Page 21 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Richard leaned forward, snatching the flask from Robert. He took a long swig.

"But my hat…" Robert announced to the ceiling. "A beaver felt masterpiece. Trampled by the unwashed masses. The Butcher probably has it on his head right now. It will stretch. Such tragedy."

"Forget the hat," Richard snapped. "Focus on the victory. We have the box. The family honour is safe."

Darcy opened his hand. The streetlamps flickering past the window illuminated the emeralds. They shone with a cold, indifferent light, unaware of the violence they had incited.

"It is safe," Darcy breathed. The knot of fear in his stomach began to loosen, replaced by a strange, bubbling sensation. It felt dangerously close to pride. "I bluffed him, Robert. Did you see? I told him I was bored."

"You were magnificent," Robert praised his befuddled cousin. "The sneer was perfection. You looked at him as if he were a fungal infection on the social body."

Darcy let out a short, breathless laugh. "I felt... powerful. Is this what George feels? The risk? The turn of the card?"

"Careful," Richard warned, eyeing his cousin. "Do not develop a taste for it. We do not need two scoundrels in the family. One is expensive enough."

"I shall not make a habit of it," Darcy promised, snapping the box shut. "But for tonight... I am victorious."

The carriage slowed, turning into the mews behind Lindon's townhouse.

"Right." Robert straightened his ruined velvet coat. "Phase One is complete. We have the prize. Now we must deal with the prisoner."

"He will be relieved," Darcy said. "We can tell him it is over."

"Over?" Robert raised an eyebrow. "Darcy, you possess the strategic depth of a puddle. It is not over. If we tell George we simply retrieved the box, he learns nothing. He thinks we are his personal fixers."

"What do we tell him?"

"We tell him the truth," Robert smiled wickedly, tapping his cane against the floor. "Mostly. We tell him we fought. We tell him we bled. And we tell him that while we secured the box... the French Spy is not satisfied."

"He wants blood," Richard guessed, catching on.

"Precisely," Robert nodded. "The debt of money is paid. The debt of honour remains."

The carriage halted.

"Prepare your faces, gentlemen," Robert commanded. "You are grim. You are traumatized. We are about to deliver the worst news of George Wickham's life."

The coal cellar was a place where time went to die.

George Wickham sat in the darkness, hugging his knees. He had counted to a thousand. Then he had counted the bricks in the wall by touch. Then he had cried. Then he had counted to a thousand again.

He was cold. The wool dress offered zero insulation against the damp chill of the stone floor. His corset was a vice made of iron and spite.

A noise from above shattered his misery.

Footsteps. Heavy, hurried, dragging.

He scrambled into the corner, pulling a coal sack over his head.

"Please be Fitz," he whispered into the burlap. "Please be Fitz. Not the French. I do not remember the French verbs."

The bolt on the door slid back with a horrendous metallic screech.

Clang.

Light flooded inside—harsh, blinding lantern light.

"George?"