Page 123 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Hurst blinked, turning his bleary eyes on the intruder. "Who the devil—?"

Richard stepped into the man's personal guard. With a movement too fast for the drunkard to follow, he seized Hurst's right wrist, the one holding Miss Bingley, and applied a specific pressure to the radial nerve.

Hurst's eyes bulged. His hand sprang open. He made a sound like a leaking pipe.

"I believe," Richard said, maintaining the painful grip while smiling for the benefit of the watching crowd, "that you are feeling unwell, sir. The heat of the pit can be overwhelming for men of delicate constitution."

"My arm," Hurst wheezed, his knees buckling. "You're breaking my arm."

"I am supporting you." Richard tightened his grip until Hurst went up on his toes. "Mr Bingley, if you would be so good as to take his other side? We shall escort your brother-in-law to the street. He requires fresh air. Immediately."

Bingley stared, his mouth agape, before scrambling to obey. "Colonel! Thank God. Yes! Yes, of course. Fresh air. Just the thing."

Together, they hauled the groaning Hurst out of the row, navigating him past the annoyed spectators. Richard cast one glance back over his shoulder.

Miss Bingley and her sister sat alone in the centre of the disaster, the empty seats beside them acting as a quarantine zone. Her orange dress was crumpled. A splash of wine stained the hem. She met his gaze, her eyes wide, dark, and shockingly vulnerable. He gave her a sharp nod, a command to hold her ground, and dragged her tormentor towards the exit.

It took ten minutes to deposit Hurst into the Bingley carriage. The man passed out the moment his head touched the squabs. Bingley remained outside, wringing his hands, offering apologies that Richard ignored.

"Go with him, Bingley," he said, dusting his gloves. "Ensure he does not choke."

"But—my sisters," Bingley stammered. "I cannot leave them alone in the pit. If you could perhaps…"

"I will ensure they are returned to your residence when the performance concludes. Go."

Bingley fled. Richard turned and walked back into the theatre. He found Miss Bingley in the corridor behind the stalls, standing near a pillar. She had retreated from her seat. She stood wrapping a shawl tightly around her shoulders to hide the orange silk.

She saw him approach and straightened. The mask of haughty disdain slammed back into place, though he saw the cracks in the porcelain.

Richard stopped in front of her. He waited. He expected the reach for the reticule. He expected the coin. He expected the insult designed to restore her sense of superiority.Here is a shilling for your trouble, porter.

She looked at his hands. Then her eyes lifted to his face. Her throat worked.

"You have no right." Her voice trembled. "To handle my family affairs."

"I have every right to prevent a brawl in a public theatre," he replied calmly. "It disrupts the music."

She stared at him. The fight drained out of her, leaving her looking tired and young. She took a breath, and for the first time since he had known her, she did not look at him as a poor relation or a servant.

"Thank you," she said. The words were stiff, foreign to her tongue, but they were audible. "I… I owe you, Colonel."

Richard blinked. He felt a strange sensation in his chest, a shifting of tectonic plates. He recovered quickly.

"I will collect one day, Miss Bingley," he murmured, his voice dropping to a register that made her eyes snap back to his. "I never forget what is owed to me."

"I imagine you do not," she whispered.

"Go back to your seat," he ordered gently. "Sit through the second act. Do not let them see you run. I will arrange for a carriage for you and your sister after the play ends."

He turned on his heel and walked away before she could answer.

Back at Robert's box, Georgiana was very still, her hands clutching her fan, counting the seconds until Richard returned. She knew Caroline Bingley's ambition and the desperation that coated every letter and every invitation to tea. But she had never seen the desperation laid so bare as it was in that orange dress, surrounded by the rougher sort in the pit.

When the door to the box opened, she nearly jumped. Richard slid into the seat beside her, smelling of cold air and violence. He looked perfectly composed, though his cravat begged to differ.

"Is it done?" she whispered.

"It is handled, Georgie. Do not fret. The opera resumes."