Page 177 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

He did not stop. He did not apologise. He had spent one and thirty years being polite and courteous, and look where it had got him.

Behind him, Lindon followed in desperate pursuit.

The entrance hall was chaos—cloaks and carriages and footmen shouting for vehicles. Richard burst through the front doors just in time to see the Bingley carriage pulling away from the kerb, its lanterns swaying as the horses picked up speed.

No.

No.

"Colonel!" Lindon skidded to a halt beside him, slightly winded. "You cannot chase a carriage through Mayfair. It is undignified. Also impossible. Also—"

Richard was already running.

"—also you are doing it anyway. Of course you are. Why do I even bother?"

The carriage turned onto Mount Street. Richard's dress boots—which had been designed for looking impressive whilst standing very still, not for sprinting through London like a lunatic—slipped on the wet cobblestones. He caught himself on a lamp post, swore creatively, and kept running.

Lindon kept pace, because Lindon was loyal, and also because Lindon had apparently decided that preventing Richard from dying in a gutter was his sacred duty for the evening.

"There is a corner ahead!" Lindon gasped. "If we cut through the alley—"

They cut through the alley. It smelled of rotting vegetables and the remnants of men who had drunk too much ale. Richard's boot landed in a puddle of uncertain origin. He did not care. He had stopped caring about anything except the retreating glow of those carriage lanterns.

They emerged onto Davies Street just as the Bingley carriage approached, the horses slowing to navigate the turn.

"I have an idea," Lindon announced.

"What—"

Lindon stepped directly into the path of the oncoming carriage.

Richard's heart stopped.

The horses screamed.

The driver hauled on the reins with a bellow of profanity that would have made a sailor weep with admiration.

The carriage lurched to a halt approximately three inches from Lindon's extremely polished boots.

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY—" The driver's face was a mask of rage and terror, his whip hand shaking. "ARE YOU TRYING TO GET YOURSELF KILLED, YOU BLITHERING—"

"Good evening!" Lindon smiled brightly, as if he had not just risked becoming a decorative smear on Davies Street. "Terriblysorry for the inconvenience. Lovely night for a drive, is it not? My colleague requires a word with your passengers. Military business. Very urgent. Life or death, really."

"I'LL GIVE YOU LIFE OR DEATH, YOU CORK-BRAINED—"

Richard did not wait for the negotiation to conclude. He wrenched open the carriage door and threw himself inside as if he had been launched from a cannon.

The interior was dimly lit by a single lamp, casting shadows across the occupants. Bingley sat on one bench, hovering somewhere between alarm and utter befuddlement—his natural state, really. Miss Bingley sat opposite, her orange gown pooling around her like molten sunset, her face a mask of ice.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Bingley cleared his throat, desperate to fill the awkward silence. "I say, Colonel. Do you need a ride?"

Richard ignored him. His eyes were fixed on her, who was staring at him as if he were an offensive species of insect that had crawled into her reticule and refused to leave.

"Miss Bingley." His voice came out ragged. Desperate. Not at all the calm, collected tone of a man in control of the situation. "I need to speak with you."

"No."