Page 31 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"Remarkable," Mr Darcy mused. "Most young men of twenty are racking up debts at the tailor. And here you are, preaching the vanity of silk. Darcy, you could learn a lesson from your friend."

Darcy gripped his spoon until his knuckles turned white. The irony tasted more bitter than the soup. "I learn from George every day, Father. He teaches me resilience."

"And humility," Robert added, raising his glass. "Let us not forget humility. George has recently discovered a deep appreciation for the simple things. Wool, for instance. And coal."

George let out a low whimper.

Old Mr Darcy frowned. "Coal? Why would he appreciate coal?"

"The warmth, sir," Robert improvised smoothly. "The industrial spirit of Britain. George is fascinated by the extraction process."

"Indeed," the patriarch nodded. "A practical mind. I approve. Perhaps you should visit the mines when we return to Derbyshire, George."

George paled to the colour of the tablecloth. "The mines? Underground? In the dark?"

"It builds character," Mr Darcy decided. "Pass the salt."

The servants cleared the soup and brought out the fish course—a turbot that stared up at George with an accusing eye.

Mostyn refilled the wine glasses. The butler moved around the table with his usual ghostly discretion, though Darcy noticed him giving George a wide berth, as if the young man might explode.

"So." Mr Darcy sliced his fish and put a bite in his mouth. "What is the news from town? I hear rumours of the French. They say Bonaparte is building a fleet."

George dropped his fork. It hit the plate with a chime that rang through the room.

"French?" George whispered. "Here? In London?"

"Not yet, George," Mr Darcy chuckled. "But they have spies everywhere. Agents, provocateurs. Men who infiltrate society to sow discord."

George pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the floorboards. His eyes darted to the window, then to the door.

"Spies," he breathed. "They know. They always know."

Mr Darcy paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "Know what, George? You seem agitated."

Darcy felt the cold sweat break out on his neck. George was cracking. The trauma of the "French Assassin" was too fresh.

"He means they know our fashions," Robert interrupted loudly. "George is afraid that the French will steal our tailoring secrets. He is a patriot of the wardrobe."

"Tailoring?" Mr Darcy said sceptical.

"The cut of the British coat is the envy of Europe," Robert insisted. "George believes that if Napoleon gets his hands on a proper English buckram, the war is lost. He has been having nightmares about Jacobins in ill-fitting trousers."

"It is true," Richard added, buttering a bread roll. "George wakes up screaming, 'Save the lapels!'"

Mr Darcy stared at his godson. At the trembling hands, the wide eyes, the sweat beading on his brow.

"You are a strange man, George," the patriarch decided. "But I suppose artistic temperaments are prone to hysteria. Darcy, see that he drinks more port. It will stiffen his spine."

"Yes, Father."

"But speaking of spies," Mr Darcy continued, oblivious to the panic he was inducing. "I heard a curious story at the club. A friend of mine—Lord Metcalfe—mentioned a disturbance in Covent Garden last night. At a gaming hell."

Darcy stopped breathing.

"A gaming hell, sir?" he asked, his voice strangling.

"The Serpent's Tooth, I believe. A vile place. Apparently, a group of young ruffians flipped a table and started a brawl. One of them claimed to be a Viscount. Can you imagine? The aristocracy brawling like dockworkers."