Page 20 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Darcy scrambled over a fallen chair, clutching the snuffbox to his chest. The bruiser blocked the exit, a wall of muscle and no neck.

"You ain't leaving," the bruiser grunted.

Richard did not slow down. He did not even draw his sword. He simply lowered his shoulder and hit the man in the midriff like a battering ram. The bruiser folded, wheezing.

Richard kicked the door open. The cool, foggy night air rushed in.

"Out!" Richard shoved Darcy out and then grabbed Robert by the velvet coat tails, dragging him away from the fight. "We have the package!"

The three of them tumbled into the alley.

"My hat!" Robert gasped, straightening his lapels. "I lost my hat!"

"Forget the hat!" Darcy yelled, adrenaline coursing through him. "Run!"

They sprinted down the alley, their polished Hessians splashing in puddles. Behind them, the sounds of the brawl spilled out into the street—shouts, crashing glass, and the Butcher roaring for blood.

Darcy ran faster than he had ever run in his life. He clutched the emerald box so tight the corners dug into his palm. He was not thinking about posture. He was not thinking about dignity. He was thinking that he, Fitzwilliam Darcy, had just robbed a crime lord.

They reached the waiting carriage at the end of the street. The driver, sensing the urgency, had the horses already moving.

Richard threw the door open. He pushed Darcy inside, then Robert. He leaped in last as the carriage lurched forward, wheels clattering on the stones.

They collapsed onto the squabs, gasping for air.

Robert was missing his hat. His cravat was gone. But his eyes were shining like a madman's.

"Do you have it?" Richard demanded, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Darcy sat up and opened his hand.

There, resting on his palm, was the Emerald Snuffbox. Safe. Intact.

"I have it," Darcy breathed.

Robert let out a whoop of delight. He pulled a flask from his boot—one of his endless stashes—and raised it.

"To the School of Scoundrels!" he said gravely.

Darcy looked at the box. He looked at his crazy cousins. And then, he did the unthinkable.

He threw his head back and laughed.

Chapter Seven: The Fog of War

The carriage wheels clattered over the cobblestones, a rhythmic percussion to the heavy breathing inside the cabin.

Darcy sat hunched on the squabs, clutching the Emerald Snuffbox to his chest as if it were a precious artifact he had just rescued from a burning museum. His cravat hung in tatters. His knuckles were white. A smear of grease, a souvenir from the Butcher's dinner table, stained his blue coat.

He stared at the box. He stared at his cousins.

"I robbed a man," he whispered. The reality crashed down on him, heavier than any treatise on crop rotation. "I committed larceny. In Covent Garden."

"You retrieved stolen property," Richard corrected, leaning back and resting his boots on the opposite seat. "Tactical difference. Besides, you did not assault anyone. Robert and I did the assaulting. You merely absconded."

"I ran," Darcy amended. "I ran like a thief."

"You ran like a gazelle." Robert was still mourning the loss of his hat, patting his curls with a tragic expression. "A very panicked, very wealthy gazelle. It was inspiring."