Page 25 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

But then he remembered the Emerald Snuffbox sitting safely in the strongbox back in Darcy House. He remembered the five hundred guineas. He remembered his father's trust, and he kept walking.

The mist parted.

Fifty yards away, a figure stood beneath the twisted branches of a dead oak.

He was tall, draped in a black cloak that reached the ground. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face, and a scarf of dark silk obscured his features, leaving only his cold eyes visible.

He stood perfectly still, a silhouette cut from the fabric of a nightmare.

"The Spy," George breathed. He stopped dead. He tried to back up, but his boots stuck in the mud. "He is huge, Fitz. He looks like death."

"He is simply a man with a grievance," Richard shrugged.

"Where is his Second?" Darcy asked.

"He refused one," Richard replied grimly. "Said he prefers to do his own dirty work. It is highly irregular, but I did not argue with a man holding a hand-cannon." He turned to George. "Stand tall, George. Do not show fear. Predators smell it."

"I am reeking of it," George moaned.

The figure raised a hand. A single, gloved finger beckoned.

"He calls you." Darcy's own heart hammered against his ribs. Robert was playing the part too well. The stillness was unnerving.

Richard marched George forward. They stopped twenty paces from the figure.

"Sir!" Richard called out, his voice booming across the heath. "I present Mr George Wickham! Ready to give satisfaction for the insult offered!"

The Spy did not speak. He merely nodded. He reached into his cloak and produced a pistol. It was long-barrelled and terrifyingly functional.

"He is using his own?" George's eyes went wide like saucers.

"He insisted. Claimed English pistols shoot crooked. Ignore it. Yours is better." Richard raised his voice. "The terms are standard, gentlemen. Ten paces. Turn. Fire. One shot to satisfy honour."

The Spy nodded again.

"George," Richard turned to the trembling man. "Take your mark."

George looked at Darcy. His eyes were wide, wet, and filled with a despair that nearly broke Darcy's resolve.

"If I fall," George whispered, gripping Darcy's sleeve, "tell my father... tell him I died defending a lady. Do not tell him I died in a washerwoman's dress over a gambling debt."

"I will tell him you were brave," Darcy promised, his throat tight. "Now go."

George stepped to the mark. He stood back-to-back with the towering figure in black. He barely reached the Spy's shoulder. The contrast was absurd—the quaking man in the oversized coat and the silent, imposing avenger.

"Gentlemen," Richard boomed, raising a handkerchief. "Prepare."

George squeezed his eyes shut. A tear leaked out.

"I repent," George muttered to the grass. "I repent everything. The cards. The wine. The time I stole Mrs Reynolds' cooling pie."

"On my count!" Richard continued. "One!"

George took a step. He stumbled, righted himself.

"Two!"

Another step.