Page 9 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"The French Republic does not care about your epidermis, George." Robert hopped on the edge of the desk, swinging his legs. "Spies want silk. They want velvet. They do not want a woman who appears to have been dressed by a blind shepherd. It is your best chance."

"But the colour," George moaned. "It is barely a colour. It is the shade of a depressive cloud."

"Put it on," Richard barked from the fireplace. He checked the priming on a pistol—entirely theatrical, as it was unloaded—but the metallic click sent George scrambling for the buttons of his breeches.

The transformation was a struggle. George shed his torn finery, shivering in his smallclothes, before stepping into the grey dress. The fabric swallowed him. The skirt was too short, revealinga scandalous amount of hairy ankle, while the bodice strained threateningly across his chest.

"I cannot breathe," George gasped as Mostyn fastened the hooks at the back.

"Agnes has a narrower ribcage," the butler observed neutrally. "If you could perhaps retract your bones, sir?"

"I am retracting!" George wheezed. "It cuts! It binds!"

"Excellent," Robert applauded. "It forces you to hunch. A hunch suggests humility. Servants should always appear slightly beaten down by existence."

Mostyn produced the final piece: a mob cap, stained with soot and limp with age. He handed it to Darcy.

Darcy held the cap. He glanced at his childhood friend, now trussed up like a festive goose in grey wool. Guilt pricked at him. This was humiliation. This was absurd.

Then he remembered the five hundred guineas.

He jammed the cap onto George's head, pulling it low to obscure the famous Wickham curls.

"There," he said, stepping back.

The three cousins surveyed the result.

George stood in the centre of the room. The dress ended three inches above his boots. His broad shoulders threatened to burst the seams. The cap sat askew. He resembled less a laundry maid and more a bear that had been shaved and forced into servitude.

"Hideous," Robert declared, wiping a tear of pure joy from his eye. "Truly, deeply repulsive. No one will look at you twice, George. You are effectively invisible."

"I feel ridiculous," George muttered, tugging at the skirt.

"You feel alive," Richard reminded him, holstering the pistol. "Now, we move. The sun is rising. If the spies are watching the house, we need to leave before the streets fill."

"How do we leave?" George asked. "Through the front door?"

"Heavens no," Robert shuddered. "Servants leave through the scullery. We go out the back. Into the alley."

"The alley?" George recoiled. "But... the muck."

"The muck is your friend, George." Robert advised, hopping off the desk. "Embrace the grime. It is your camouflage."

The alley behind Grosvenor Square was a narrow, cobblestoned vein of the city, lined with ash heaps and smelling of coal smoke. A grey dawn bled into the sky, casting long shadows across the wet stones.

The back door of Darcy House creaked open.

Mostyn scanned the perimeter. "The coast is clear, gentlemen. Though the cat from Number 42 is watching with suspicion."

George stepped out. He immediately tried to stride forward with his usual confident gait, forgetting the restrictive circumference of his skirts.

Rip.

The sound of tearing wool echoed off the brick walls.

"Halt!" Robert hissed, grabbing George's arm. "You have the walk of a Dragoon. Women do not stride, George. They mince. They glide."

"I cannot glide in boots!" George whispered furiously, trying to check the damage to his hem.