Page 12 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

The hallway outside the cellar was dimly lit and cold. Captain Richard Fitzwilliam sat on an overturned crate, an apple in one hand and a copy ofThe Timesin the other. He took a loud, wet bite of the fruit.

Crunch.

"Is that a musket?" A muffled squeak drifted through the heavy oak door.

Richard grinned. He swallowed the apple chunk.

"Quiet!" he roared at the door. "They are at the windows! Get down!"

He stood up and stomped his boots against the floorboards—a heavy, rhythmic thudding designed to simulate a platoon of French grenadiers marching through the scullery. He grabbed a nearby broom handle and banged it against the wall.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"Clear the perimeter!" Richard shouted to the empty kitchen. "Check the coal chutes! If you find the traitor, show no mercy!"

"Mercy!" the voice inside the cellar wailed.

Darcy stood at the top of the scullery stairs, watching this performance with a mixture of awe and appalling guilt. He smoothed his gloves.

"Is this necessary, Richard?" he whispered, descending the steps. "He is already weeping. I can hear him through three inches of timber."

"It is vital." Richard resumed his seat on the crate. "Fear requires maintenance, cousin. If I let him sit in silence, he will start thinking. He will realise that French spies do not usually knock so politely. But if I keep him scared, he stays irrational."

"He sounds broken."

"He sounds like a man who pawned your family heritage." Richard took another bite of apple. "How is the mastermind?"

"He is at Matlock House. He is selecting our wardrobe for the evening. He says we cannot rob a gaming hell as respectable gentlemen. We must have the look 'dissolute peers seeking ruin'."

"I can do dissolute." Richard gestured to his unbuttoned coat for emphasis. "You, however, have the posture of a church spire. You will stick out."

"I shall slouch," Darcy promised, though his spine remained perfectly straight.

From behind the cellar door, a frantic scratching sound emerged.

"Richard?" Wickham's voice was thin, trembling. "Are they gone? I hear breathing. Is it the Butcher?"

Richard winked at Darcy. He leaned close to the keyhole.

"They are regrouping, George," he whispered, pitching his voice low and urgent. "I held them off. But they know you are close. I can smell their garlic."

"Oh God," came the sob. "The garlic."

Darcy winced. "The garlic? Really?"

"Details sell the lie, Fitzwilliam." He checked his pocket watch. "Robert wants us. We need to brief you on the rules of Piquet before we enter the lion's den. You know the basics?"

"I know the rules," Darcy said stiffly. "I merely lack the flair."

"You lack the ability to lie without turning the colour of a beet," Richard corrected. "We shall work on it. Come. We leave the prisoner to his reflection."

Richard banged the broom handle against the door once more for good measure.

"I am moving to the roof!" he shouted. "Stay down, George! Do not move until I give the signal!"

"I am a statue!" George cried back. "I am stone!"

Richard tossed the apple core into a bucket. "Let us go rob a bank."