Page 32 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Robert scrutinized his turbot. "Shocking behaviour. Truly. The youth of today have no dignity."

"Indeed," Mr Darcy nodded. "They say the ringleader was shouting about bad wine and whatnot. Madness. I trust you boys stay away from such places."

"We prefer the study, Father. We spent our evenings discussing Plato."

"And crop rotation," Richard added helpfully.

"And wool," George squeaked.

Mr Darcy smiled warmly. "Good lads. It relieves my mind to know the Darcy name is in safe hands. No scandals. No gambling. Just honest study."

He took a sip of wine.

Darcy looked at his father. He loved him. He respected him. But in that moment, realising how easily the older man believed the lie, he felt a crack in his own innocence. The pedestal was not quite so high anymore.

The meal concluded without George swooning, though it was a near-run thing during the cheese course.

Mr Darcy stood, wiping his mouth. "I shall retire to the study to attend to my correspondence. You boys stay and enjoy the port. Mostyn, bring the good bottle."

"Certainly, sir."

The patriarch departed, tapping his cane on the floorboards. The door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the sound of George exhaling a breath he seemed to have held since the turtle soup. He slumped forward, resting his forehead on the mahogany table.

"He knows," George moaned into the wood. "He knows about the spies. Did you hear him? 'Agents everywhere.' He was warning me, Fitz. The Butcher has reached him."

"He knows nothing." Richard reached for the decanter Mostyn had left behind. "He was making conversation. Drink this. It will stop the shaking."

He slid a glass across the table. George grabbed it and downed the vintage port in one gulp.

"Philistine," Robert sighed. "It is a sacrilege to down it like this."

"It is medicine," George gasped. "My nerves are shredded. I saw a shadow in the hallway earlier. It resembled a guillotine."

Darcy sat at the head of the table—his father's chair. It felt too big for him. He traced the grain of the wood with his finger.

"We survived dinner," he said quietly. "We returned the box. We paid the debt."

"We lied," George whispered. "We lied to his face. He called us honest. He was proud."

"He is proud." Robert swirled the wine in his glass. "Because he sees what he wants to see. He sees the surface. We handled the mess beneath."

He stood up and walked around the table, his velvet coat catching the candlelight. He placed a hand on Darcy's shoulder.

"You grew up tonight, Prig," he said softly. "You realised that being the Master is not just about truth. It is about protection. You protected your father from a truth he did not want to acknowledge. You protected George from ruin."

"It feels dishonest," Darcy admitted.

"It is leadership," Richard corrected. "Officers lie to the men to keep morale up. You lied to the General to keep the unit together."

Darcy studied George, who was pouring himself a second glass with a trembling hand, before shifting his gaze to his cousins—the reckless Viscount and the cynical soldier.

They were his unit.

Darcy picked up his glass. He stood.

"To the School," he proposed.