Chapter Two The Council of Cousins
The clock in the study chimed four. The sound hung in the heavy silence, marking the hour when honest men slept and scoundrels usually found themselves in a ditch.
Fitzwilliam Darcy paced the Persian rug. He had walked the same line of red wool for forty minutes, wearing a path that would probably require the rug to be re-woven.
George Wickham sat in the leather wingback chair, nursing his third glass of water. He had stopped weeping, replacing tears with a sullen, tragic silence. He stared into the dying embers of the fire, occasionally letting out a ragged sigh intended to elicit sympathy.
It elicited none.
"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 than Darcy'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.
"Right," he said, adjusting his sword belt. "I'll fetch my pistols. We shoot Wickham first, to save the family the embarrassment. Then we go and shoot the Butcher."
George yelped, pulling his knees to his chest. "Fitz! He is serious!"
"He is not serious," Darcy intervened, stepping between the soldier and the sobbing scoundrel. "We are not shooting anyone. We are going to pay the debt."
"Pay it?" Richard barked. He began to pace, his boots striking the floorboards loudly. "Are you mad, Darcy? Five hundred guineas? That is a fortune! That is two years of my pay!"
"It is the only way," Darcy insisted, though the thought made his stomach churn. "If we do not retrieve the box by Friday, Father will know. And if Father knows, he tells Mr Wickham. You know the steward's condition. The shock..."
"The heart," Robert mused. He had taken the seat opposite George and was studying the man with the detached interest of a natural philosopher observing a particularly disappointing specimen. "Yes, the heart is a problem. Old Mr Wickham dotes on his son. Thinks the sun rises and sets in his cravat."
"Exactly." Darcy began to pace, calculating aloud. "I have the funds. Just. If I empty my personal account and delay the payment for the new carriage horses..."
"No." Robert's voice was low, but it carried the weight of a gavel.
Darcy blinked. "Robert?"
"I said no." Robert leaned back, crossing his legs. "You will not pay a shilling, Darcy. Put your purse away."
"But the box—"
"The box must be retrieved," Robert agreed. "But if you pay five hundred guineas to a Covent Garden shark, you teach this chap nothing. You merely teach him that his stupidity has a price, and that price is paid by you."
George sniffled. "I have learned! I swear it! I shall never touch a card again! I shall become a monk! A very stylish monk!"
"Quiet, George," Richard snapped, turning to his cousin. "Robert is right. If you bail him out, he will be back at the tables by Michaelmas. The whelp needs a lesson. A scar."
"A scar?" George paled.
"Metaphorical, mostly," Robert waved a hand. "Money is easy, Darcy. It is boring. It vanishes. But terror... terror is a gift that lasts a lifetime."
Darcy frowned. "Terror? We are not torturers, Robert. We are gentlemen."
"We are a Viscount, a Captain of his Majesty's Army, and a... well, you are a Prig," Robert offered kindly. "Together, we are a formidable force. We do not negotiate with Butchers. We outmanoeuvre them."
"How?" Darcy asked. "The man has the box. He has the leverage."
"He has a shiny trinket," Robert corrected. "We have intellect. And we have George."
He pointed the silver-tipped cane at Wickham.
"George is vain," Robert listed. "He is cowardly. He is gullible. And he currently believes his life is over."
"It is over," George moaned.
"Excellent," Robert smiled. It was not a nice smile. It was the smile of a wolf who had just spotted a plump lamb. "We shall use that. We shall not pay the debt. We shall steal the box back."
"Steal it?" Darcy gasped. "Robert, that is illegal. That is theft!"
"Technically, it is repossession of family property," Richard argued, warming to the idea. "I like it. A tactical extraction. A raid."
"But what about him?" Darcy gestured to the heap of misery in the chair. "If the Butcher sees him, he will demand the money."
"George," Robert said, standing up and smoothing his velvet lapels, "will not be seen. George is going to disappear. Because George is currently in very grave danger."
Darcy stared at his cousin. "He is?"
"He is," Robert confirmed, his eyes dancing with a manic light. "Because the man he played cards with was not merely a loan shark. Oh no. That would be too simple."
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 a dark 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."
"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."