Page 4 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

The world tilted on its axis.

"No," Darcy breathed. "No. You cannot mean... Father trusted you to take it to the jeweller to be polished."

It was a test. Darcy knew it was a test. Old Mr Darcy had handed the priceless heirloom—a gift from a Duke to a Darcy three generations ago—to George.Take it to Bond Street, George. Show me you can be responsible.

"I meant to take it!" George cried, tears spilling over his lashes. "But the shop was closed! I had it in my pocket. I thought it was safe. I thought I would win the hand, take the money, and get the box back. It was only for an hour!"

"You bet the Darcy Emeralds," Darcy shouted, the control finally snapping. "On a hand of Piquet? In a Covent Garden gaming hell?"

"I lost, Fitz!" George sobbed, burying his face in his hands. "He took it! The Butcher took it! He says I have to pay five hundred guineas by Friday or he sells it. Or he melts it down!"

Darcy staggered back, pressing a hand to his chest. His heart was racing, a frantic, bird-like fluttering.

Five hundred guineas. He did not have five hundred guineas.

And Friday.

"Father arrives on Friday," he whispered to himself. "He will ask for the box. He will want to see it shining."

If George did not have it, the lie would be exposed. The gambling. The recklessness. Old Mr Darcy would be forced to cast him out. And the news would travel to Derbyshire. To the steward's cottage.

"My father," George moaned, rocking back and forth. "If he finds out... his heart, Fitz. The doctor said any shock..."

"He will die," Darcy finished.

He looked at the weeping man in the chair. In his mind came the ink-stained essay onPaternalism and efficiency.

There was no efficiency here. Only ruin.

He turned to the window. The fog was pressing against the glass, grey and impenetrable. He was twenty years old. He wasa student. He was supposed to be worrying about treatises on drainage.

Instead, he was standing on the precipice of a disaster that would shatter two families.

"We cannot tell Father," Darcy said. The decision settled over him like a shroud.

"What can we do?" George wailed. "We have no money! We have no weapons! We are students!"

Darcy stared at his reflection in the dark glass. He was pale. He was terrified. But beneath the panic, a gear clicked into place.

"We are not merely students, George. We are Derbyshire men."

He turned back to the room.

"Mostyn!" he roared, his voice cracking with desperation. "Wake the footman! Send a runner to Matlock House. Wake Richard and Robert, discreetly. Tell them it is an emergency."

"Fitz?" George sniffled.

"Be quiet, George." He grabbed a fresh sheet of paper. "I am organizing a council of war."

Chapter Two: The Council of Cousins

The clock in the study chimed four. The sound hung in the heavy silence, marking the hour when honest men slept and scoundrels usually found themselves in a ditch.

Fitzwilliam Darcy paced the Persian rug. He had walked the same line of red wool for forty minutes, wearing a path that would probably require the rug to be re-woven.

George Wickham sat in the leather wingback chair, nursing his third glass of water. He had stopped weeping, replacing tears with a sullen, tragic silence. He stared into the dying embers of the fire, occasionally letting out a ragged sigh intended to elicit sympathy.

It elicited none.