Page 7 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

He began to circle the chair where Wickham sat. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"The man you played, George... he works with a French agent. A Jacobin spy."

George's eyes bulged. "A spy?"

"Indeed," Robert lied smoothly. "And the Spy did not want the box for the emeralds. He wanted it for the crest. He knows your father serves the Darcys. He knows the Darcys have influence in Parliament. By taking that box, he has marked you as a target. You are now a pawn in a game of international treason."

Darcy opened his mouth to object to this utter fabrication, but Richard caught his eye. The soldier gave a microscopic shake of his head.Let him play,his eyes conveyed.

"Treason?" George squeaked.

"High treason," Robert confirmed gravely. "If they find you, George... well. The Tower of London is very damp this time of year."

The air shifted in the study. It was no longer the stale atmosphere of a student's mistake. It vibrated with the breathless tension of a final wager.

George Wickham sat frozen, his glass of water forgotten in his hand. His face had gone a shade of chalky white that matched the plaster mouldings.

"The Tower?" George whispered. "But... I am loyal! I love the King! I wear red waistcoats!"

"Spies do not care about your waistcoats, George." Robert stopped his pacing to lean over the chair. "They care about leverage. This Spy... he is probably reporting to Bonaparte himself. He has the box. The Butcher gave it to him. Next, he will want information. He will come for you. He will drag you into adark alley and ask you about the Darcy estate. About the coastal defences."

"I do not know anything about coastal defences!" George wailed. "I only know about the new cut of trousers!"

"Exactly," Richard chimed in, stepping forward. He crossed his arms, adding his physical bulk to the psychological weight pressing down on the man. "And when you cannot tell them, they will remove your fingernails. Slowly."

George dropped the glass. It hit the rug with a dull thud, water soaking into the Persian wool.

"Fitz!" George scrambled up, grabbing Darcy's arm. "You must save me! I do not want to lose my fingernails! My hands are my best feature!"

Darcy looked down at his friend. He saw the genuine, abject terror in Wickham's eyes. He felt a pang of guilt. This was a lie. A monstrous, absurd lie.

But then he remembered the snuffbox. He remembered the gambling hell. He remembered the risk to the life of Wickham's excellent father. Money would not fix George. Perhaps Robert was right. Perhaps fear was the only currency this man understood.

He stiffened his spine. He placed a hand on George's shoulder.

"We will save you, George." He forced his voice to be grave. "But you must do exactly as we say. You must trust us entirely."

"Anything," George sobbed. "I will do anything."

"You must vanish," Robert declared. "You cannot stay visible. If the spies are watching Darcy House, they will see you. You must go underground."

"Underground?" George sniffed. "Like a rat?"

"Like a ghost," Robert corrected. "We will hide you. Somewhere safe. Somewhere dark. Somewhere no French agent would ever search."

"Where?" A small hope flickered in George's eyes. "A country estate? A hunting lodge?"

"We will hide you at Lindon's," Richard's voice came deadly serious.

"Captain Lindon?" George asked, recognition dawning. His grandmother pays for his townhouse, does she not? I expect it is very fine."

"He is away on campaign," Richard said. "I have full access to the premises. Do not ask why."

"Excellent," George breathed.

Robert looked at him straight in the eye. "You shall stay in the coal cellar."

"The... coal cellar?" George recoiled. "But Robert... the dust. The grime."