Chapter Seven The Fog of War
The carriage wheels clattered over the cobblestones, a rhythmic percussion to the heavy breathing inside the cabin.
Darcy sat hunched on the squabs, clutching the Emerald Snuffbox to his chest as if it were a precious artifact he had just rescued from a burning museum. His cravat hung in tatters. His knuckles were white. A smear of grease, a souvenir from the Butcher's dinner table, stained his blue coat.
He stared at the box. He stared at his cousins.
"I robbed a man," he whispered. The reality crashed down on him, heavier than any treatise on crop rotation. "I committed larceny. In Covent Garden."
"You retrieved stolen property," Richard corrected, leaning back and resting his boots on the opposite seat. "Tactical difference. Besides, you did not assault anyone. Robert and I did the assaulting. You merely absconded."
"I ran," Darcy amended. "I ran like a thief."
"You ran like a gazelle." Robert was still mourning the loss of his hat, patting his curls with a tragic expression. "A very panicked, very wealthy gazelle. It was inspiring."
Richard leaned forward, snatching the flask from Robert. He took a long swig.
"But my hat…" Robert announced to the ceiling. "A beaver felt masterpiece. Trampled by the unwashed masses. The Butcher probably has it on his head right now. It will stretch. Such tragedy."
"Forget the hat," Richard snapped. "Focus on the victory. We have the box. The family honour is safe."
Darcy opened his hand. The streetlamps flickering past the window illuminated the emeralds. They shone with a cold, indifferent light, unaware of the violence they had incited.
"It is safe," Darcy breathed. The knot of fear in his stomach began to loosen, replaced by a strange, bubbling sensation. It felt dangerously close to pride. "I bluffed him, Robert. Did you see? I told him I was bored."
"You were magnificent," Robert praised his befuddled cousin. "The sneer was perfection. You looked at him as if he were a fungal infection on the social body."
Darcy let out a short, breathless laugh. "I felt... powerful. Is this what George feels? The risk? The turn of the card?"
"Careful," Richard warned, eyeing his cousin. "Do not develop a taste for it. We do not need two scoundrels in the family. One is expensive enough."
"I shall not make a habit of it," Darcy promised, snapping the box shut. "But for tonight... I am victorious."
The carriage slowed, turning into the mews behind Lindon's townhouse.
"Right." Robert straightened his ruined velvet coat. "Phase One is complete. We have the prize. Now we must deal with the prisoner."
"He will be relieved," Darcy said. "We can tell him it is over."
"Over?" Robert raised an eyebrow. "Darcy, you possess the strategic depth of a puddle. It is not over. If we tell George we simply retrieved the box, he learns nothing. He thinks we are his personal fixers."
"What do we tell him?"
"We tell him the truth," Robert smiled wickedly, tapping his cane against the floor. "Mostly. We tell him we fought. We tell him we bled. And we tell him that while we secured the box... the French Spy is not satisfied."
"He wants blood," Richard guessed, catching on.
"Precisely," Robert nodded. "The debt of money is paid. The debt of honour remains."
The carriage halted.
"Prepare your faces, gentlemen," Robert commanded. "You are grim. You are traumatized. We are about to deliver the worst news of George Wickham's life."
The coal cellar was a place where time went to die.
George Wickham sat in the darkness, hugging his knees. He had counted to a thousand. Then he had counted the bricks in the wall by touch. Then he had cried. Then he had counted to a thousand again.
He was cold. The wool dress offered zero insulation against the damp chill of the stone floor. His corset was a vice made of iron and spite.
A noise from above shattered his misery.
Footsteps. Heavy, hurried, dragging.
He scrambled into the corner, pulling a coal sack over his head.
"Please be Fitz," he whispered into the burlap. "Please be Fitz. Not the French. I do not remember the French verbs."
The bolt on the door slid back with a horrendous metallic screech.
Clang.
Light flooded inside—harsh, blinding lantern light.
"George?"
It was Darcy. But it was not the calm, collected Darcy who had left hours ago. His voice sounded ragged.
George threw off the sack. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the glare.
The three men stood outside the cellar door.
They looked as if they had survived a war.
Richard's coat was torn. Robert was hatless, his cravat askew.
And Darcy... diligent, neat Darcy had a bruise forming on his jaw (a fabrication by Richard involving a pinch and some soot) and dirt smeared across his cravat.
"You are alive!" George cried, scrambling up, tripping on his hem. "You came back!"
"Stay back!" Richard barked, holding up a hand. "The house is secure, but barely. We were followed."
"Followed?" George froze halfway to them.
"We lost them in the mews." Robert leaned heavily on his cane as if wounded. "But it was close, George. Too close. The Butcher... he is a monster."
Darcy stepped forward. He reached into his pocket and produced the Emerald Snuffbox. It glinted in the lantern light.
"We got it," Darcy stated gravely.
"The box!" George lunged for it, tears streaming down his soot-streaked face. "Oh, thank God! Give it to me! I must hold it! I must know I am saved!"
Richard intercepted him, pushing him back with a firm hand to the chest.
"Not yet," Richard growled. "We retrieved the box, George. But we did not retrieve your freedom."
"What?" George's face crumpled. "But... you have it. The debt is paid!"
"The monetary debt is paid." Robert's voice was dripping with tragedy. "We fought our way out. Darcy... Darcy nearly took a sabre to the ribs."
George gasped, staring at Darcy with wide, horrified eyes. "Fitz?"
Darcy stiffened. Lying to the Butcher was one thing. Lying to his oldest friend—even for his own good—felt heavier. But he remembered the gambling hell. He remembered the risk.
"It was a difficult extraction." He kept his voice low and flat. "The Spy was displeased."
"The Spy was there?"
Robert closed his eyes, let out a shuddering breath and squeezed George's arm, as if to lend his strength. He shook his head grimly. "Yes, I am afraid."
"He yielded the box," Richard continued, picking up the narrative thread. "But he demanded satisfaction. He says you insulted his honour, George. By sending proxies. By hiding in a skirt."
"I am hiding!" George wailed. "That is the point!"
"He invoked the Code," Robert whispered. "The Code Duello."
The silence in the cellar was absolute. A rat skittered in the corner.
"A... duel?" George squeaked.
"At dawn," Richard nodded solemnly. "Hampstead Heath. Pistols."
George's knees gave way. He sat down hard on the crate. "I cannot duel! I am a student! I have a tremor! Look at my hands!"
He held up his hands. They were indeed shaking violently.
"We tried to fight in your place." Darcy stepped into the role of the weary moral compass. "We offered. Richard offered to stand for you. But the Spy refused. He said it must be Wickham. Or he burns Darcy House to the ground with the box inside."
"He knows where I live?" George whispered.
"He knows everything," Robert whispered ominously. "He knows your boot size. He knows you prefer silk. He is a professional, George."
George's gaze darted from his friends to the box in Darcy's hand, and finally to the darkness of the cellar.
"I will die," he realised. "I have never fired a pistol in anger. I have only fired at partridges. And I missed them."
"Then you must learn." Richard drew his own weapon. "Tonight. In the study. We have four hours until dawn."
"Come," Robert beckoned. "Out of the pit, Agnes. It is time to prepare for your execution."
The study of Captain Lindon's townhouse was a more comfortable setting than the cellar, but the mood was funereal.
George Wickham sat at the desk. He had been allowed to remove the mob cap, but he was still wearing the grey wool dress, as Robert insisted that changing clothes would "waste valuable survival time."
A bottle of brandy was placed before him. He took a sip, grimacing.
"Write," Robert commanded.
"What am I writing?" George asked, dipping a quill in the ink with a trembling hand.
"Your last will and testament." Robert inspected a speck of dust on the mantelpiece. "It is standard procedure before a duel. You own... what? Six waistcoats and a horse?"
"The horse is Darcy's," George sniffed. "I own the saddle."
"Leave the saddle to the poor," Robert advised. "It shows character."
Darcy stood by the window, staring out at the lightening sky. The guilt was clawing at him again. George was pathetic. A man in a dress, writing a will for a saddle he barely used.
"Is this necessary?" Darcy murmured to Richard, who was polishing a pistol by the fire.
"Vital," Richard whispered back. "He has to believe it, Darcy. If he thinks we will save him, he learns nothing. He has to stand on that field and think, 'This is the end.' That is the fire that forges a man. Or at least scares him straight."
"He will swoon."
"He might. If he does, we prop him up."
"I have finished," George announced, his voice hollow. He sanded the paper. "I have left my cravats to you, Fitz. Yours are so drab. Perhaps mine will inspire you."
"Thank you, George." Darcy choked back a hysterical laugh. "I shall treasure them."
"And to you, Robert," George continued, a tear splashing onto the parchment. "I leave my debts. You are the only one who can afford them."
"Touching," Robert said dryly. "Now. The weapon."
Richard walked over. He placed a heavy duelling pistol on the desk. It was unloaded, of course, but George did not know that.
"Pick it up," Richard ordered.
George reached out. He touched the cold steel and recoiled.
"It is heavy," he whispered.
"It is a tool of justice." Richard's eyes held a dangerous gleam. "When you stand on the Heath, you will raise your arm. You will aim for the chest and you will squeeze. Do not jerk. Squeeze."
"What if he shoots first?"
"Then try to fall backward," Robert advised helpfully. "It preserves the face for the open casket."
George let out a low moan and put his head on the desk.
"I do not want to die," he sobbed into his arms. "I want to go back to Cambridge. I want to study! I will study Latin! I will study Greek! I will memorize the Enclosure Acts!"
Darcy moved to the desk. He placed a hand on his friend's shaking shoulder.
"You must be brave, George." He squeezed hard. "For your father. For the name."
George looked up. His eyes were red, rimmed with soot.
"Will you be there?" he asked. "Will you watch?"
"We will all be there," Darcy promised. "We will not leave you."
"Dawn approaches," Robert announced, checking the clock. "The carriage is ready. Gentlemen... let us go to the slaughter."
George stood up. He smoothed the skirt of his wool dress and adjusted his corset. He looked ridiculous. And for the first time in his life, the arrogance was gone.
"I am ready," he lied.
"Good." Richard clapped him on the back. "Because the French do not wait for breakfast."