27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

D arcy strode through the entrance of the gentlemen's club, his coat dripping slightly from the persistent drizzle outside. The familiar scent of tobacco and polished wood greeted him as he handed his hat to the waiting valet. A few heads turned in his direction—recognising him, no doubt—but Darcy paid them no mind. His thoughts were focused, his purpose clear.

The room was warm and crowded, filled with men discussing politics, estates, and the latest scandal to surface in London. It was a place Darcy had frequented often enough, though rarely for pleasure. Today, however, he had come with a specific goal: answers. Answers that, he hoped, would lead him closer to the truth about Harry—and perhaps even Wickham's involvement in the cruel game that had been played against his brother.

He made his way toward a corner table, where a few men sat in low conversation. Among them was Sergeant Michael Langley, the man Richard had written to—a soldier who had served alongside both Harry and Wickham during their campaign. Langley looked up as Darcy approached, his expression shifting from polite recognition to cautious curiosity.

"Mr Darcy, I presume?" Langley greeted, rising slightly in his chair as Darcy approached. "I wasn't sure I'd be seeing you today."

"I came as soon as Colonel Fitzwilliam told me where to find you. Thank you for agreeing to meet," Darcy replied, putting out his hand.

Langley shook Darcy's hand and gestured to the empty chair beside him, but Darcy hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the other men at the table. "Would you mind if we spoke somewhere more private? The matter concerns my brother, Captain Darcy, and it is not for public ears."

Langley's brows lifted in understanding. He glanced at his companions, then nodded. "Of course, Mr Darcy."

Darcy led the way toward a quieter alcove near the back of the room, the sound of murmured conversation fading behind them. Once they were seated in relative privacy, Darcy leaned in slightly. "I'm looking for some information—about Captain Darcy's actions at the Siege of Badajoz and the rumours that have sprung up after the battle."

Langley's face softened at the mention of Harry's name. "Your brother was well-regarded, Darcy. A good man. A bloody shame what happened."

Darcy swallowed, forcing back the familiar sting of grief. "Yes, it was. But I've come across something... unsettling. I need to know what you've heard, Langley. There are whispers... treason—surely, you've heard them, but I cannot credit any of it. And I have reason to believe Lieutenant Wickham may have had a hand in this."

Langley leaned back, exhaling slowly as he regarded Darcy with an appraising look. "I figured this would come up sooner or later. Wickham's name's been floating around, but it's not just him. The accusations started long before that, during the siege. Men have been talking, though not many with enough guts to say it aloud."

"So, it's true then? Not the treason, but that Wickham's been stoking these fires?"

Langley gave a grim nod. "Wickham's no innocent, but he wasn't the one who started it. Word is, Captain Darcy saw something he ‘shouldn't have' during the siege—something that could've got the wrong men in a lot of trouble. They promoted him to shut him up, even though he protested and said he was going public with the truth. But Wickham… he was the one who first pinned Captain Darcy for calling the cease-fire, saying it was treason so he could cover for the colonel who was at fault. Wickham was in a rage when Darcy got promoted, but he didn't, and he said he'd see him ruined."

Darcy's jaw clenched, anger rising. "And what about the others? Who else is involved?"

Langley glanced around the room, his voice dropping lower. "High-ranking men. This goes deeper than just Wickham, Darcy. If you're going to take this on, you'll need more than a few suspicions and the word of a few sergeants to clear the captain's name."

"I know. But Wickham's the one who has been trying to ruin my brother, even from beyond the grave. I start with him. Were you in London at the same time as he was this summer? I'm curious about… social functions. Company he kept. Anything."

Langley nodded slowly. "I did hear something recently... at a gathering, about a month back. Someone mentioned Wickham in connection with Darcy. They said he'd been seen fighting with the captain—shouting in public during those last few months. More than that, though, I'm not certain."

Darcy leaned in. "What about women?"

Langley blinked. "There was always a woman," Langley said slowly, glancing around as if to ensure no one else was listening. "You know Wickham. Lots of them, in fact."

"And can the same be said for my brother?"

The sergeant pursed his lips, then shook his head. "He went to more respectable parties—the Darcy name, you know. I'm sure he was in the company of ladies—real ladies—but I never heard any gossip tying him to any particular ones until… well, that is…" He cleared his throat and gestured to Darcy. "Colonel Fitzwilliam said something in his letter about the former Miss Bennet."

He smiled faintly. "Mrs Darcy now. My brother was trying to salvage her honour after Wickham blasted it."

The sergeant lifted his shoulders. "As you please, sir."

"What I want to know—" Darcy said, drawing his chair closer— "is names. Can you tell me who Wickham kept company with the most? Male as well as female… perhaps particularly female."

"Ah, I got you now, sir." Langley rubbed his chin in thought. "There was a young lady who was seen in Wickham's company more than once. Not his usual sort of strumpet, but a classy one. It could have been nothing, just rumours, but... well, you know Wickham. He doesn't leave a good reputation in his wake."

"Do you recall who mentioned this?" Darcy pressed. "Or can you find out?"

Langley frowned. "I can keep my ear to the ground, sir. So to speak."

"Excellent." Darcy put his hand in his pocket and withdrew a coin to toss it on the table. "Buy your friends a round on me, and I appreciate anything you can pass on, Langley."

The sergeant tipped a casual salute as Darcy rose. "Will do, sir, and thank you."

T he drawing room at Darcy House had always seemed too grand to Elizabeth at first—on her wedding day, she had barely had time to even glance around it in the flurry of introductions and formalities.

Now, however, as she waited for William to return, with Fitzy curled up at her feet, she found herself appreciating its quiet elegance. The afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, casting a golden glow over the polished wood and soft drapery, and for the first time, she truly felt like its mistress. She had learned her way through the house, come to know Mrs Hodges, the capable housekeeper, and now moved through the space with a sense of belonging.

A glance at the clock told her it was late—William should have returned by now. Fitzy lifted his head as if sensing her impatience, his small body alert to the change in her mood. She reached down to stroke his soft fur, the action soothing her own restless thoughts. William had been out all day, chasing leads, trying to uncover more about Harry's past and the tangled web Wickham had spun. It would take weeks, if they were lucky, to learn all there was to know.

But she knew him too well now. He would come home frustrated if he had not found the answers he sought on the very first day.

The sound of the front door opening below made her sit up straighter. She could hear the hurried steps of the footmen, the soft murmur of voices. And then, William's unmistakable heavy tread as he made his way toward her. Elizabeth rose to meet him, standing by the fire as the drawing room door opened.

He stepped inside, dripping wet from the rain outside, his face drawn tight with frustration. His dark hair clung to his forehead, and his coat was soaked through, the damp fabric clinging to his broad frame.

"William," she chided, moving toward him. "You are drenched."

He shook his head, brushing aside her concern. "It is nothing," he said, his eyes narrowing with frustration. "I have not learned enough yet. Every lead seems to go nowhere, and I am running in circles."

Elizabeth stepped closer, allowing the footman behind him to take his wet things. Her gaze never left her husband as he shrugged out of his coat with a rough gesture, his irritation rising with every jerk and tug. She reached for his arm, her touch light but insistent. "You have only just begun, William," she said softly, offering a reassuring smile, though she could see the tension etched into his face. "It will take time. You will find what you are looking for, but not like this—not when you are exhausted."

He let out a low breath, glancing toward the drawing room, with its inviting fire and comfortable sofa, as if it might hold some answer to his frustration. "I cannot rest while these questions remain unanswered," he replied, shaking his head once more, as though determined to push through his weariness. "I am not used to waiting idly, nor relying on others for help. I must have names—learn where this began so I do not run into a brick wall in attempting to expose the truth."

"And you will," she said, stepping in front of him to block his path. She placed her hands on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath the damp fabric of his shirt. "But not tonight. Tonight, you need to let it go, if only for a few hours."

He opened his mouth to protest again, but she cut him off, her gaze unwavering as she tilted her head slightly. "Come with me," she insisted, her fingers brushing lightly against his damp shirt. "I will not let you drive yourself into the ground over this."

He hesitated, his jaw tightening as he glanced away, struggling with his own sense of duty and pride. "Elizabeth, I—"

She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her lips lifting in a teasing smile. "Do you think I am asking, husband?"

That caught him off guard, and he blinked down at her, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "You are quite determined, I see," he said, his tone softening, though the conflict in his gaze remained. "Very well. But I do not need—"

"You need rest," she interrupted firmly, taking his hand in hers and leading him toward the door. "And for once, I will make certain you have it."

He muttered something about not needing help, insisting that his valet could attend to him, but she ignored him, pulling him along with a quiet smile until they reached his chambers. Fitzy trotted behind them, but Elizabeth closed the door firmly in his face.

"Well! I shall take care not to offend you, Mrs Darcy, if that is how you treat your most loyal friend."

She grinned. "I am merely demonstrating my preference for one ‘Fitzy' over the other. Come here." She began working on the buttons of his waistcoat, ignoring his weak protests.

"I can manage—"

"No, you cannot," she laughed, stripping the waistcoat from his shoulders and tossing it aside. "You have been out all day in the rain, and now you are going to let me help."

He watched her, his frustration softening into something else as she moved on to his cravat, loosening it with deft fingers. His hair, damp and tousled, fell over his forehead, and she pushed it back gently. "I employ a valet for this," he reminded her, his voice quieter now.

She placed a finger over his lips. "Your valet is an excellent fellow," she murmured. "But he cannot do what I have in mind."

He let out a breath, his protests fading as she unbuttoned his shirt, her touch lingering over his chest. His boots followed, then the fall of his breeches, and before long, he stood in his unbuttoned undershirt, watching her with a half-smile that looked almost wolfish.

"Is this what you wanted, Mrs Darcy?" he murmured huskily.

Elizabeth moved closer, sliding her arms around his neck as she whispered, "You are home now, and quite my own for the moment. That is all I wanted."

He sighed, the weight of the day slipping away as he finally let himself smile. "You always know how to bring me back to myself," he said softly, his hands resting at her waist.

She rose onto her toes, her lips grazing his. "Because I love you," she whispered, pulling him closer.

And that was the last thing either of them said for a long while.

D arcy pushed the papers across his desk in frustration, the scattered documents refusing to yield any answers. His fingers drummed on the table as he stared at the cryptic notes Langley had sent him earlier. Names, half-sentences, military jargon—none of it fitting together in any coherent way. He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand across his temples, as if by sheer will he could force the tangled mess to make sense.

The fire crackled behind him, but its warmth only served to remind him how little comfort there was in his current predicament. With every new piece of information, the truth seemed further out of reach. Darcy clenched his jaw, leaning back in his chair. What was he missing?

The sound of footsteps in the hall caught his attention, and a moment later, the door to his study swung open. Darcy looked up, surprised to see Richard standing there, silhouetted against the doorway.

"Richard?" Darcy rose to his feet. "I did not expect you."

"I thought it best to come in person," Richard replied, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. There was a grim look on his face—one that told Darcy the news was not going to be easy. "I have names."

"Names?"

Richard nodded, crossing the room to stand beside the desk. "I've spoken to a few more men—trusted sources. They were reluctant to talk at first, but once I mentioned the fact that we had proof, eyewitnesses… well, it opened a few doors. I have the names of the officers involved."

Darcy gestured to the chair beside him. "Sit, tell me everything."

Richard sat down, setting his hat on the arm of the chair and pulling out a folded piece of paper from his coat. "The officer who ordered the charge was Colonel Frederick Halton," he began, his tone low.

"Halton!" Darcy sucked in a breath. "But he was the very man who confirmed Harry's treason to your father!"

"The same."

Darcy blinked, staring off into the distance. "I spoke with him in person when Harry died. The blackguard! Offered me his condolences and acted as if he had just lost his right-hand man!"

"He probably did. I've no doubt Harry was his best officer before he happened to catch the colonel in a career-ending error. It was a mistake, and Harry knew it from the start. He reported the error to Major James Bellamy, but Bellamy covered it up—claimed it was a ‘miscommunication,' though we both know that's not true."

"I am not so sure that I do not find him even more culpable than the colonel. Halton's signature actually appears on Harry's initial report—he was probably facing a court-martial when that report came out, but he did sign it. Bellamy must have decided to cover for him. Or for himself."

"That's my opinion as well," Richard agreed. "Now, the one who orchestrated the promotion to silence Harry was General Townsend, trying to save face so he did not have to justify the matter to Wellington. He's the one we need to avoid at all costs."

Darcy's brow furrowed as he took in the names. "And Wickham?"

"He was involved, yes," Richard confirmed. "He was feeding these officers the information they needed to keep Harry in check, playing it for a promotion for himself, no doubt. And when Harry refused to stay quiet, Wickham took it a step further—started spreading the rumours of treason—as well as that nice little touch about ruining women—knowing full well what it would do to your brother's reputation."

Darcy stood, pacing the length of the room as he absorbed Richard's words. "So now we know who they are. Halton, Bellamy, and Townsend." He stopped in front of the fire, staring into the flames. "They wanted to bury Harry's truth with him."

"Exactly," Richard replied. "And if you want to bring Harry's evidence forward, you'll need to make sure it gets into the right hands. These men have influence, Darcy—enough to turn the tables if they catch wind of the fact that you still have Harry's statements."

Darcy nodded. "I will be careful."

Richard leaned forward in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "There's one more thing, though. You mentioned before that you were looking into that letter—the one about a girl Harry might have... wronged."

Darcy's jaw tightened. "Yes. But I no longer believe Harry was responsible. I suppose it is possible … but it just does not sound like something Harry would do."

"Agreed. So?"

"We already know Wickham was trying to do anything he could to ruin Harry's name. He has a history of seducing and abandoning women, and I believe he has done the same here, even to the point of letting the girl believe he was Harry. The problem is, we have no idea who or where she is. The letter gave no name, no real clues."

Richard frowned. "But why does it matter now? If Wickham was behind it, and the girl is long gone, why are you still searching? There is no way of tracking her down after all this time."

Darcy's shoulders tensed, his back still to his cousin as he stared into the fire. His voice was softer when he spoke again. "I married Elizabeth intending to right my brother's mistakes. At least, that is what I believed at the time. But now... now I see that she was no mistake at all. Even so, I made a promise to her—to set things right, wherever I could. If there is another woman out there who was wronged by this situation... I cannot turn my back on that. Elizabeth would never forgive me if I did nothing, nor could I forgive myself."

Richard was silent for a long moment, watching his cousin with quiet understanding. "You are a better man than most, Darcy," he said finally. "But you cannot fix everything. You may never find this girl."

"I know. But I promised my wife that I would try."

There was a long silence between them, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. Finally, Richard stood, clapping a hand on Darcy's shoulder. "We will find the truth. And we will make sure Harry's name is cleared. But take care of yourself, cousin. You cannot fight this battle alone."

Darcy turned to his cousin with a grin. "I'm not."