Page 8 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"It is the only way," Richard insisted. "Thick walls. No windows. We can guard the door. You will be safe there, George. Uncomfortable, yes. But alive. "

George looked between the three of them. The Prig, the Soldier, and the Viscount. His protectors. His only hope against the imaginary French menace.

"Very well," he whispered, bowing his head. "The cellar."

"Excellent," Robert clapped his hands together. "But you cannot remain in those clothes. A gentleman in a torn waistcoat draws the eye. You need a disguise. A costume that screams 'nobody'."

Robert scanned the room, his eyes landing on the heavy velvet drapes, then dismissing them. He turned to Mostyn, who had silently reappeared to clean up the spilled water.

"Mostyn," he addressed the butler. "Does the scullery maid have a spare uniform? One that might fit a man of George's robust carriage?"

Mostyn did not blink. "I believe the laundry maid is of a substantial build, my lord. She has a spare woollen dress and a mob cap."

"Perfect," Robert beamed. He turned to Wickham. "George, brace yourself. You are about to become a washerwoman."

"A washerwoman?" George gasped, his vanity warring with his survival instinct. "But... the silhouette! It will do nothing for my calves!"

"Better a bad silhouette than a French guillotine," Richard growled. "Go with Mostyn and wash your face. You need to have the appearance of a peasant, not a drunk."

Mostyn gestured to the door. "If you would follow me to the dressing room, Mr Wickham. I shall fetch the corsetry post haste, Lord Keathley."

George cast one last, desperate look at Darcy, then turned and followed the butler out of the room, marching towards his sartorial doom.

When the door clicked shut, the silence returned to the study.

Robert let out a long breath and collapsed onto the settee next to his brother. He pulled a silver flask from his coat pocket and took a swig.

"The French Spy." Darcy stared at his cousin. "Robert, that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard."

"He bought it," Richard noted, taking the flask from Robert. "Hook, line, and sinker. The man is a simpleton."

"He is panic-stricken," Darcy defended, though his heart was not in it. "What shall we do about the box?"

"We get it back." Robert stood up, checking his cuffs. "The Butcher has the Darcy Emeralds. I shall retrieve them."

"We simply walk in and ask?" Darcy asked incredulously.

"No," Robert smiled. "We walk in and play. He plays cards, yes?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then tonight, we shall go to Covent Garden. Richard will bring the muscle. I will bring the distraction."

He poked Darcy in the chest with his cane.

"And you, my dear, honest, upright cousin... you are going to learn how to lie."

Chapter Three: The Milkmaid Stratagem

It was Wednesday, near dawn. The study of Darcy House had witnessed many historic moments, but none quite so visually arresting as George Wickham attempting to squeeze his vanity into the cast-off garments of a laundry maid.

Mostyn had returned with a bundle of grey wool that smelled faintly of lye and despair. He placed it on the settee with the reverence of an undertaker presenting a shroud.

"The maid is named Agnes, sirs," Mostyn informed the room. "She is a woman of sturdy constitution. I believe the bodice will accommodate Mr Wickham's shoulders, provided he does not inhale deeply."

George, now squeaky clean, stared at the garment. He poked it with a trembling finger.

"It is wool," George whispered, horror dawning. "Coarse wool. It will chafe. My skin is very sensitive, Fitz. You know this. I require Egyptian cotton."