Page 148 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"Yes, Miss?"

"Find out which stable Seraphina came from. I wish to send them a very strongly worded letter."

"Of course, Miss. Will you mention the oak tree?"

"Absolutely. And the dog. Especially the dog."

Chapter Nine: The Secret Kindness

Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam did not, as a rule, skulk after servants through London's streets. It was undignified. It was beneath him. And it suggested a level of desperation that Black Thunder—who judged everyone, silently and without mercy—would find pathetic.

And yet, there he was, trailing Schmidt through Piccadilly like a spy assigned to shadow a quite uninteresting courier.

He had spotted her by chance, riding back from the barracks, when the unmistakable broad-shouldered silhouette of Miss Bingley's maid had lumbered into view. She moved with the weary determination of a woman who had spent her life lugging hatboxes for a mistress with a pathological fear of under-accessorising.

Schmidt carried a basket. An ordinary wicker basket, the kind used by sensible people to transport sensible things. But Richard, whose military training had honed his ability to spot anomalies in civilian behaviour, noticed the way she kept glancing over her shoulder. Not the furtive darting of a thief, but the calculated awareness of someone who preferred not to be noticed.

Intriguing.

He dismounted, pressed a penny and a warning into the palm of a street urchin ("If he bites you, it is your own fault. He has standards."), and followed.

Schmidt navigated the streets with confidence, knowing exactly where she was going—past the coaching inn, past the apothecary, past the milliner's shop where Richard had once endured Miss Bingley's infamous violet pelisse, a garment so aggressive it could have been classified as a weapon of war.

Finally, she stopped outside a modest tea shop sandwiched between a tailor and a chandler. The sign above the door,Mrs Paulson's Tea Room, was written in gilt so faded, it had given up on life. The place was respectable, clean, and smelled faintly of resignation—the kind of establishment where overworked servants took refuge before returning to the battlefield of their employers' demands.

Richard waited until Schmidt disappeared inside, counted to ten (because even spying required decorum), and followed.

The interior smelled of bergamot and fresh bread, a scent so wholesome it almost made him suspicious. A handful of tables were occupied by shopkeepers' wives and clerks who had been defeated by ledgers. Schmidt had claimed a corner table and had lowered her basket onto it. Her sigh was so profound it indicated her spine had just filed for early retirement.

Richard approached.

Schmidt looked up. Her eyes widened. For a moment, he thought she might bolt for the door, basket and all.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam!" She lurched to her feet, nearly sending the table into orbit. "I did not—that is—good afternoon, sir!"

"Good afternoon, Miss Schmidt," Richard said, executing a bow so polished it only made her look more alarmed. "Forgive the intrusion. I saw you from the street and thought you might appreciate some assistance with your…" He gestured to the basket, which appeared to contain enough parcels to provide for a small army, "…errands."

She stared at him as if he had just suggested they rob a bank together.

"Assistance, sir?"

"You seem to be carrying the weight of the British Empire in that basket," he said. "I am at liberty this afternoon. Allow me to lighten your load."

Schmidt's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "That is very kind, sir, but I could not possibly—"

"Nonsense." Richard pulled out the chair opposite hers and sat before she could protest. "Consider it an act of mercy. Your spine is one hatbox away from staging a mutiny. But first, I need fortification. You do not mind, do you?"

The maid sank into her seat as if it might explode beneath her.

Richard signalled to the proprietress, a stout woman with flour dusting her apron and the weary smile of someone who had long since stopped questioning the oddities of human behaviour. "Tea for two, if you please. And your freshest biscuits."

"The lemon cakes, sir," the woman said. "They are our speciality."

Schmidt clutched her basket like it held the Crown Jewels. "Colonel, I really must—"

"You must sit and drink tea," Richard interrupted. "It is medicinal. I have read reports—highly classified, of course—that tea is the only known cure for chronic hatbox-induced scoliosis."

A flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Miss Bingley does have strong opinions about hats."