Page 122 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Then his eye caught the beacon.

In the tier below the boxes, a splash of colour assaulted the gloom. It was a dress of aggressive, unrepentant orange. Not the soft hue of an apricot, nor the rich tone of a sunset, but a jarring, garish pumpkin shade that clashed violently with the crimson velvet of the theatre seats.

"Oh, heavens," Georgiana breathed, her hand tightening on her fan. "Richard, please tell me I am mistaken. Surely that is not… Miss Bingley?"

Richard leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. The woman wearing the orange atrocity sat with a posture so rigid she might have been strapped to a board. Her red hair was piled high, adorned with feathers that bobbed with every movement. Even at this distance, the curve of her neck and the proud, elegant tilt of her chin were unmistakable.

"It is Miss Bingley," Richard confirmed, his voice dry. "And your brother's friend, Mr Bingley. And the Hursts."

Georgiana shrank back into the shadows of the box, as if the orange fabric might physically reach up and taint her own reputation by mere association. "She wrote to me only last week regarding the latest fashions. She did not mention…that."

"It is a tactical error," Richard muttered. "She intends to be seen, to be admired for her boldness. Instead, she looks like a piece of tropical fruit dropped into a coal cellar."

"It is dreadful," Georgiana whispered, looking pained. "Fitzwilliam would be apoplectic."

"Darcy is in Derbyshire with Mrs Darcy, and I wager his thoughts are miles away from the likes of Miss Bingley," Richard noted.

The curtains dropped, the candles were lit by the servants, and the interval began. Richard did not move to fetch refreshments, not willing to abandon Georgiana. Instead, he watched the group seated beneath them. Charles Bingley looked amiable and vacant, as usual. Beside Miss Bingley sat her sister, Mrs Hurst, who looked asleep, and her husband, Mr Hurst. The man was swaying. Even from thirty feet above, Richard could see the heavy, flushed complexion of a man who had consumed his dinner in liquid form.

Mr Hurst stood up. Or rather, he attempted to stand, failed to locate his centre of gravity, and listed heavily to the left. He collided with a footman squeezing down the aisle with a tray of refreshments.

Glasses shattered. A bottle of wine hit the floor and rolled under the benches.

"More!" Hurst bellowed, his voice carrying over the din of the crowd. "Boy! Bring the claret!"

He lunged for the waiter, grabbing the man's lapels. The poor servant stumbled back, nearly dropping whatever was left on his tray onto the lap of a dowager in the row ahead. A ripple of angry murmurs spread through the surrounding seats.

"Oh, no." Georgiana grasped Richard's sleeve, her face draining of colour. "Richard, everyone is staring."

"Steady," Richard said, placing a hand over hers.

Below, Bingley fluttered his hands, patting Hurst's arm uselessly. "Come now, Hurst. Steady on. Let the man be."

"Unhand me, you puppy!" Hurst roared, shoving Bingley backward. Bingley stumbled, knocking into a gentleman behind him, who stood up and shouted in protest.

Richard watched the scene with the detached, clinical assessment of a tactician. Hurst was large, heavy, and fuelled by brandy. Bingley was light, polite, and useless. The crowd in the pit was beginning to turn. Men were standing up, pointing, and jeering.

Miss Bingley sat frozen. She did not shrink away or cover her face. She remained amidst the wreckage of broken glass and social ruin, her back straight, her gloved hands gripping the arms of her chair so tightly he imagined the wood might splinter. She was surrounded by the mob, burning publicly and completely, but she refused to turn to ash.

A group of young lords, equally inebriated, began to jeer. "Go on, Hurst! Give him a left hook!"

Hurst raised a fist, his face a mask of sodden fury. He turned not on the waiter, but on Miss Bingley, who had dared to place a restraining hand on his sleeve.

"Do not touch me, you harpy!" he shouted, raising his hand.

Richard was moving before he made the conscious decision to leave his seat.

"Stay here," he ordered, his voice brooking no argument. He did not look at Georgiana. "Do not move until I return. If any person enters the box, you are to scream."

"Richard—"

He was already gone. He exited the red velvet sanctuary of Robert's box and descended the stairs two at a time, his boots striking the wood with a heavy, rhythmic cadence. He reached the ground floor and pushed into the auditorium, using his shoulders to part the throng of intermission strollers. He did not ask for passage. He took it.

He reached the end of the Bingleys' row just as Hurst grabbed Miss Bingley's wrist.

Richard stepped into the cramped row, forcing people to pull in their legs. He did not shout or bluster. He simply occupied the space with the sudden, overwhelming pressure of a thunderhead.

"Mr Hurst." Richard's voice was low, pleasant, and utterly chilling.