Page 33 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Robert stood. Richard stood. Even George, after a moment of hesitation, dragged himself upright.

"To the School," Robert agreed. "May it be permanently dismissed."

"And to the Emerald Snuffbox," Richard added. "May it stay in a drawer for the next fifty years."

They drank. The port was rich, heavy, and sweet.

"I think," George said, wiping his mouth, "that I shall go to bed. I plan to sleep for a week. And Fitz?"

"Yes, George?"

"Thank you. For the lie. And for the rest."

George stumbled out of the room.

Darcy sat back down, his eyes landing on the empty chair where his father had sat. He realised that the fear of the last two days had faded, leaving behind a callousness that grounded him. He could lie now. He could wear the mask.

"Well." Robert tugged at his waistcoat. "Who is for a game of cards? Low stakes. Penny-ante."

Darcy looked at his cousin. A slow, dry smile spread across his face.

"Deal," Darcy smiled.

Chapter Eleven: The Viscount's Vocation

Robert Fitzwilliam, Viscount Keathley, opened one eye.

The ceiling of his bedchamber was a soothing expanse of cream plaster, unmarred by soot, coal dust, or the threat of French assassins. It was a civilized ceiling. It was a ceiling that understood the value of silence and fashion.

"Peters," he croaked.

His valet materialised from the dressing room shadows. Peters was a man of indeterminable age and infinite discretion, who had once removed a stain of unknown origin from a peacock blue silk waistcoat without asking a single question.

"My Lord?"

"I am alive," Robert observed, testing his limbs. "Which is a surprise. I feel as though I have been trampled by a regiment of Dragoons."

"You have been exerting yourself, my Lord. Saving the Darcy family honour is tiring work."

Peters approached with a silver tray bearing a restorative draft—a concoction of raw egg, parsley, and brandy.

Robert sat up, the silk sheets sliding off his chest. He accepted the glass and drank. He shuddered.

"It was a masterpiece, Peters." He handed the glass back. "The whole affair. The Duel. The Heist. I directed it with the precision of a general and the flair of a tragedian. And what is my reward?"

"A hangover, my Lord?"

"Boredom," Robert sighed, flopping back onto the pillows. "Crushing, grey boredom. The crisis is over. The curtain has fallen. Now I must return to a life of tailoring appointments and listening to Mother discuss the merits of this season's debutants."

"A tragedy indeed, sir."

"I need a new project," Robert mused, staring at the canopy. "Darcy is fixed. I have turned him from a trembling boy into a man capable of lying to a crime lord. It is my legacy. I am a sculptor of men, Peters."

"If you say so, my Lord. Shall I lay out the burgundy coat? Or the charcoal?"

"The charcoal," Robert decided. "I am in mourning for the end of the drama. And let us create an intricate knot in my cravat. The students are returning to school. I must see them off. It is the final act."

He swung his legs out of bed. He caught sight of himself in the cheval mirror. He looked pale. He looked weary.