Page 258 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Tepper materialised from the hallway. The valet moved with the silent, deadly grace of an assassin. He did not run. He glided. He approached the snarling cat, his face a mask of professional indifference.

Charles-the-cat hissed, tightening his grip. Sir Polonius let out a sound like a tearing sheet.

"My Lord," Tepper stated calmly, reaching into his pocket. "The Dutch beef."

"Bribery?" Robert shouted. "You want to negotiate with thugs?"

"It is the only way." Tepper produced a dark, cured slice of meat from a folded piece of waxed paper. He held it out.

The cat stared at the meat.

"Drop it," the Viscount threatened, raising his cane. "Drop the bird, or I shall turn you into a muff."

Charles-the-cat made a calculation. The bird tasted of dust and feathers. The beef smelled of rich salt and smoke.

He opened his mouth.

Sir Polonius was dropped onto the piano keys with a discordantplink. The cat snatched the meat and vanished under the instrument to consume his ill-gotten gains.

Tepper scooped up the parrot. The bird was ruffled, wet, and missing several tail feathers, looking like a drunkard after a tavern brawl.

"You are safe, Sir Polonius," Tepper murmured, smoothing a wing.

The parrot fixed Tepper with a hate-filled black eye. It shook its head, sending a spray of cat saliva onto the valet's pristine waistcoat.

"Imbecile," Sir Polonius croaked distinctly. "Peasant."

Robert collapsed onto a nearby chair, fanning his face with his hand. "Thank God. Jane would have murdered me. She is fond of the wretched creature. Mostly." He pointed a trembling finger at the cat. "That animal is barred from my estates. He is a Jacobin."

"He is a mouser." Mary wiped a green feather from her sleeve. She adjusted her spectacles, her face flushed, her lips fighting a smile. "He merely mistook Sir Polonius for a very large, very loud mouse."

"He mistook him for luncheon!" Robert retorted. He paused, finally registering the scene. The rumpled rug. The dishevelled couple. The red lips.

His eyes narrowed. A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, tapping his cane on the floor. "I see we interrupted a happy alliance. Or was it a seizure of hearts?"

Charles stood up. He pulled Mary to her feet, wrapping an arm around her waist. He did not stammer. He did not blush. Hestood amidst the feathers, the cat, and the pandemonium, and he beamed. "It was a partnership sealed!" he declared. "We shall wed as soon as the banns are read."

"Excellent," Robert slapped his knee. "But not before you pay for the parrot's recuperation. Tepper, take the bird away. Colonel, find us some brandy. We have a wedding to plan, and I intend to be drunk for the duration."

"Squawk!" Sir Polonius agreed as Tepper marched him out. "Dividend! Dividend!"

Mary laughed. The sound rose above the madness, bright and clear. Charles pulled her close, kissing her temple, while the cat chewed loudly on the floor and the Viscount planned the toasts.

The storm had passed.

Bonus Chapter

The drawing room at Pemberley was an architectural triumph of symmetry and wealth. It was vast, elegant, and currently functioning as a theatre for the exhausting emotional athletics of the Bennet family.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh sat in a velvet wingback chair, her spine an unyielding monument to aristocratic superiority. She rested both hands on the silver head of her cane. She did not really need the cane to walk, but it was very useful for making a point and occasionally, landing it on an offender's shin. She surveyed the room with detached, clinical judgement, like a general assessing a somewhat chaotic infantry.

To her right, her daughter Anne lounged upon a chaise, ostensibly reading a novel, though her eyes frequently darted over the pages to observe the spectacle. Near the fireplace, Georgiana stood rigidly upright, practising what she and that peculiar middle Bennet girl called the "Mule posture". On the settee was Lydia Bennet, reading a fashion plate. The girl was a trial, certainly—loud and wildly unformed—but under Lady Catherine's strict tutelage at Rosings, she had at least learned to stop slouching, and resembled more a lady than a bar wretch. Fitzwilliam Darcy, her nephew, stood near his sister, his hands clenched and his lips pursed in a thin line of worry, as he watched his wife providing the true disturbance.

Elizabeth Darcy, the Mistress of Pemberley, was pacing. She was wearing a trench into the priceless Aubusson carpet, waving a letter that had arrived by the morning post from Hertfordshire.

"Elizabeth," Lady Catherine commanded, tapping her cane against the floorboards. "Cease your marching. You are making me dizzy, and you are entirely distracting Lydia from hermission on finding a respectable gown. A lady of consequence receives news sitting down."