Page 34 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

But he also looked, he decided with a smirk, devastatingly handsome.

Darcy House was a hive of activity. Trunks were being hauled down the stairs. Footmen scurried with the desperate energy of men who knew the Master was watching.

Robert stood in the hallway, leaning on his cane, watching the proceedings with a critical eye.

"That trunk is too heavy for you," he informed a struggling footman. "Lift with the knees, man. Or drop it. It only contains Wickham's vanity."

Captain Fitzwilliam entered. He was back in full regimentals, sword at his hip, helmet under his arm, irritatingly energetic.

"Brother," Richard nodded. "Came to ensure they leave?"

"Came to ensure Wickham does not steal the silver on his way out," Robert corrected. "He has a mercenary glint in his eye. It unsettles the spoons."

"I came to see them off, as I am leaving as well." Richard adjusted his gloves. "The regiment marches on Tuesday. Back to rations and rain."

"You love it. You are a flagellant. You court discomfort as a mistress."

Richard laughed, clapping a heavy hand on his brother's shoulder. "And you? Back to the clubs? Going to terrorise another waiter?"

"I might," Robert dusted his shoulder. "Or I might write a memoir.The Education of a Prig.It will be a bestseller."

The door opened. Fitzwilliam Darcy emerged, followed by George Wickham.

The change was subtle, but Robert saw it. Darcy walked differently. The stiffness remained—he would always be a man whose spine resembled a structural support beam—but the anxiety was gone. His eyes were clear. He held his gloves with authority.

Wickham, by contrast, resembled a man who had survived a shipwreck and was still suspicious of dry land. He wore his brown suit, and clutched a travel bag as if it contained the Crown Jewels.

"Cousins." Darcy stopped, struggling for words. The Prig was not given to speeches.

"Do not thank me," Robert held up a hand. "It ruins my reputation as a heartless aesthete. Just tell me the box remains safe."

"It is in the strongbox," Darcy confirmed. "Father has the key."

"And the lesson?" Robert turned his gaze to Wickham.

George flinched. "Learned! Engraved on my soul, Robert! I swear it. No cards. No dice. I shall study until my eyes bleed."

"Excellent," Robert smiled. "Because next time, you shall face the Spy alone."

George turned a shade of pale green. "Understood."

Mr Darcy appeared at the top of the stairs, leaning on the railing.

"Carriage is ready, boys!" he boomed. "Off to Cambridge! Make us proud! And George—try to pretend you are not marching to the gallows. Education is a privilege!"

"Yes, sir!" George squeaked.

They moved to the door. The fresh morning air rushed in, smelling of horses and freedom.

Richard shook hands with Darcy. "Keep your head down, cousin. And keep your purse strings tight."

"Safe travels, Richard." Darcy clasped his cousin's hand.

Then he turned to the Viscount. He saw the boredom, the vanity, the ridiculous cane. But he also saw the man who had flipped a table in a gaming hell to save him.

"Robert." Darcy shook his head, and sighed. "You are absurd."

"You adore me," Robert stated. "The world needs colour, Darcy. You provide the structure. I provide the texture."