Page 2 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Darcy returned to the desk. He picked up his quill. He stared at the Enclosure Acts. But the words blurred. The silence of the house was no longer peaceful. It was an accusation.

Where was he?

The peace of Grosvenor Square did not end with a polite knock. It ended with the crash of a body colliding with a very expensive front door.

Darcy dropped his quill. A blot of ink, dark and jagged, bloomed across his essay on tenant rights.

"Damnation," he whispered, a profanity he would never dare utter in Derbyshire.

The heavy knocker slammed against the wood. Once. Twice. A frantic, desperate rhythm that suggested the person on the other side was fleeing a fire or the Watch.

Darcy was out of his chair before the third knock. He rushed into the hallway, ignoring the impropriety of running indoors. He reached the end of the hallway just as Mostyn, moving with a speed that defied his considerable age, unbolted the main entrance.

The door swung open.

George Wickham fell into the hall.

He did not step in. He poured in. He stumbled over the threshold, clipped his shoulder on the doorframe, and landed on his hands and knees on the marble floor.

"Safe!" He gasped, his voice a ragged wheeze. "Home! Sanctuary!"

Darcy ran to the entrance, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"George!"

Mostyn stepped back, his nose wrinkling. The reason was immediately apparent. The crisp night air of Mayfair was suddenly overwhelmed by the aroma of cheap gin, stale tobacco, and the distinct, acrid scent of the Thames at low tide.

George rolled onto his back. He lay spread-eagled on the black-and-white tiles, staring up at the chandelier with wide, bloodshot eyes. His cravat was gone. His waistcoat, usually a masterpiece of embroidery, was torn at the shoulder. And, Darcy noted with a surge of horror, he was missing a boot.

"Fitz!" George grinned. It was a terrible, lopsided expression. "You are awake! Diligent old Fitz. Always burning the midnight oil. Or the midnight wax. Which is it?"

"Get up," Darcy hissed, grabbing George's arm and hauling him upright. The man was dead weight, his limbs loose and uncooperative. "You are foxed. My God, George, look at you. Where is your boot?"

"Boot?" George stared down at his stockinged foot, wiggling his toes. "A sacrifice. To the gods of the cobblestones. Or perhaps a dog took it. It was a very large dog, I am sure. A hound of hell."

"Mostyn," Darcy barked, struggling to keep George from sliding back onto the floor. "Close the door. If the neighbours see..."

"The neighbours are asleep, sir. As all Christian souls should be." Mostyn shut the door, sealing the disaster inside. "Shall I fetch a bucket? Or the fire tongs?"

"Help me get him to the study. We cannot drag him upstairs in this state. Mrs Crauford will have an apoplexy if she sees mud on the stair runner."

Together, they marched the stumbling prodigal down the hall. George giggled, his head lolling onto Darcy's shoulder.

"You smell of libraries, Fitz," he slurred. "Paper and dust. I smell of life! Adventure! The theatre of existence!"

"You smell of the gutter," Darcy corrected, kicking the study door open. "Sit. No, not on the velvet chair. The leather one. It wipes clean."

They deposited George into the wingback chair. He collapsed, limbs sprawling, looking for all the world a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Mostyn adjusted his lapels. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"Go to bed, Mostyn. I will handle this."

The butler offered a small, grim bow—a gesture that conveyed deep sympathy for the task ahead—and withdrew.

Darcy stood over his childhood friend, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The anger bubbled up, hot and sharp.

"Father arrives on Friday." He kept his voice deliberately low. "He expects to see a gentleman. He expects to see a scholar. Instead, he will see a man who loses his footwear in the gutter."