Page 5 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"Stop sighing, George," Darcy snapped, pivoting on his heel. "You sound like a punctured bellows."

"I am contemplating my ruin, Fitz. Allow me a moment of melancholy."

"You have had an hour of melancholy. Now we require strategy."

A commotion in the hallway announced the arrival of said strategy. The front door opened, admitting a draft of cold air and the sound of muffled cursing.

Mostyn appeared in the study doorway, looking weary.

"Lord Keathley and Captain Fitzwilliam," he announced.

Richard entered first. He was cut from the same dark, aristocratic cloth as Darcy, though the war had already chiselled his features into something harder. At three and twenty, the officer possessed the lean, hungry build of a man who lived his life at a sprint and the temper of a badger poked with a stick. He wore his regimentals, though the coat was unbuttoned, and despite the disciplined cut of his hair—a shade lighter thanDarcy's—it stood in tufts where he had clearly dragged his fingers through it while running.

"This had better be a duel," he growled, stalking past Mostyn. "Or a fire. If you woke me at this ungodly hour because you found a difficult passage in Plato, I shall burn this house down."

He spotted a bowl of apples on the sideboard. He snatched one, bit into it with a savage crunch, and threw himself onto the settee.

Viscount Keathley followed.

Robert entered the room as if stepping onto a stage at Drury Lane. He was the spitting image of Darcy. Indeed, had he been five years younger and born of the same mother, they would have been twins. But the similarities ended there.

Despite the hour, his cravat was a masterpiece of sculptural linen, and his face, though identical in structure to his cousin’s, was animated by a permanently lifted eyebrow and an easy, theatrical charm. His velvet coat was a shade of midnight blue that made the study look drab. He carried a silver-tipped cane, which he used to point accusingly at the occupants of the room.

"Grosvenor Square is damp," he declared. He peeled off his pristine white gloves. "And the fog is playing havoc with my curls. Darcy, you are grey. George... good God. George, did a cat drag you in and then decide you were too unsavoury to eat?"

"Thank you for coming." Darcy ignored the critique, clasping his hands behind his back. "I apologise for the late summons. But we have a crisis."

"We certainly do," Robert agreed, inspecting Wickham through his quizzing glass. "That waistcoat is a crime against tailoring. Is that... mud? Or gin?"

"Both," George whispered, shrinking under the scrutiny.

Richard swallowed a large chunk of apple. "Spit it out, Darcy. Who died?"

"No one. Yet." Darcy moved to the fireplace, needing the warmth. "George went to Covent Garden tonight. He found a gaming hell. He played Piquet."

"Foolish," Richard grunted. "Never play Piquet with strangers. They keep cards up their sleeves."

"He lost," Darcy continued, forcing the words out. "He lost five hundred guineas."

Richard whistled. "Steep. My uncle will have your hide, George. Better start selling those fancy waistcoats."

"He did not have five hundred guineas." Darcy's voice dropped two octaves. "And the man would not take his marker. So, George offered collateral."

Robert stopped inspecting his reflection in the window pane. He turned. "What sort of collateral?"

Darcy closed his eyes. "The Emerald Snuffbox."

The room went silent. Even Richard stopped chewing.

"The heirloom?" Robert asked, his voice dangerously soft. "The one carrying the Darcy crest? The one the Duke of Devonshire gave your grandfather?"

"The very same."

"And where is it now?"

"In the pocket of a man called The Butcher," Darcy continued, strangely detached. "Who demands payment by Friday. Or he melts the gold and sells the stones."

Richard stood up. He tossed the apple core into the fire. It hissed.