Page 10 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"Then shuffle," Richard ordered, pushing him forward. "Keep your head down. Shoulders hunched. Imagine you are carrying a bucket of coal."

"I refuse to imagine that."

"Imagine a French sniper on the roof, then."

George hunched immediately.

They formed a strange procession. George, the oversized washerwoman, shuffled in the centre. Richard walked a few paces ahead, hand on his sword hilt, scanning the rooftops for imaginary assassins. Robert and Darcy flanked the rear, trying to appear casual while escorting a man in a dress through the backstreets of Mayfair.

"Is it far?" George whispered, stumbling over a loose cobble.

"Not very far," Richard replied. "It is only three streets away. We stick to the shadows."

They turned a corner and nearly collided with a genuine milkmaid. She carried a yoke with two heavy pails, her cheeks ruddy with the morning chill.

She stopped. She stared at George. She took in the hulking shoulders, the hairy ankles visible above the boots, and the shadow already darkening his jaw beneath the mob cap.

George froze. Panic flared in his eyes. He opened his mouth—to scream or beg for mercy, possibly both.

Richard stepped in.

"Morning, love." He flashed a charming, dangerous smile at the girl. "Ignore my aunt. She has the dropsy. And a touch of the madness. Taking her to Bedlam."

The milkmaid blinked. "She's big, isn't she?"

"Huge," Richard agreed. "Built like a shire horse. Terrible temper. Best move along."

He tossed a coin into her apron. It got swallowed in the front pocket.

The girl curtsied, cast one last curious glance at George, and hurried away, her pails swinging.

"Aunt?" George hissed, once she was out of earshot. "Built like a shire horse?"

"You are welcome," Richard growled. "Now move. Before she tells the Watch there is an ogre in the alley."

Darcy walked beside Robert. He kept his eyes on the ground, his face burning.

"This is insanity," he murmured. "We are committing fraud in broad daylight."

"We are conducting a tactical exercise," Robert corrected, adjusting his cuffs. "And admit it, Darcy. You are enjoying this slightly."

"I am terrified."

"Yes. But you are not bored. And George is learning humility. Look at him."

Darcy looked. George had stepped in a puddle of dubious origin. He did not curse. He did not complain. He merely whimpered softly and kept shuffling.

"He shall certainly learn to avoid puddles," Darcy conceded.

"We are nearly there." Richard pointed towards a black service door at the end of the mews. "Sanctuary awaits."

Captain Lindon's townhouse was strictly utilitarian.

The quartet slipped through the rear entrance, entering a scullery that smelled of beeswax and lemons. Richard waved away a startled kitchen maid with a single gesture that sent her scurrying into the pantry.

"In," he pointed to a heavy wooden door set into the wall.

George hesitated. "In there?"