Page 3 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

George waved a hand, dismissing the concern. "Friday is ages away. Centuries. I shall recover. I have remarkable recuperative powers. Remember the time I fell out of the apple tree? Right as rain by dinner."

"This is not an apple tree, George. This is London. And you are a mess." Darcy grabbed a pitcher of water from the side table and poured a glass. He thrust it at Wickham. "Drink. And tell me why you appear as if you have been rolled through a coal chute."

George took the glass with trembling hands. Water sloshed over the rim, staining his torn waistcoat.

"It was not my fault," he whispered, the bravado suddenly cracking. His eyes darted to the door, then back to Darcy. Fear, sharp and genuine, replaced the drunken haze. "I was waylaid. Tricked. It was a setup, Fitz. I swear it."

Darcy felt a cold prickle of dread at the base of his spine. "Tricked? By whom?"

"Shark," George breathed. "A shark in a velvet coat."

Darcy watched his friend as George huddled in the leather chair, clutching the water glass as if it were a holy relic. He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. He forced himself to breathe evenly. Panic would not help. Logic was required.

"Start from the beginning," he ordered. "You went to the theatre."

"I... intended to go to the theatre," George corrected, staring into his water. "But I met a fellow. A charming man. Said he knew a place where the cards ran hot and the wine flowed free. You know how it is."

"I do not know how it is," Darcy stated icily. "Because I do not follow strangers into dens of iniquity."

"You are so rigid, Fitz. That is your trouble. No flexibility." He took a gulp of water. "Anyway. We went to a place in Covent Garden. The Serpent's Tooth. Very plush. Very exclusive."

"And you played."

"A few hands. Whist. Piquet. I was winning, Fitz! I was up fifty guineas. I thought... I thought I could buy that new mare your father refused me. Starlight is too old and unfashionable for me to ride anymore. And I wanted to show him I could provide for myself."

Darcy closed his eyes. The familiar cycle. George felt slighted. George sought a shortcut. George fell into a pit.

"And then the luck turned," he guessed.

"The cards turned," George hissed. "They were marked. I know they were. The man... they call him The Butcher. He kept raising the stakes. I could not back down. It was a point of honour."

"Honour," Darcy repeated the word, tasting the bile in it. "So you lost. How much, George? How much do I have to write a draft for this time? Fifty? One hundred?"

Darcy was already mentally calculating his own allowance. He could cover a hundred. He would have to skip the books he wanted, perhaps cancel his order for the new boots, but he could do it. To keep the peace. To keep his father from looking at his godson with that disappointed sigh.

George did not answer. He shrank back into the chair.

"George?"

"I did not have the coin, Fitz."

"You played on credit?"

"He would not take my marker because he did not know me. He wanted collateral. An object of value. Just until the morning. Just until I could go to the bank."

The air in the room went very still. The ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder, each second a hammer blow.

Darcy pushed himself away from the desk. He walked slowly toward the chair.

"Collateral." His voice came deceptively quiet. "What collateral, George? You own nothing but your clothes and a very expensive collection of cravats."

George glanced up. His face was pale, stripped of all its usual charm. He was young, scared, and wretched.

"The box," he whispered.

Darcy stopped. His brain refused to parse the word. "The box?"

"The Emerald Snuffbox."