Page 28 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"Burn it," George commanded, his voice dropping to a whisper. "When we return, we must burn it. It is a cursed garment. It smells of coal and terror."

"We will burn it," Darcy promised. "And then we will never speak of the French Spy again. It is a closed chapter."

"Sealed," George nodded vigorously. "Buried. If your father asks... I was studying. I was studying so hard I forgot to eat. That explains the pallor."

"And the smell?" Richard asked. "You smell like a chimney sweep who fell into a gin barrel."

"Research," George decided. "I was researching the plight of the common man. For a... a thesis."

Darcy turned back to the window. The city streets were waking up. Bakers were opening their shutters, sweepers were clearing the crossings. Normal life was resuming.

But for Darcy, the world felt different. He had lied. He had stolen. He had staged a duel. But also, he had saved the family honour. However, looking at the manic, trembling man opposite him, he wondered if the price of the lesson would be silence, or if George Wickham would eventually forget the terror and remember only the thrill.

Captain Lindon's townhouse welcomed them back with the silent discretion of a tomb. They entered through the rear, avoiding the servants, and marched directly to the study.

A fire roared in the grate. Standing before it, nursing a cup of coffee, was Robert. He was rested, immaculate, and entirely innocent of any dawn escapades in Hampstead.

"You returned." Robert set his cup down and inspected the trio. "And George is breathing. I assume the Spy missed?"

"He missed," George gasped, collapsing onto the nearest settee. "By a hair, Robert! A whisper! I felt the wind of the bullet pass my ear!"

"Remarkable," Robert drawled. "I was watching from the ridge, but the mist obscured the finer details. I saw you fall. I feared the worst."

"I swooned," George admitted, stripping off the greatcoat. "The fear was absolute. He was a giant, Robert. Seven feet tall, possibly more. His eyes were burning coals."

Darcy coughed to cover a laugh. Robert, who was six foot two on a good day, preened slightly at the description.

"A formidable adversary," he agreed. "But he is gone?"

"Vanished," Richard confirmed, pouring himself a brandy. "Left a note. Debt absorbed."

"Then we are free." Robert pointed his cane at George. "Now, Agnes. Disrobe. The fashion experiment is over."

George did not need telling twice. He scrambled out of the maid's dress with frantic haste, tearing the hooks in his desperation. He kicked the garment away as if it were venomous.

"The corset too," Richard ordered.

George unlaced the stays, gasping as his ribs expanded. He stood there in his smallclothes, soot-stained and shivering, but free. "The fire," he pointed.

Robert picked up the dress with the tip of his cane. He lifted it high. It hung limp and heavy, a testament to the last twenty-four hours of madness.

"To the memory of Agnes," Robert toasted.

He dropped the dress into the flames.

The wool hissed. Smoke billowed up the chimney. They watched in silence as the garment blackened, curled, and finally turned to ash.

"Gone," George breathed. "The evidence is gone."

"Not all of it." Darcy walked to stand opposite George. He looked at him with intensity. "The Emerald box is safe. I will put it in Father's hands tomorrow. And you will be standing next to me when I do."

"Anything, Fitz. But first, I need a bath," George declared, rubbing his face. "I need to scrub the coal from my pores. I need to smell of sandalwood. I need to forget."

"Go," Robert waved a hand. "I asked the servants to draw a bath. Use the rose soap. It masks misery better than sandalwood."

George fled the room, leaving a trail of soot on the carpet.

When the door closed, Robert sagged against the mantelpiece. The mask of indifference dropped.