tight, unable to find a response that did not sound hollow. Sir Thomas clapped him on the shoulder and then turned, striding across the docks toward a waiting carriage.

Darcy watched as he climbed inside, the door closing with a soft click. The carriage driver flicked the reins, and within moments, the wheels were churning over the cobblestones, heading back toward the shadow of Paris.

The wind had picked up, a sharp, biting chill that sliced through the bustling docks. Around them, sailors and passengers hurried to and fro, shouts and whistles mingling with the distant clamor of waves crashing against the pier. The ship that would take them home loomed ahead, its hull swaying gently as it tugged against the ropes.

Richard’s expression was tight, his mouth set in a grim line. “Sir Thomas will manage,” he said, as if trying to convince himself as much as Darcy. “He’s too stubborn to let the French keep him.”

“I hope you are right.” As they approached the gangplank, Darcy slowed.

Richard glanced over his shoulder at him. “Coming aboard?”

“In a moment,” said Darcy. “I’ll catch up.”

“Don’t be long. The tide won’t wait for you.” He gave Darcy a firm pat on the back before striding up the plank, disappearing among the clusters of passengers.

Darcy turned his steps aside. Charles Bingley, the fool who had saved him in Paris, was leaning against a crate by the rail, gazing out toward the harbor. His right arm was balanced in a sling and bandaged beneath his coat, the wound from the bayonet still soaking through the linens when he moved too much. But Bingley wore the same easy, half-smile he always did. As if the world had not just turned upside down.

Darcy crossed the dock and came to stand beside him. “Bingley.”

Bingley turned, his eyes brightening. “Ah, there you are, Darcy. You looked rather conflicted a moment ago. Thought you might’ve decided to stay in France and keep Sir Thomas company.”

“I nearly did. But I had to see you before we boarded. I… wanted to thank you, properly. You did not have to do what you did back there—saving me from those soldiers. If you had not…” He trailed off, the words catching, before he forced himself to continue. “I owe you a debt. Anything you need, at any time, I am at your service. Just say the word.”

Bingley’s expression shifted, a flicker of hesitation passing over his face. “Funny you should say that,” he began, with a hint of nervous laughter. “While we were in Paris, I had this idea. Bit of a mad one, perhaps, but… bother it, the notion kept rattling around in my head, and I thought, well, if I made it back to England, I’d give it a try.”

Darcy’s brow furrowed. “Go on.”

“Beeswax candles,” said Bingley, the words tumbling out in a rush. “You see, they’re far superior to tallow. Cleaner burn, longer lasting, less smoke. The French were using them everywhere, and I thought—why not bring them to England? But I’d need capital. More than I can scrape together on my own.” He glanced at Darcy, his smile hopeful but tentative.

“You want a loan?”

“Oh, no! No, not merely a loan. I need someone sharp—someone who knows how to create order of things and is clever with money. I am dashed cunning with the ideas and… well, I am a fair hand at forming partnerships, seeing opportunities, that sort of thing, but no man has every skill. It’s a lucky fellow who finds a perfect complement to his own talents, they say. I… Well, I was hoping you might consider partnering with me.”

For a moment, Darcy was silent, his eyes fixed on Bingley’s. This was not what he had expected. He had assumed the young man might ask for help in climbing London’s social ladder—a polite introduction here, a whispered recommendation there. He was used to such favors and had learned to dispense them with a kind of detached grace.

But this… this was about business, a venture that would require Darcy to step into a world he had always kept at arm’s length.

“Bingley,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “I am grateful for what you did, more than I can say. It is no exaggeration to state that I may owe you my very life. But you must understand… I do not engage in trade. It is not… well, it’s not the way of my family.”

Bingley’s brow furrowed. “Well, of course, I am not entirely simple. But surely you have investments?”

“I do,” said Darcy, with a nod. “Shares in established companies, certain… ventures that ensure steady returns. But I do not speculate. My family has always preferred to collect interest on capital, not risk the principal. And I am to inherit my father’s estate someday, so employment of that nature is… well, I can see you understand.”

For a moment, Bingley’s shoulders sagged, and Darcy felt a pang of guilt twist in his chest. He had expected Bingley to be disappointed, perhaps even hurt, but instead, the young man simply gave a resigned nod and rolled his bandaged shoulder, wincing slightly as he did.

“I understand,” Bingley said, his voice light, though there was a strain beneath it. “No hard feelings, of course. It was a silly idea, anyway. Just thought I’d ask.”

Oh, blast . How could he refuse such a cheerful request? Good heavens, Bingley had hardly stopped bleeding! Could he not find some decency in himself to return such a favor? Darcy opened his mouth to speak, but before he could find the right words, the ship’s bell rang, loud and clear. The call for boarding had begun, and the crew shouted for the passengers to make their way on board. The tide was shifting; they had to move.

Darcy hesitated, the urge to walk away battling with a nagging sense of obligation. “Anything,” he had promised, and now, faced with the opportunity, he was recoiling. Egad, he was a blackguard and a coward. He owed the man his life!

He took a deep breath, glancing up at the ship, where Richard was already waving impatiently. Then he looked back at Bingley, who had turned away slightly, already preparing to board, cradling his right arm and listing somewhat to the starboard as he walked.

“Wait.”

Bingley paused, turning back.

Darcy swallowed, tasting the bitterness of his own words. “I’ll do it. I’ll… I’ll back you on the candles.”

Bingley’s eyes widened, surprise flickering across his face, followed quickly by a broad, disbelieving grin. “You’ll back me? Or you will partner with me?”

“Partners,” Darcy said, and despite himself, he felt a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “You saved my life, Bingley. The least I can do is… risk a little capital.” Social capital that was… but could he truly do less?

Bingley’s grin widened, and he stretched forth his right hand to pump Darcy’s so hard that he nearly knocked him off balance.

“Well then, you won’t regret it! We’ll make a fortune, you’ll see. And if we don’t, well…” He shrugged, still smiling. “We’ll have some very nice candles.”