1803. Trinity College.

"Darcy! Darcy! Darce!"

Inside a darkened second-floor lounge, the din of voices rose above a distinguished crowd of Trinity College scholars and their best students conversing on the lofty subjects of politics, philosophy and religion. Nobody in the room heard, or paid attention to, a hissed appellation coming from the outside, barely audible through the half-cracked window. The lounge swam with clouds of cigar smoke and lively conversation; the appelee, a tall young man with an unruly mop of dark hair, stood too long a way from the window, and was too engaged in discussing the rebellious natures of Milton's angels with his favorite English professor, to hear what went on behind the window.

Unfortunately for him, for the person behind the window was literally behind the window, crouched on an oversized ledge just outside it. When his half-whispered pleas went unnoticed, the gentleman on the ledge took a considerable exception to being thus ignored. For he could see his friend all too well, looking entirely too happy at the opportunity to discuss the span of Archangel Michael's wings with Old Bennet.

What rankled the person on the ledge even more than Darcy's clear intention of ignoring him was that so did his partner in their animated conversation.

Good Lord, the person on the ledge thought. Look at him blabber away. At home, he says not a word about anything but dinner and how much Hill spends. Perhaps there was something akin to jealousy in the watcher's gaze, but he downed it quickly enough. This was not about exacting retribution; but rather, about making sport of Darcy where he roundly deserved it. Such an opportunity-not to be missed. From the back pocket of his breeches, he extracted an artfully made birch slingshot and a fairly large piece of paper, which he, with a generous application of saliva, made into a tight little ball.

In a matter of minutes, the clandestine watchman was armed to his teeth.

The only thing left was to take aim.

But such was his ill luck that even as he loaded his weapon, his friend-his treacherous friend, he thought grimly-turned to take another glass of red wine from a footman's tray. The watcher on the ledge considered which part of Darcy's body should suffer punishment. After all, you did not up and ignored your best friend for a goodly two hours. He would have liked to wallow him upside the head; but unfortunately, Darcy was wearing that ridiculous mortarboard of his. The hat made him look like a walking umbrella, but its wide edges would serve to deflect any volley aimed at his head. The watcher sighed and rubbed his forehead, ruffling his own dark curls rather mercilessly.

Well, his friend's behind would have to do, then.

"Here we go," he whispered, loading his weapon. Squinting viciously, pulling back the string, he aimed and-

--inside the room Darcy turned and grinned amiably at someone. Hell's bells. The young sniper sat frozen and cramped, the string pulled tightly, waiting for the right moment. Ah, here we go, he thought with satisfaction as his quarry turned his back on him once again. Here we go.

Tiiiiinnnnnnnng! The string sang and the projectile hurled through the air. It struck its aim without fail. Perhaps the shooter had underestimated its size or density, for he had never seen his best friend jump quite so high and make quite such a sound. Indubitably, had he been warned an assault on his ... um, dignity was coming, Darcy would have weathered it with far more fortitude; but it was the suddenness of it that got him. He jumped, in a manner most undignified, and he did make a sound, which, upon reflection... which he'd rather not reflect upon at all. Unfortunately, his mortification was not limited to making a joke out of himself in front of a gathering of Trinity professors and fellows; rather it was augmented by the fact that in the process of jumping, he splashed most of his wine down Professor Bennet's shirtfront.

Oh, it was perfect. On the ledge, Jamie watched his best friend scramble for a napkin, beet-red in the face. It was even funnier because clearly, Professor Bennet had no wish to be dried off in public, not even by his star pupil, and he yanked the napkin out of Darcy's hands, rather roughly, which cast the poor young man into a further abyss of misery and shame.

Having feasted his eyes enough on his friend's mortification, Jamie deduced cleverly that it was time to, to put it none too subtly, beat it. Because turning around on the ledge was clearly out of the question, he endeavored to retire backwards. A grave mistake, indeed. For, in the process of so descending, a piece of stone crumbled under his foot, thereby making him lose his purchase on another chunk of moss-covered brick; with a stifled cry, he fell backwards into the bushes.

Inside the room, Darcy stewed quietly. He knew perfectly what had happened, he did not even need to turn around to see who it was that had upstaged him so. Goddamn Jamie. His friend had declared that he would never step inside a faculty lounge, not even to sample the most excellent wine that such a reception would feature. "I should rather choke on it," he had declared. Moreover, Jamie had argued to stop him from going-fruitlessly so, for Darcy would never miss an opportunity to argue with old Bennet. The old man had such quaint, bizarre ideas, and he defended them so passionately. It was pure pleasure to speak with him outside the classroom.

"You mean to say," Jamie had asked him earlier, "that you would rather discuss angels with my father than come box with me?"

"I can box with you any day," Darcy had replied, setting the mortarboard firmly on top of his head in front of the mirror, squishing his curls under it. "But your father will not always grant me the time to speak with him."

Thereupon the young Bennet had called him an unprintable word and exited through the open window. It was a habit of his that unnerved Darcy immensely. It was as if the fellow had grown up in the house without doors. Doors, windows, windows, doors. Darcy smiled grimly to himself. Deciding that in due course his friend would pay for this travesty, he contrived to remove himself from the reception, claiming a headache. Old Bennet, his shirtfront ruined thoroughly by wine, was only glad to let him go.

By the time Darcy made it down the stairs and out of the front doors, his best friend was nowhere to be seen. Still, he knew where to find Jamie, and walked quickly across the wide lawn, his long black robes, undone, flying in his wake. He ripped the mortarboard off his head and ran one hand through his hair, muttering angrily to himself. Vengeance, when it came, would most certainly be his.

He tore through the hallways, furiously rounding each corner, watching-or rather, not watching-the underclassmen scatter as he went. He was taller and larger than most, and that helped, too. Still, by the end of his progress, the ridiculousness of the situation began to dawn on him; and, by the time he reached a hidden staircase in the back of the building, he could not help smiling. He only had to imagine what his undignified leap must have looked like to a casual observer, to break into the idiotic grin. Good Lord, he thought, this time his friend Bennet had really gotten to him.

He kept smiling as he climbed the dark spiral staircase, and even as he pushed a heavy metal door. But he fought to replace the silly grin with an appropriately severe frown as he stepped outside, onto a large, flat, sunlit roof. On all four sides, graceful Elizabethan turrets rose, throwing long afternoon shadows. Blinded for a second, Darcy turned around on the spot, looking for his friend, knowing that he'd be there.

And sure enough-

"No need to look like an owl out of its tree, Darce." Jamie Bennet stepped from the shadows. In his shirtsleeves, he grinned blithely at Darcy, who glowered back at him. After a long pause, Darcy rudely flung the mortarboard aside. Thereupon, he quickly stripped to the waist, tossing the black robes flying the way of his mortarboard. His waistcoat, his cravat, and his pristine white shirt followed.

"Very well, Bennet, you wanted a fight, come and get it." He stood in position, scowling, fists clenched. With an affected sigh, Bennet followed his friend's example, lazily taking off his waistcoat and shirt. Then, he stepped forth, prepared to parry any attack that might follow.

"Shall we, then." He assumed the position almost lazily, all the while taunting his friend with brash laughing eyes.

Darcy nodded, grimly, and purported to hit young Bennet in the chin, an intention that was not misunderstood. Nimble and quick, his adversary evaded his rather substantial fist, immediately delivering a blinding upper-cut to Darcy's own jaw. For an instant, it seemed to Darcy that his head would snap back on his neck; but the moment he recovered, ready to fight back, a young ringing voice pierced the silence on the roof.

"Belay that, you two!"

Both of them turned around, squinting against the sun, Darcy's head still buzzing from Bennet's sure blow. There, arms crossed on the chest, Bennet's younger sister Elizabeth stood and glared like an avenging angel.

"Bennet, for Christ's sakes!" Darcy was deadly embarrassed, his mortification quite multiplied by the fact that he knew himself to grow very red at times of stress. At the age of thirteen, Elizabeth Bennet was growing up to be a proper urchin, always following her brother, constantly occupied with unladylike things like climbing up trees and building rafts in his company; nevertheless, she was a female, and Darcy found himself standing in front of her without a shirt. Remembering himself, he leaned and quickly grabbed his shirt off the floor, before dropping it hastily over his head.

"What is she doing here?" he demanded of Elizabeth's brother. Somewhat shamefacedly, Bennet shrugged and slipped into his own shirt.

"I can only surmise she did not come to serve as my knee-man," he offered with a weak chuckle.

The little chit, however, saw no shame in ogling two (almost) grown, bare-chested males. Her intrigue did not lay in simply observing; clearly, she was there to read them a lecture.

"I simply cannot fathom with how little dignity you conduct yourself, Jamie," she said angrily. "Can you not find anything of use and sense to occupy you?" She shook her head ruefully at her brother. "And you, Mr. Darcy!" she added, turning to his friend. "My father seems to think very highly of you-for some reason. I am certain he should be rather disappointed to see you getting your face rearranged by our Jamie!"

Darcy flushed deeply, he did not know whether with shame or anger. He had intended that this fight serve a bit of a lesson for his rash young friend. Bennet's vicious uppercut was certainly not in his plans! Now this brash little chit had become a witness to his disgrace. Clearly, today was the day for humiliation.

"Perhaps," she added somewhat poisonously, "he would be interested to know how his pet pupil spends his free time. Certainly not reading Milton!" She paused, considering, then sighed. "I shall tell him," she said, with a little less conviction than before. "If you do not stop forthwith and promise me never to attempt anything of the sort."

Clearly, tattling was not in her book of virtues.

"Do you hear me?" She inquired, sounding a little less sure of herself than before. Neither of them moved, nor said anything, and then, as if by a mutual agreement, the two lunged after her.

"Come here, you little-You blackmailer-Yesssss, sir, it is for our own good Darcy that this little baggage threatens us! Get her feet-What shall we do with her?"

"Put her down a chimney," Darcy suggested, holding Elizabeth's feet firmly as she bucked and tried to kick him in the groin. Naturally, he did not mean those words; but even uttering them gave him a thrill of pleasure.

"I think-not," Bennet replied. He was holding Elizabeth under her arms, having secured them behind her back and keeping clear of her snapping teeth. "I think that might be too boring for our adventurous little Bess."

Elizabeth stopped struggling and now hung limply in her brother's arms, looking grimly from one friend to the other.

"I shall scream," she promised half-heartedly.

"And be punished for climbing all the way to the roof?"

"Right," Darcy agreed. "After all, who would believe we have invited her?"

"So I think we ought to stick her in a dark closet. What do you think, Darce?"

"I am in agreement," Darcy said. "For as long as it has rats in it-"

"No," Elizabeth said quickly. "You would not dare. No. All right, all right!" she said hurriedly, watching Darcy's imperious mien. Looking up at her brother, she said in a meek voice. "All right, I promise I shall not tell Father. Just put me down. Please."

"Promise?" Bennet asked severely, and the girl nodded. The two friends let her down on the roof, and she scrambled off, huffing and rearranging her long white skirts. Near the exit door, she stopped abruptly. Glaring at the two men, she said sullenly:

"You've all but made me forget! Mr. Darcy, your father is here, and everyone is looking for you!"

His father's arrival was not unexpected-for indeed, it was a day away from his commencement, and Mr. Darcy had written that he was coming up-but it did not fail to set Darcy to a high degree of nervous agitation. He had been worrying about this for weeks, and had told himself he was not. Indeed, he knew himself to be a good son to his father; he had been justly proud of his success at Harrow and at Cambridge and beloved by his professors-especially by Old Bennet, his father's particular childhood friend. He was respected by his peers, in the very least, and those who knew him better also did not fail to like him. His marks were excellent; he had garnered award in every manner of sport, as well as in theater and chess. There was nothing, nothing that could displease his father (well, except, perhaps, this idiotic fight).

Still, he worried. All through his life, he felt he had fallen short of the shining example his father had set for him. His mother, by now, was but a delicate watercolor image in a portrait. She had died while giving birth to his only sister, Georgiana; but even when she was, she was no more than a distant smile and a cool hand he kissed, ever since the time he was tall enough to kiss a lady's hand. She had called him, Fitzwilliam, never William or Will, and her voice, too, had been distant, a slightly tired whisper of a voice, a stranger's voice. Did he love her? Most likely he did, with a child's quiet adoration of a thing beautiful and superior. But he had called his nurse, Reynolds, mama, until he was old enough to know better. His mother had been lovely; but the children had been an inconvenience, a messy and unpleasant intrusion upon her peace. They had racked her body, made her tired and ever more distant. Finally, her daughter took her life.

He had loved her, at twelve. Darcy did not know whether he would still love her, had she lived long enough.

But his father, his father. His father knew him, knew him like no other person in the world, not even Georgiana, who adored him, nor Bennet, who was his best friend. His father had concerned himself with his problems, listened attentively to his tutors, and came to visit him at Harrow. His father taught him to shoot, ride, fence and play chess, had given him books to read, and, during Darcy's visit home two years back, had taken him along to an exclusive London address, to see a woman as beautiful as she was knowledgeable. That Darcy survived the embarrassment of that experience was a testament to his youthful enthusiasm.

Still, he had never come to visit him at Trinity. It pained Darcy, if only a little. His father claimed that he was too preoccupied with estate matters. Darcy oscillated between feeling hurt and worrying about his health (for surely something must have been wrong for his father to have abandoned him so?).

His father was everything to him. He was precisely the sort of educated, worldly man and a generous and fair landlord and master that Darcy himself aspired to be-one day. Right now, he felt terribly inadequate and not a little guilty. He knew Mr. Darcy to disapprove of the kind of bare-knuckled, bare-chested fighting that could leave a man scarred forever. He did not know why it struck him to fight Bennet today of all days; what wild madness possessed him, on the very day his father finally condescended to visit him at school.

"I must go," Darcy murmured, frowning, furiously tucking in his shirttails. He tied, fumbling awkwardly, his cravat, and slipped into his waistcoat and robe. Bennet's deft blow had set a peculiarly unpleasant reverberation to his jaw, but he hardly thought of that now. "Do I look presentable?"

Sitting down on the ground, Bennet grinned and nodded. "Do not worry so, old chap," he said. "Your old man is bound to burst with fatherly pride. Faith, Darcy, think on it: if only I had done as well as you, I should have been the favorite child of the Old Bennet!"

Darcy failed to see the humor in his friend's words: for it had been his belief that Bennet, innately clever, could have done far better than he had, that it was his happy-go-lucky laziness that had made him a poorer student than he could have been.

"I shall see you later." Darcy waved at his friend and took off in wide strides, deeply displeased at himself.

Below, Elizabeth Bennet peaked through a loosely hanging wall-covering. She knew it was wrong to spy on people; her father had told her as much, and more than once. But her natural curiosity won over every time: after all, if people hid things, they must have had their reasons-and that alone made those things more interesting.

"But secrets can be dangerous," her father once said. "You might regret knowing some secrets."

There were things that frightened her, but they were all out in the open (rats were one such thing; but who could call them a secret? Everybody knew that Trinity had rats). She could not imagine being afraid of a secret.

Right now, she rocked a little on her heels and peered, enchanted, at a young golden-tressed girl, hiding her face on the chest of a tall, gray-haired gentleman.

"Now, now, Miss Georgiana," the man said. "Let go. Georgie. Be a good girl and let go." Elizabeth had heard her father address the man as Darcy, and had deduced him to be his father's old friend, Mr. Darcy from Derbyshire, and Fitzwilliam's father. She had never seen the girl before and now studied her person with keen interest; she had guessed her to be the gentleman's daughter. Right now, little Miss Georgiana did not seem to heed her father's cajoling. Her little hands clasped his jacket sleeve all the tighter.

Mr. Darcy-still very handsome in his sixth decade, a statelier, heavier, more distinguished version of his son-looked lost. He was lost, indeed, at the sight of his young daughter's discomfort. It had seemed like a grand idea to bring Georgiana to Will's commencement; but the day in the carriage with her had turned oppressive, for she cried after the old Reynolds, and the young nurse he had taken along knew not how to calm her.

He had known how to behave around his son, for there were rules for gentlemanly upbringing with which he was intimately familiar. Rules, which he had known to impress upon Fitzwilliam from the earliest days of the boy's life. In his son, he had seen himself forty years ago, and he had molded him after himself, with the benefits of mistakes made and lessons learned (for one, he had taught him to stay away from a gambling table). But girls-girls mystified him, and none more so than his own daughter. They were dainty delicate creatures, difficult to please; the greatest weapon they held against a man was their ability to break into beautiful tears at the slightest provocation. Such had been his late wife; he had loved her, and she had held his equanimity in her hand, always threatening with one treacherous pout of her beautiful lips. He knew Georgiana would be like so, too-without sense, without reason, and holding some man's heart in the palm of her hand.

Yes, he had loved his wife. Since the death of Mrs. Darcy three days into Georgiana's life, Mr. Darcy had not so much as looked at another woman; but now, looking down at his daughter's bowed head, feeling the tenacious hold of her fingers on her sleeve, he thought that perhaps, he had ignored female acquaintance at a price to his child. Perhaps, she might have favored having a woman around. Certainly, he would have favored the company of someone who knew how to deal with such sullen fits (indubitably, he would have known how to behave if his son had been like so; but with Georgiana, he was utterly helpless). Worst came to worst, he could whip his son. A girl was a different matter altogether.

Naturally, all of this was lost on Elizabeth, who thought the girl a bit of a ninny for clinging to her father in such an infamous manner. Still, she paused to dwell on it but for a second: she was captivated far more by Georgiana's clothes. Elizabeth herself had nice sensible dresses, suitable for a gentleman's daughter, but made of only the sturdiest, most washable materials. She had not minded it, not as much as she minded that she could not wear a jacket and breeches (for it would have much eased her progress up a tree, and as to progressing down a tree...whew!). But the little Miss Darcy was dressed exquisitely: the cornflower velvet of her traveling habit had an almost magical shimmer to it, and she had a lovely blue bonnet to match and a tiny lace parasol, now opened awkwardly and lolling on the floor. Elizabeth felt the stirrings of feminine envy, a desire for the beautiful, an urge to stroke the silky iridescent velvet of the girl's dress. But she did not know these feelings as such and she did not like the way they felt. Therefore, she downed them quickly, rather than to wallow.

"What are you doing here?" a voice whispered behind her. She whipped around. Jamie was standing in the shadows, squinting at her accusatively. "Spying on them, are you, little sister?"

Elizabeth felt a shameful blush stain her cheeks. She knew how wrong it was, what she had done, but the visitors in her father's study were of a different ilk altogether. They were not the dusty dons and clergymen Professor Bennet usually entertained in his chambers. They were worldly, and handsome, and therefore, fascinating.

"I was not," she lied, but then, deciding against the compounding of sin by dishonesty, sighed and whispered. "I just wanted to look at her dress."

"Well, you did, now go." Jamie took her by the shoulders and turned her around, pushing her lightly towards the stairs. "Go, go, Bess." She scowled at him, and whispered mutinously:

"And you?"

"And me-e-e-e..." He winked at her. "That is for me to know, Miss Bess, and for you never to find out." She gave him another surly look and stalked towards the stairs. "I'll not tell if you do not tell," he whispered in her wake. Failing to acknowledge this generous offer, Elizabeth slipped out of the room.

Elizabeth gone, Jamie Bennet watched the goings-on behind the curtains for another moment; then, pushing them aside, he entered, just in time for the flustered, winded Darcy to appear from the other side-Darcy, whose shock at seeing Jamie was well-nigh comical. He had left their impromptu fighting rink a quarter of an hour earlier, and fully dressed, and had left Jamie lazing about in his shirtsleeves on the roof, evidencing no intention to go down. But, as Jamie had told him before, Darcy had not grown up at Trinity and had not learned all the secret rooms and doors and passageways. Jamie grinned broadly in response to his friend's scowl; such they always were, one always smiling, the other always grim, and yet inseparable.

"Father," Darcy said, carefully. He knew that it befitted a gentleman to show restraint, even with those he loved most. Men of his position did not embrace in public. He had learned to measure his emotion when around his father, and only his eyes spoke the truth. His heart overflowed at seeing the two beings he loved most in this world. Still, he held himself back and bowed politely, as if his very heart did not ache to clasp his father in his arms. It was simply not done.

Georgiana, however, knew of no such politesse. Upon hearing her brother's voice, she finally released her father's sleeve and quickly scrambled off his lap, only to throw herself at Darcy. He leaned and she verily leapt into his open arms, locking hers around his neck. Straightening up, he laughed and swung her around, her legs dangling gaily.

"Have I grown frightfully big?" she inquired of him. Darcy laughed shortly, but then feigned distress, nodding somberly.

"Awfully big," he confessed, gently setting her down. "Soon you will be too heavy for me to cart about." Quickly, she ducked behind him, firmly attaching her hand to his.

"Do stop pestering your brother, Georgie," Mr. Darcy said, but his daughter seemed to ignore him, and his son threw him an imploring glance.

Georgiana, obviously of a mind that Darcy's attention could be monopolized further still, tugged on his sleeve:

"Are you to come home now?" she asked, staring demandingly up at him. Darcy hesitated, throwing a questioning glance at this father; he and Bennet had planned on going to the Continent soon after graduation. Mr. Darcy coughed discreetly and said:

"For a while, my girl. He is to come home for a while."

Georgiana seemed to find that satisfactory. A child of eight, she was living in the here and now, and the prospect of her brother's eventual leave did not serve to take away from the joy of his immediate presence.

On his father's sign, Darcy sat down. Daring, he patted his lap in invitation, and Georgiana clambered up, clinging to him. From his chair, he studied his father's beloved countenance across the room. Mr. Darcy seemed to have grown older since Darcy's visit home at Christmastime. Darcy felt a cold pinch of worry deep inside: his father was still splendid in height and shoulders, but his face looked more drawn and haggard than before. The son shuddered inside, always acutely conscious of his loved ones' mortality. He forced his mind back to the conversation.

"-to congratulate you on Fitzwilliam's excellent success-" Old Bennet droned. "-sailed through his Tripos-"

Behind him, leaning against the wall, Jamie Bennet grinned sardonically.

"I had nothing to do with his success," Mr. Darcy said with dignity. "The labor was all his, so must be the honor for it."

Darcy felt himself color. He knew that he had done well, and that he deserved all manner of praise. But something about the way his father said that unnerved him. It was as if Mr. Darcy wanted no part of his son's success.

Professor Bennet must have felt it too, for he watched his old friend keenly, and then he said, in too gay a manner, as if trying his hardest to dispel the unease that now prevailed in the room:

"Well, and not an inconsequential labor it was, I must say! In our day, I dare say, it was all much easier!" He smiled indulgently, remembering. "No tripos, no bull-dogs."

Mr. Darcy smiled at that, but said nothing, looking thoughtfully down at his exceedingly well-polished boots. Darcy watched his father with quiet dread, his suspicion that something was very wrong ripening into a conviction now. He felt it, like a wedge of glass, stuck between them; and yet, he had not been given leave to ask questions-particularly not in the presence of other parties. He would have to wait for his father to tell him what was wrong.

Darcy was severely uncomfortable, and torn between a growing compulsion to grasp his father by the shoulders and shake him hard, and a desire to flee the room immediately. He had wanted to inquire after the goings-on at Pemberley, after Reynolds, after his favorite horse Suleiman. Still, his father's dark silence had thrust him into gloomy reserve as well.

Luckily for him, Georgiana provided him with an answer, having dozed in his arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder (as a result, his whole left side fell numb; he sat still as a rock, longing to escape, frightened and tortured inside). Old Bennet was the first to notice and suggest that the girl's nurse be summoned.

"Tell her to meet me near the guest rooms, sir." Darcy rose awkwardly. The sleeping child slipped, heavily, and he caught her and heaved her up in his arms. She whispered and whimpered mutinously, but did not wake.

"I shall see you tomorrow, Fitzwilliam," Mr. Darcy said, sounding more tired than before. Darcy nodded politely over his sister's sleeping form; this was a sign to him that tonight, his company was no longer wanted. This was a greater relief than he could have imagined.

"Have a good night, sir." He turned to Old Bennet. "And you, Professor. Bennet, will you come?"

"Of course." Having bowed to the older gentlemen, Jamie Bennet held the door for him, and the two friends quitted Professor's study.

Mr. Darcy and Georgiana were to be situated in Professor's own comfortable apartments. Neither of the two friends said a single word as they walked down the hallway; an oppressive silence seemed to have followed them all the way from the study, floating above them like a dark mantle of discontent. Luckily, Darcy was occupied by carrying Georgiana, and his friend-by opening and holding various doors.

Georgiana's nurse Polly, a freckled young woman, vaguely familiar to Darcy from his last holiday at Pemberley, was waiting for them at the door to the guest bedchamber. She looked out-of-place and frightened, as if expecting a host of dark spirits to assault her anytime in this place that was so old, as old as the River Thames, as old as the world. She looked vastly relieved to see them, and colored becomingly at the wink sent her way by the flirtatious Bennet.

Inside the bedchamber, Darcy gently laid Georgiana on the bed. She woke, immediately, and wound her arms about his neck, refusing to let go.

"Will you be there when I wake?" she inquired. He promised that indeed, he would, his heart squeezing painfully at the way her heart was open to him. He wondered if one day, she, too, would prove impenetrable and foreign, like his mother once, like his father tonight.

"Nose-nose," she said, sleepily. He touched his nose to hers, obediently, in an old childhood gesture of affection.

"I shall see you tomorrow," he whispered. She did not hear him, already fast asleep.

Bennet was waiting for him outside the bedroom, leaning against the wall.

"Well, my friend," he said conversationally. "What have you in mind for tonight? A little more Milton?" He rolled his eyes and held a hand to his heart, in an imitation of a poet's affected posture. "Shall we learn an angel's soliloquy by heart?"

Darcy scowled at him.

"Or..." Bennet paused for effect, turning around on one heel. "Shall we give the bulldogs something to worry about?"

Darcy nodded, sullenly. He rarely drank, but tonight, of all nights, he could not bear to remain sober. He could not bear to dwell on things, to question the reasons why his father, on his first visit to the University in the last three years, evidenced so little joy at seeing him. His father's dark silence brought to mine his mother's coldness and her loss, and the pangs of conscience that still tortured him over their estrangement. He wanted drink, wanted the oblivion it brought. He wanted, most of all, the warm reassurance of a woman's pliant arms and her welcoming smile.

"I am your mortal soul tonight, Bennet," he said with a little grimace. "Corrupt me as you will."

"Finally!" Bennet exclaimed, grinning. 'Well, I shall do my best, my friend... Let me tell you, I know of a bawd in town-don't make that face-excellent girls, very clean-"

Their voices drifted away under the tall vaulted ceilings, and soon the two friends were gone. They would spend the night in mild debauchery, on the premises of Madam Claudette in Cambridge. The yellow house in a row of more yellow houses looked unremarkably respectable; nobody would mind as they emerged from it in the early hours of the morning, suitably exhausted and not a little in their cups.

Thereupon, they would stumble home; for they shared rooms, a very short walk away from Trinity. They would sleep where each fell, and nearing noon, wake just about in time to bathe and dress for their graduation.

Still, neither would know what was wrought while they slept.

After their sons left their company, the fathers sat in gloomy silence. For a long time, they remained, each in his chair, as if stopped from all movement by an invisible puppeteer. Professor Bennet stared, steadfastly, at the play of light and fire in his wineglass, while his old friend regarded his tall black Hessians, superbly shined, with a little too much attention.

It was the Professor who spoke first, his voice scything the silence into myriad brittle pieces.

"So you are come, finally."

Mr. Darcy looked up, a crooked smile twisting his handsome mouth.

"You have summoned me, have you not?"

"True," the Professor agreed, chuckling. "I have. I suppose your son's graduation would not be reason enough for you to visit."

"What need was there for my visits?" Mr. Darcy shrugged. "Listening to you, his time at Trinity was one long triumph."

"A string of small triumphs, rather."

"No doubt your shining influence."

In contrast with the bitter irony in Mr. Darcy's voice, the Professor's laugh sounded open and carefree. "Come, come, Ned. He had worked hard for every single one of them. But even so. Even small triumphs need to be shared with those we love most."

For a moment, Mr. Darcy seemed to have retreated back to dark silence. Then, looking up at his host, he asked, sharply:

"Enough of this! Why did you write to me? Why invite me here, now?"

"Can you not guess?" Professor Bennet asked softly.

"I do not wish to guess!" Mr. Darcy snapped.

"Very well, then, Ned. I believe it is time you informed your son about our agreement."

Mr. Darcy said nothing to that, but his countenance evidenced a great upheaval inside. For a long moment, he sat as if held in place by a stone hand upon his shoulder. Still, the man across from him had no doubts his last words had reached home.

"Our agreement," Mr. Darcy whispered finally, brokenly. "A vile bet."

"A bet you made, Ned."

"I did not know better," Mr. Darcy said pitiably. "I was desperate, I should have contracted with the Devil himself to return what I had lost-"

"All excuses, Ned." The Professor's voice was harder than Damask steel, colder than the ice on a December night. "Unfit for a gentleman."

Mr. Darcy straightened up in his chair and fixed the Professor with a haughty eye. "How dare you lecture me on what befits a gentleman, you, who hold me to this execrable bargain-"

"I hold you to your own words, Ned-no more, no less. If they were rash, it is no fault of mine. They were your words, after all."

"I have never tried to deny that!"

"To deny it would be dishonor, and well you know it!" The Professor's voice was biting now, and his eyes flared in a manner almost diabolical. "The evidence of it exists still. One need only go to White's, open the Betting Book and flip it a dozen years back, to see what you bet and that you lost!"

Like Fury personified, Mr. Darcy shot out of his chair and stormed around the room.

"You need not remind me of it, Tom!" he cried. "A day does not pass that I do not remember it, that I do not regret it!"

"Regrets are futile and only eat at your heart," the Professor said softly. "You must make the best of it, Ned. You must tell the boy tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Mr. Darcy echoed. "You choose tomorrow to tell him of my perfidy!"

"Hardly perfidy. You could not bear to see Fitzwilliam disinherited, that is why you agreed to my offer."

"I should not have gambled with McDougal in the first place. I should have rather bet my soul than Pemberley."

"And yet you did. Youthful rashness of the worst kind."

"If you think it mere rashness, Tom, why not release me from this obligation?"

"Because you owe me, Ned," the Professor replied, candidly and harshly. "You are what you are because I helped you."

"Oh bollocks, Tom! You were all self-interest! You call yourself my friend, but oh Tom, you have used me ill!"

For the first time during the conversation, the Professor seemed hurt.

"Ungrateful wretch!" he spat out, furiously. "I should have left you to rot, dispossessed and alone! Should have let you put that bullet in your head, Ned-just as you'd intended!"

"It is undisputed-you have saved my son's inheritance from McDougal's clutches-you have won it back, having bet-what was it that you have bet, Tom?"

" 'Tis Immaterial."

"But you would not give it back to me-to him. I have asked you, begged you-"

"-hired men to steal the deed from my solicitor's office-" The Professor added. He still sounded angry, but the malice in his voice had disappeared, replaced by sharp, wry notes. . "-time and time again, and all I receive from you is this mockery! You, who once called himself my friend-"

"I remain your friend, but I also remain a good father to my daughter. I should be remiss in my duties to her if I did not held you to the agreement we made."

"Naturally so! She is not bloody likely to make a catch like that again!"

Once again, the Professor's eyes flashed as he said, too quietly and evenly:

"Do not insult my child, Ned, she knows nothing of it. She is only thirteen years of age, and is not likely to realize the advantage that will come to her from this match!"

"But you are, naturally, which is why you hold me to this bargain, made years back-"

"And yet it was made, there is evidence of that."

"I have offered to pay you off!"

"What can you give me that should equal a life of distinction and comfort for my most beloved child?" The Professor asked quietly. Mr. Darcy fell in a chair, heavily, and shook his head in despair.

"And what of my child?" he inquired.

"Do not make it sound as if his very life is forfeit! He will receive a woman of character and virtue for his wife-he could not do better if he were choosing a wife from all the beauties at Almack's!"

"That we shall never know, Tom, for you take that choice away from him."

Professor Bennet smiled again, and all the world's contempt was in that smile. "The question of who took that choice away from him is better left aside, my friend. But you make it sound like such tragedy, Ned! Betrothals are arranged every day. I daresay Elizabeth will make him a better wife than any society daughter. She will bear him healthier sons. And she is likely to grow up far prettier."

"Small consolation!"

"Large enough, if you tell him so." Professor Bennet leaned back in his chair, fingering his chin softly. "He is an obedient son, and values your opinion greatly. He will do your bidding."

"And will Elizabeth?"

"You can have no doubt of that." The Professor sighed, thoughtfully. Reaching out, he touched the side of a leaning candle, gathering the dripping yellow wax with one finger. "I care for Fitzwilliam. He was my brightest student these three years, and a good man at that."

"Spare me your hypocrisy, Tom."

"Believe me a hypocrite if you must," the Professor replied with a shrug. He kneaded the warm wax in his fingers absently. "But I do not want the boy hurt. I do not want him making an alliance, I do not want him courting other women or falling in love. He must know he is not free. Now, before he is to go off on his own, is as good a time as any."

"As you wish," Mr. Darcy replied flatly. "As you wish, Tom."

He pushed himself out of the chair and stood, unsteady on his feet. He sounded drunk when he said:

"Would you mind terribly if we let him go through with the graduation ceremony before telling him?"

The Professor said nothing, but merely shook his head. As his unfortunate guest turned to go, he reached to ring for a footman, but Mr. Darcy stopped him with one imperious motion.

"Do you forget that you and I once roamed these halls, Tom?"

Already at the doors, he turned and said, on a sudden furious breath:

"Tell me why, Tom?"

"Why?" The Professor looked up at him, squinting blindly.

"Why not take Pemberley from me outright? Why torture me all these years, threatening ruination? You can have it for your daughter, but why did you not take it for your son?"

The Professor shrugged. "James stands to inherit Longbourn when I am gone. We let it now, having no need of it, but it is his. And it is a good enough living for a country squire. He would not know what to do with a place like Pemberley."

To Mr. Darcy's incredulous little laugh, the Professor added:

"And, believe it or not, I want both our children to have it. Fitzwilliam was dear to me. I never wished him disinherited. ."

The candle on the table sputtered, threatening compleat darkness.

"I am, after all, your friend."

On the morrow, the day was breezy and sun-dappled. Considering his state after a night of carousing with Bennet, Darcy thought himself lucky that he did not lose an eye in the process of catching his mortarboard. Despite the headache tearing viciously at his temples, he had managed to wink at Georgiana, who was sitting primly next to his father, sending her in a fit of giggles.

They stood, then, under a graceful stone arch, full of mad excitement, discussing the lives they were about to begin. These lives, of course, would be of various degrees of grace and distinction. Indeed, Darcy thought giddily, in another ten years, the young men around him would have become the pillars of the English society: they would be clergymen and writers, politicians and barristers. And some would become simply gentlemen of property and consequence, landowners and courtiers. After a few years of riotous shenanigans, they would fall prey to avaricious-and anxious-mamas and marry, advantageously so. Though perhaps, some would be luckier than others, and would not marry at all. (Faith, he did not see himself marrying anytime soon.) As he stood amongst his classmates, Darcy fully intended to take his place within that pantheon.

The world lay before him, open and his to devour.

The thought of himself at the top had a particular appeal. Before, he had known himself to be a scion of two very grand families (for, if his father's family was simple landed gentry, though highly respected and very wealthy, his maternal grandfather was the Earl of Matlock himself); he had known that his would be a life of privilege, and had never questioned it. Still, it had felt a little like cheating. Just a little. The others had earned the distinction for him, through the ages. But this, this, he thought, this was his only. He had known himself to have worked exceedingly hard at Trinity, and was proud-justifiably so-of his success.

He thought again, with pleasure and joy, of having graduated from one of the greatest Universities in the world (doubtless the greatest in England). This was his. Something he had earned, something he had contributed to the family fortune.

"Darcy." He turned around, embraced his best friend tightly. Last night, on their way to their nighttime entertainment, the two friends talked of their impending continental tour. It was undeniably exciting to be traveling in the time of such an upheaval. Napoleon was gathering forces in Europe, and the war, already, seemed inevitable. But it was not yet, not for a while... they could still go. They still had time, and the world balancing on the edge of a catastrophe had its particular brittle appeal.

They would go, then, across the channel to France, and Spain, and the glorious, sun-drenched Italy. And, perhaps, Greece, to look at the sparkling white temples and sail the azure waters of the Adriatic. He had imagined it far too often-glorious art, glorious weather, glorious ruins. And the women! Indeed, from what he had heard of them, no other word could describe the Southern women. Twenty-one years of gentlemanly upbringing were certainly no match for centuries of carnivorous maleness: as he thought of all that awaited them, Darcy felt a mad rush of excitement through his veins. They would tarry in Europe, taking in every pleasure to be had. Indeed, it was an enticing prospect.

"Congratulations to you," Bennet said. He was grinning from ear to ear, having lost his mortarboard somewhere. Darcy knew that now, upon graduation, Bennet's prospects would be quite different from his own. Indubitably Professor Bennet was a man of consequence and property; but Longbourn, the Bennet family estate, was nothing to Pemberley. Yet, they had been the closest of friends at Trinity, and Darcy hoped that they would remain so afterwards.

And even if not, even if their circles never intersected, they still had this summer, this glorious summer advancing upon them, where they would remain friends and companions, if only for several more months.

"And to you," Darcy murmured, slapping his friend's shoulder. He wished to God it did not matter that Pemberley was the richest estate in Derbyshire, and that Longbourn was lowly compared to it. To him, it did not. Bennet had been his friend for the past three years; he would remain one forevermore. He told himself he did not care if it mattered to the rest of the world.

"Will you come drinking with us, now?" Bennet spoke exuberantly. "We are all going. Not even the strictest of bulldogs will dare to drag us out of the pub today!"

Darcy hesitated. He wanted to call on his father first.

"I shall catch up with you later," he said, smiling. "Save a seat at the table for me."

Bennet made a face. "Very well, if that is your wish. But come as soon as you can."

Still, as he turned around to go, Jamie Bennet came face-to-face with his father's valet.

"What is it, Huffington?" he asked, rather impatiently.

"Professor wishes to see you in his study, sir."

Bennet frowned in incomprehension. "Me?"

"Yes, sir."

He grinned and ruffled a hand through his curls, honestly trying to recollect what particular indiscretion he had committed during the ceremony. Or perhaps... he cast a wary look at Darcy. Could it be that the news of their excursion the night previous had reached his father's ears? But no, it could not be. Jamie simply could not believe it. Not today. The Professor, always rather lax with his upbringing, would not choose the day of his graduation to read him an obnoxious lecture.

"And Mr. Darcy is to come, too."

"Very well, then." He turned to go. "Sheffield," he cried to someone. "Save Darce and me a spot, will you?"

The two friends exchanged another look of incomprehension as they followed the valet.

Professor Bennet stared out of the window of his study, following the progress of the two young men across the courtyard. Fitzwilliam Darcy was still wearing his black robe, but Jamie had lost his. He was always like this-wild-haired and grinning. Nothing seemed to trouble him much; the Professor had hardly seen a sturdier spirit in his whole life.

He hoped it would serve his son well just now.

They walked in, both of them smiling, all promise of life written in their faces. Both bowed politely. Young Darcy was taller than his friend and arrestingly handsome; but Jamie was fine-looking in his own right and possessed of a good deal of easy-going charm that his friend lacked. Professor Bennet knew that his son possessed the happy manners, which opened people to him, making them smile, making them his friends, wherever he went.

"Come in, come in," he said, pointing to two chairs, facing himself and Ned Darcy (who sat in dead silence, and whiter than his pristine necktie). They edged into the room, cautiously, before sitting down; both looked obligingly polite and only slightly worried. Both, no doubt, were keen to leave this room and go drinking with their friends. The Professor felt something akin to pity. He knew that the news he was about to bestow would not be taken kindly; he hoped that it would not serve to taint the friendship between the two young men. Faith, whatever he said to his friend, he would be most sore were he in Fitzwilliam Darcy's place... Still, what he did, he did for Elizabeth's benefit. And what father would possibly forgo the opportunity to secure a match so advantageous for his beloved daughter?

Elizabeth herself would be told in due time (another steep battle, he anticipated-he could not imagine her wanting to marry young Darcy). He would not think of it just yet. First things first.

"You wanted to see me, Father?"

His son's prompting tore him out of his reverie.

"Yes, yes," he said. "Both of you. Mr. Darcy and I have something to tell you." He paused. "Will you, Ned, or shall I?"

Mr. Darcy, still frowning, looked up at him in seeming incomprehension. As if he has only just heard it for the first time.

"Ned?"

"Oh, yes, of course." Mr. Darcy rose and walked to the window, so that he now stood behind the two boys. Neither turned back to follow his progress across the room, both studying their shoes with far more attention than called for.

Darcy felt that something was amiss the moment he had walked into the room. It was the continuation of last night's meeting with his father, so bizarre and disheartening. So there it was, his father had not been merely tired from his journey. He had convinced himself that it was only fatigue that had made Mr. Darcy so disagreeable, so cold to him the night before. But here it was, again. Something was genuinely wrong.

The most obvious possibility was also the most ridiculous: that their trip to the Continent had been cancelled. His father had advised him against it this summer, and, for the first time in his life, he had disobeyed. Had chosen not to take his advice. As he had expected, Mr. Darcy had found it acceptable. Perhaps he had reconsidered? Still, Darcy could not imagine that he would choose now, only a few days before they were to depart for France, to curtail his plans in such an abrupt manner. It simply was not like him.

"This goes back years," Mr. Darcy said behind them. "You were but a boy... Winter of 1790. I was in London for the Season-that year, I was the member for Derby... my last year in the Commons."

"Ah," Darcy said faintly. He remembered all too well the occasion of which his father now spoke. All too well, indeed. He was eight years old then, and would have much preferred to be left behind at Pemberley, but instead, had been dragged along to London and promised various attractions, should he do well with his tutor. He had, garnering praise from Mr. Peterly-who had been a good teacher and had inspired him with his passion for geography, zoology and the logic of numbers-and had anticipated those promised delights eagerly. But his family's sojourn in town ended abruptly, when Mr. Darcy was brought home overcome with some severe fit. He had not understood it then, but his father was ill for several days, and his mother was inconsolable; the sound of her weeping haunted him for days, and he spent most of his time in the attic, hiding from it. Following Mr. Darcy's mending-though perhaps, Darcy thought, he had never truly mended, not in spirit, at least-the family left London in such a hurry that they had left Mrs. Darcy's maid behind and had to send for her. He scowled at the painful memory.

"I was fortunate that winter. My politics was successful, I have formed a number of alliances, and strengthened a number of others."

The tone of his father's voice-listless and hushed, as if muted by a felt throw-set Darcy to an inward shudder. He fought to contain it, but in vain; very soon, it overtook his entire being. He had to clench his teeth to stop them from chattering, and he drove his nails into his palms to prevent himself from shaking piteously.

Mr. Darcy went on, his tone biting now, full of loathing for something-someone-that could only have been himself.

"I was favored then," he said, and the manner in which he said that word, favored, made Darcy cringe. Yet, he could not allow himself to dwell on the peculiar mocking lilt in his father's voice. Theories, one more disturbing, more sickening than another, flittered through his mind. The most obvious one now, was, of course, infidelity. What else could he mean by "favored'' but that he had been unfaithful to the late Mrs. Darcy?

But then, Darcy thought with a shock, then why tell him now? Why raise and disturb the ghosts of betrayals long past? Moreover, why invite Bennet to listen to such infamy?

Nothing made sense, nothing added up. Darcy ground his teeth and made himself stop theorizing. He would listen to his father, pure and simple.

"I felt invincible," Mr. Darcy said, bitter mockery in his voice. "I thought nothing could touch me."

"One wild night at White's, I wrote down a wager in the Betting book. It was-I am ashamed to admit now-for a horse. A rare pureblood Arabian. Bred from desert stock, one of the very few in England. I wanted it, I coveted it. I had never wanted anything quite so much. Neither money, nor land, nor a woman." Mr. Darcy chuckled dully. "It was named Izmir." He sighed. "It was like a white dream."

"A horse," Darcy murmured dumbly. He simply could not credit that the story his father was about to tell him dealt with a horse. It seemed to torture Mr. Darcy profoundly. The son had a farmer's appreciation for a beautiful stallion, but he could not imagine that his father was so distressed over a horse. Faith, Pemberley's stables were full of them. There were even some pretty, graceful Arabians amidst their stock.

"Do not laugh, young man," Professor Bennet said quietly. He was like a dark shadow in his robes, almost one with the multitude of books on the wall. Darcy almost forgot he was there, indeed, absorbed in and bothered by his father's strange story. Now, the sound of his voice startled him so much, he well-nigh jumped in his seat. "Every one of us will face ultimate temptation, once in our life. It does not matter so much what form it takes."

"The horse belonged to Charles MacDougal, a notorious rake and gambler. I asked him to sell Izmir to me, told him to name his price. I was wealthy, Fitzwilliam, I had a great estate, I had an heir to it. I had felt like Croesus, like I could buy the world."

Darcy could not help it, and murmured: "I suppose he did. I mean, named the price."

"Oh, he did." Mr. Darcy's laughter was harsh, jarring. "He did." He paused, leaning his forehead against the glass. "Pemberley," he whispered.

"What?" Darcy asked sharply, forgetting all proprieties.

"What's not to understand?" Professor Bennet said, as sharply, from the shadows. "MacDougal had no desire to sell the horse. He named a price he knew your father would not pay."

Darcy felt a trickle of cold sweat down his neck. Next to him, Jamie Bennet said frozen into salt, staring at the tips of his shoes. Darcy shut his eyes tightly and asked, quietly:

"Pray tell, what happened next?"

"MacDougal could have simply refused me, could have told me that the horse was not for sale. But he found a particular perverse pleasure in amusing himself-and his idle cronies-at my expense. His chief occupation consisted of sitting in that window, at White's, making light of everyone that passed. He found it damned amusing that a man could be so attached to a piece of soil." There was a smile in his voice, a wistful frozen smile, like a jonquil blossomed too early, caged and smashed by the last breath of winter.

There was a long pause, during which Mr. Darcy stood, stock-still, leaning his forehead against the glass in the window. Darcy sat, very straight in his chair, no longer daring his father to continue.

"I made a bet," Mr. Darcy said, then. "I wanted to teach the fop a lesson-wanted to show him I would take the horse from him if he did not sell it to me. My friends had warned me, telling me that MacDougal was as merciless at the card table as he was on the dueling field." He sighed. "I would not listen. I challenged him to a game of faro at White's one night, and I lost. I lost a great deal of money to him then, but I could have walked away... I should have walked away."

Professor Bennet said, losing his patience: "Enough of that, Ned! You can mea culpa yourself all you wish, but it will not turn things around. Just tell the boys the truth, and be done with it."

Mr. Darcy nodded. "Very well, then. I shall tell the truth. I gambled, then. I no longer thought about the horse, but about returning what I had lost-with interest. MacDougal had insulted me, made light of me, publicly. I wished to punish him for it. I challenged him to another game."

"Oh, no." It was not Darcy, this time, but Jamie Bennet who said this, sounding absolutely fascinated.

"I lost again." Mr. Darcy said. "And again. And again. Every time, I would bet more-until it became imperative that I return the money I had lost. Finally," he said after a heavy pause. "There was only one thing I could bet to return all I had lost."

Darcy gasped, sickened, disbelieving.

"Pemberley," he said.

"Yes, Pemberley. In the famous-some say infamous-Betting Book at White's, I have recorded my final bet with MacDougal."

Jamie Bennet never moved from his spot, looking as if he was trying his hardest to disappear into the back of his chair.

"I lost," Mr. Darcy whispered. "I lost Pemberley that night. I lost your inheritance and your future."

At first, Darcy evidenced no reaction to such a tale. It seemed, for some time, sitting still and dark, head bowed. When he looked up, finally, there were tears in his eyes.

"Father!" he said, his voice brimming with emotion. "I cannot-I cannot fathom-why have you kept it from me all these years? I cannot believe it," he repeated. "Not you. Not you, sir!" But he did believe it, he already had, had accepted that the one person he loved and admired so much could be so terribly, dangerously fallible. He sank back in his chair, biting his fist to gain better control of himself.

"And you," he whispered, addressing himself to the Professor next, after the first painful surge of emotion had passed, "you called himself your friend, could you not stop him? Did you calmly watch him go to his ruin?"

The Professor exhaled sharply, furiously, shaken at such unfairness. He turned to Darcy and said, in a voice his student had never heard him use before, but with which his son was intimately familiar: "Let it be known, young man, that I was not there to stop your father from gambling his life away. All of this happened during the stretch of one night. I returned to find your mother in hysterics, and Darcy locked in his office, holding a loaded pistol to his mouth."

Darcy grimaced with disgust. With a terrible shock, he remembered that day, again, remembered the commotion in the house and his mother screaming, hysterically, begging someone to kick in the door, then begging-frantically-not to do it. Servants whispering: almost swallowed a bullet. To escape Lady Anne's wailing, he had disappeared up in the attic, putting his hands over his ears, trying his hardest not to hear. How was it that he only just remembered this?

He twisted in his chair, drilling his father's back with his eyes. He was still shaken, still incredulous, but now, also, he was angry.

"You wanted to kill yourself?" he asked, growing whiter by the second. "You had lost everything we had-then you should have abandoned us?!"

Mr. Darcy proffered no reply to that, for perhaps, too much emotion rang in his son's voice. Instead, Professor Bennet coughed, clearing his throat. Rather stiffly, he said:

"Honor commanded that he do so, Fitzwilliam."

"Honor," Darcy whispered. "You call it honor! He should have left us to starve!"

"Well, you have not starved, have you, Mr. Darcy!" the Professor said sternly. "= It would behoove you to keep quiet, to listen!"

Gloomily, Darcy slid back in his chair. His face burned in shame. Had the shameful story he had only just heard come from someone else's lips, he should have never stood for such an affront. Indeed, he should have declared that person a liar. Called him out, even. To imagine that his father should sink so low! That he had gambled away his inheritance, like the most profligate of scoundrels! It is not true, it is not true, it cannot be true, he thought desperately. Mr. Darcy was the kindest, cleverest, most honorable of men. What Professor Bennet had spoken about was not "honor", but pure cowardice. This was not like his father, who hardly ever came near a card table; indeed, he had proven impossible to lure into a diversion so respectable as a game of whist. Darcy went cold inside at the thought: this is why, this is why he never gambles...

But apparently, this story, shameful as it was, was not yet complete. He gripped the arms of his chair, scowled, and listened.

"Do go on, Ned," the Professor said quietly. He watched his own son, far more than he watched Darcy. He wondered how Jamie would react to this, to the news that he could have been made wealthy beyond his dreams, and wasn't, and that his sister would be favored instead?

"No," Mr. Darcy said bitterly. "No, Tom. 'Tis your turn now. I have bared enough of me today, now you must speak of yourself."

"Very well," the Professor agreed. "I shall tell the rest." He walked behind his desk and sat down, heavily. He was getting old, he thought ruefully. Yet another reason why the question of Elizabeth's betrothal-including a binding contract-must be settled soon. Had we but world enough and time, he thought, but we do not have enough. Therefore, it had to be done.

"Fitzwilliam," he said. The dark head in front of him snapped up, and he found himself staring straight into the pair of the most disquieting dark eyes he had ever seen. Professor Bennet shivered, involuntarily. He had heard people say that young Darcy had a nasty manner of looking at you, unblinking, as if he would stare a hole through your soul. But Fitzwilliam Darcy was always easy around him, and he had never had a chance to see him as anything but a very proud, very shy young man.

Until now.

"Fitzwilliam," he repeated. "I could tell you a long story, but I am afraid your patience is badly tried already."

"I should-" Young Darcy cleared his throat, uncomfortable, and said, darkly: "I should like to know why my inheritance is still my own."

Perhaps, there was no way to put it but bluntly. "Because I won it back for your father."

"You won it back, sir?" Jamie asked, curiously. "In cards?"

"Yes," the Professor replied. "My last card game, to this day."

"I have you to thank, then, for restoring my inheritance," Fitzwilliam Darcy murmured, but Jamie, ever the perceptive one, asked:

"But Father, what did you bet that MacDougal fellow?"

The Professor shifted, uncomfortably, in his chair. How he hoped Jamie would not ask that, and yet, he had known that his nosy, clever son could not miss this incongruity. That, in order to have won Pemberley back from MacDougal, he had to have bet something of an equal value, and he had nothing of the sort. Not even Longbourn would measure up to a estate so great in size, beauty and richness.

"Father?"

A pound of flesh. "I bet my own person, James," he said, sharply.

They stared at him, shocked, saying not a word, their minds refusing to admit all that such an arrangement would entail.

"Mr. MacDougal was known for his unusual predilections," he said dryly. He had hoped he would not have to reveal this. For the rest of his life, he would remember the tension of that mad gamble: Charlie MacDougal's repulsive assessing narrow-eyed stare at him over the card table, you are a handsome fellow, all right; the cold realization that should he lose, he would be facing MacDougal, with his deadly aim, across the dueling field-for he would never consent to honoring this bet; a deep collective breath held, and released at the last, by the crowd around them. He shook his head, shaking off the memories as well.

"I had nothing else to offer him." He hated how he sounded: thick, apologetic and guilty, as if he should explain himself to these boys.

Jamie, who, for the first time since the beginning of the conversation, turned noticeably white, murmured, addressing himself to no-one in particular:

"What if you had lost!"

"It is of no import, James, because I won," the Professor said sharply. He had thought the same over the years, and the possibilities frightened him exceedingly. Jamie said nothing in reply and sank deeply back in his chair, shielding his face with one hand, as if wishing to hide from the world. The Professor had not seen him so distressed in years; not since his mother died thirteen years ago, in fact.

Young Darcy, however, seemed moved between overflowing gratitude and the deepest shame. Looking up at the Professor and said, gloomily:

"I shall never be able to repay you."

Suddenly, the Professor could not make himself look the boy in the eye. He had not expected the poor fellow to be grateful to him. After all, he had not acted unselfishly, having used his friend's terrible mistake to his own considerable advantage. Studying his nails with unqualified attention, he said, slowly, forcing the words that had to be said: "Do not be too hasty, Fitzwilliam, in thanking me. I did not act selflessly."

"I do not understand." Young Darcy looked between his father and his teacher, seeking an answer, but receiving only grim silence in response.

"When I won Pemberley back from MacDougal, it passed into my possession, at least on paper. Let it be said, first, that I had fully intended to give it back to your father. I had gone against MacDougal with that intention-of restoring your rightful inheritance to you. Something that your father was not able to do, at the moment." He exhaled, quietly. "But I had my own children to think of."

Another silence, fraught with unbearable tension; the air in the room felt brittle, like the thinnest glass cracked all through from a careless stone and about to shatter.

"Therefore, your father and I made a deal."

"A deal?" the young man murmured. Jamie said nothing, looking up at his father, frowning in incomprehension, and then, stricken by a sudden understanding. The Professor bit his lip at the expression of dismay on his son's face. He said, slowly, words rolling like stones down a hillside.

"That you should marry my daughter Elizabeth in exchange for the full restoration of Pemberley to you."

Jamie had taken his hand away from his face and stared at him incredulously. "Father," he murmured, as if in disbelief. The Professor ignored him: there would be time to deal with him later. Not that he could hope to explain anything to him, not right now. His son had always been the greatest mystery to him, a friendly, easy child who was sometimes as impenetrable as a stone wall. He had developed, from early age, an ability to hide pain and disappointment behind lighthearted gags and wild antics. Try as he might, his father could not always read him.

At any rate, he told himself, it was young Darcy who was of more import now.

"Fitzwilliam," the Professor heard himself saying. "Do you understand?"

He had hoped for a glimmer of understanding, had convinced himself that what he had done was, in so many ways, reasonable and forgivable. He had forgiven himself long ago, and the guilt he was feeling now was new and doubly painful. After all, what loving father would have done differently? Had it been the other way around, would not Darcy have done the same for Georgiana? He had wanted a good life, a better life for Elizabeth, wanted to spare her the humiliations of being only poorly dowered. Longbourn was their home-though one to which they had never returned after Mrs. Bennet's demise-but it would not serve to provide her with as handsome a dowry as she deserved. She was his most beloved thing in the entire world, so small he wished he could keep her in the palm of his hand, sheltering her from the entire world. So big, there was hardly a space for anyone else in his heart. Even then, when he hardly knew her, he had already loved her. He had only wanted the best for her, the Professor kept telling himself. A father's folly, prompted by the desire to do well by his child. He had hoped that Ned would understand, and that most of all, that this boy would understand. This dark boy with his troubling, penetrating dark gaze and his lips pinched narrowly in anger.

But indeed, it had been a folly to hope so. Fitzwilliam Darcy was not simply angry, he seemed deeply shaken, saddened and profoundly hurt. He jumped to his feet, leaving Jamie still slumped in his chair. He was so tall, he filled up the room naturally, leaving it too small and too dark for everyone else. As he spoke, his voice was soft, like felt, but it contained a dagger inside, a deadly cutting shard of glass.

"Oh," he said. "I understand.". There was so much poison in his voice, the Professor felt ill at the sound of it. Young Darcy paused, as if considering something. "I only wish," he said, finally, gravely, "that you had told me of it earlier, Father. It might have given me more time to accustom myself to the idea of having been bartered for a horse."

They remained silent, each in his own private hegira. Ned Darcy looking out of the window, where, behind an ornate Venetian glass, Trinity unfolded in all its Tudor splendor like an ornate lacy cake. The Professor remained at his desk, studying the ornate pattern that made up the edge of his desk, tracing the peculiar mahogany twirls and eddies with one finger. The furniture-maker had thought to create the effect of a wave, ebbing and flowing. Now, unthinking, he let his hand follow the curves and grooves of the wood, slipping down into its smooth hollows and rising upon its tall crests.

He knew a reaction like this was to be expected, and yet it pained him unimaginably that Elizabeth should be married to this man unwanted. Elizabeth, he thought, my Lizzy, marry him? He should be happy to marry her, he thought angrily. That stupid pup, he could never hope to find a wife of so much sense and goodness. For a brief moment, moved by his anger, he even considered giving up the venture. But only for a minute; and then, reminding himself of all Elizabeth stood to gain, he felt within his right once more. After all, they could not be married now, Elizabeth being so young as she was. The next five or six years should serve to reconcile Fitzwilliam Darcy with this marriage.

If he knew Elizabeth better, how could he fail to love her?

His mouth a bitter line, Fitzwilliam Darcy bowed. "With your permission, sir, I shall take my leave now."

His father said nothing, waiving his hand weakly, as the young man stalked out of the room. He had said nothing to the Professor, had not acknowledged him or bowed, and he had not called Jamie to follow after him. The Professor watched as his own son rose and bowed, before turning silently towards the door. On an impulse, the Professor called after him:

"James!" he said sharply. "James, do you understand, at least?"

The young man opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head. "You will forgive me, sir. I do not. I do not understand. I cannot fathom you would have Elizabeth betrothed in her cradle, without giving her a chance to make her own choice."

The Professor bit his lip, painfully. He had pondered the same question, and had convinced himself that he knew what was good for his child. But Elizabeth was clever, thinking, already now. Would she chafe and curse his name, married to a man she did not love, did not choose? But could he afford to think of it, such frivolities? All of her further life hung in the balance. He knew, far too well, that the young Darcy, who was as proud and obstinate as his unlucky father, would never marry Elizabeth of his own accord.

Would she ever forgive her father for what he had done?

"Perhaps when you have a daughter of your own," he said, weakly. He was glad that Jamie had not found fault with him for returning Pemberley to the Darcys. He knew that many would; but not Jamie, who was as easy as he was generous. For his son, he felt gratitude for remaining the fine man he was in the face of temptation. He felt guilt, too, for he tried to do well by his children, and had failed, again. Oh what a fool's errand it was.

"Perhaps," Jamie said, sadly. "Though I do not see how. I love Darcy, father, he is like a brother to me... but I should not wish him on my worst enemy, much less our Lizzy. He is cold, Father, and they detest each other. Marrying him could not but make her unhappy."

Now, anger, irrational, swelled within the Professor's chest, clamoring to silence the awful, nagging guilt. "Well, then, she will stop detesting him! She will do like so many other women do and obey her father! She will learn to like him, and if she fails at that her marriage will be no worse than most! Certainly not worse than mine ever was! I have arranged for her to marry young Darcy, and marry him she will!"

He had almost yelled out the last phrase. As it ended, the silence was absolute. Then, there came a quiet gasp, and then a sound of guilty feet, rushing away, no longer caring to conceal their clandestine presence. Jamie gasped, too, then turned around on one spot and darted, at lightning speed, towards the door in the back of the room.

"Damn it, Bess," the Professor heard him say, desperately, "damn it, child, I have told you not to eavesdrop!"

Jamie Bennet stood in the shade of a large oak on the green, looking up into the crown, where, he had just discovered, his sister Elizabeth was hiding from the rest of the world.

They had searched for her, high and low, for the past five hours. He had quitted his father's study in a rush, only to see a light shadow turn the nearest corner. He ran after her, but she was too quick by far. He stood in the hallway, wondering which of the doors on the left now concealed her. Then, frustrated, he stomped his foot and strode away.

She could not, after all, hide all day.

Three hours later, no longer certain of it after having searched for Elizabeth all over Trinity-he did not like the thought of her venturing into town-he returned to seek his father's audience.

"Come in," the Professor said, voice muted behind a massive oak door. Upon entering, Jamie found his father in the business of looking over some correspondence. He did not look up. Jamie thought that his father looked peaceful like that, and everyday: it was as if he had not only just delivered the most shattering news. Jamie felt anger welling up inside. He swallowed, not quite trusting his voice.

"Elizabeth is gone," he said darkly. The Professor looked up, startled, and the young man felt a flutter of dark satisfaction: that caught your attention, you old bastard, he thought.

"Gone?" His father whispered. "Gone?"

"Father, I think we ought to mount a search," Jamie said in a voice which he used only rarely, and which meant anything but a simple opinion. Insistence was hardly in his nature; he found it a dearly bought favor when he had to force someone to do something for him. Ask, he knew, and ye shall receive; ask kindly and ye shall receive tenfold. But occasionally, in matters of grave importance, he could be as commanding as his father.

Two hours later, after a search party made it all around Trinity, he found her by pure happenstance. He was passing a large oak, having almost convinced himself that Elizabeth had run away, when his ear caught a dull thump! He turned sharply, looking around. Something lay in the grass, where the prodigious tree roots rose and melted into the lush spring grass. Jamie leaned, looking at it.

At first, he well-nigh gasped in horror. It was Elizabeth's slipper. He gathered it from the ground with shaking fingers. Has she been carried off?

Then, reason intervening, he remembered the thump. Looking up into the crown, he saw one white stockinged foot, clearly missing a shoe, and a pair of mournful eyes. He felt like he would cry with relief. He said, scowling at her:

"Bess, you eegit, come out of there at once!"

Not saying a word, she shook her head at him. Jamie considered climbing up himself, to bring her back down by force. Still, he thought, it was most unlike Elizabeth to hide from anything. She must be seriously distressed by the news her father had so thoughtlessly bestowed upon them.

"Lizzy," he said, gentling his voice, though he wished to both whip her and kiss her silly. "Do not shake your head at me, girl. Come down at once."

Instead of answering, she regrouped on the branch, standing up and neatly tucking in her skirt, clearly intending to climb higher.

"Lizzy," he repeated, getting angrier. "Stop that! Don't you dare-Lizzy, do you think I cannot bloody well climb a tree?!"

There was no answer but a sullen "leave me be," muttered under her breath. Still, she crouched on the branch again, awkwardly, holding on to the one above her.

"If you only knew the fright you gave us," he said. She murmured something, he could not quite hear, but he could swear it was "good." He thought to tell her how much their father had worried, then decided against it.

"I thought the gypsies had carried you off," he said.

"What would the gypsies want with me?" she asked crossly. Good, Jamie thought, talking is progress.

"They would make you dance in their traveling show."

"Dance?" she repeated, curiously. "Do tricks?"

"Of course."

"Will they have a bear?"

"A dancing bear."

"Will they make me walk the tightrope?" He thought he discerned a hint of a smile in her voice.

"Most certainly." He sighed, sitting down in the grass. "Not that you could not manage, just look at your antics up there." Looking up, he said, "Veritable monkey, Bess."

"Well, good." She sounded defiant now. From where he was sitting, he could not see her very well. Only the slight ripple to the leaves, and that one white stocking-no longer quite so white. As far as he could see, she had torn it at the heel. "Good," she repeated. "Maybe I could be with someone who cares a twopence for me."

"Lizzy!"

"You know 'tis the truth!" she said hotly. "I could hardly credit my ears-Father must be going daft with age!"

He could not help snorting at this irreverence. This was the quintessential Elizabeth. At thirteen, his beloved younger sister was so straight-backed and sharp, it hurt to look at her. How will she walk in the world, he thought; how will she marry a man such as Darcy...

"Lizzy," he repeated helplessly. "How can you-oh demmit, Bess, I daresay I do not know why he did it..." He sighed, leaning his head back against the tree. "Or rather, I do-Darcy's Pemberley is grand indeed... It is a boon to be a mistress of such an estate."

"Do you know how much I care for your precious Pemberley, Jamie?" Elizabeth asked grimly from amidst the leaves. "Do you know what your friend Darcy can do with it?"

"Elizabeth," he reproached her. "No need to be vulgar, girl. Father wanted the best for you." Making an ass of us all in the process, as parents often do. "Perhaps you could like Darcy sometime?" he suggested feebly. "He is not a bad sort of fellow, likely to make as good a husband as any."

A sound of consummate disgust came from the tree. "Husband!" Elizabeth cried out. "Husband! Whoever told you, Jamie, that I should wish to marry anyone-much less your pompous fool of a friend?"

"Well, then," Jamie said, more amused by the moment. "What were your plans for the rest of your life, Bess?"

"Why, to travel, of course! I wish to see the world, Jamie! I wish to see-everything! Greece, and Turkey, and the Sphinx! And the Orient, too! You are to go, now, soon, and I am to stay here and read Father's travel books and miss you dearly-but one day, one day, Jamie-"

Her voice trailed off, and he thought he heard a sniff or two. She knew, even now, at so young an age, that she would have to marry. Dreaming of travel was all very well, but one could not travel all her life. Marriage was the only available, accepted road for the girl of their class. That, or pathetic, disrespected spinsterhood. Jamie frowned at the thought. He could not imagine his sister spending the rest of her life a spinster, a bluestocking, someone's pathetic lonely cousin. An object of everyone's pity and amusement.

"My darling girl," he said gently. "Perhaps-one day-" He sighed, seeking the words that refused to come. "Take my word for it, Bess, you may one day see marriage in a better light. All-well, most-most women do." He sighed again and ruffled one hand through his hair."

"Well, I am not most," she said stubbornly. "I do not wish-I have no desire to marry... anyone! And especially not your friend Darcy!" She scoffed derisively. "I should rather become a nun!"

Jamie laughed, despite himself. "Darling sister, you cannot become a nun-you are not Catholic!"

"Oh, well, all the same. Surely they would take me? It would be preferable to marrying him."

"What an admirable sentiment." The voice came from behind the tree, making Jamie jump and turn. "Darcy!"

"Indeed." Darcy was standing there in a pose of dejected poet, arms folded defiantly on his chest. "Bennet, I find that your sister and I have a remarkable meeting of the minds. She does not wish to marry me, and I dread the day this little savage of yours enters Pemberley as its mistress."

"Darcy," Jamie said, a warning in his voice against his best intentions. "Take care! I do not like-"

"I care not for what you like or dislike, Bennet," Darcy said coldly. "You should accustom yourself to that."

Jamie shrugged and sat back down on the ground. "I do not like," he repeated evenly, "the tone of your voice. I do not particularly care for the words you are uttering. But I shall write it off on the fact that you were distressed by my father's announcement."

"Yes," Darcy said, grimacing, "no doubt a surprise announcement to you, my friend. I should really give it to you, Bennet-you play admirably well. Had you tried for Count Orsino in Twelfth Night, doubtlessly you would have been chosen!"

"Wait just a moment," Jamie said, jumping back to his feet. "What are you saying? That I knew about my father's-"

"Oh hell, Bennet." Darcy did not often cursed; and it served to apprise Jamie of his friend's great emotional upheaval. "Do stop playing the fool! At any rate," he said, waving his hand at Jamie's outraged expression. "This is not why I am here. I wish to inform you that I am to leave for Dover tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Jamie frowned. "But-"

"I hope to book a passage on a different ship a few days earlier." Darcy's words were clipped, hard, his voice haughty.

"Oh." It dawned on Jamie in all its hurtful clarity that he was being left behind. "I see." Still, he could not help asking: "And what about our plans for this summer?"

A cold silence was his answer, his friend eyeing him haughtily from his substantial height.

"Darcy," he murmured, shaken. "You know, it is no fault of mine-" He was hurt now. He could not credit Darcy would think so ill of him. It all seemed a mere misunderstanding, something that could be cleared up and fixed. One more word, it seemed, merely another word, and Darcy will understand, he could not fail to understand-

"Darcy, I swear to you-I knew nothing-" he started, only to stumble over his friend's gaze, full of ice. "You do not believe me," he said, incredulously.

"I wish to have nothing to do with you or your family, Bennet, until I am forced into this travesty of a marriage," Darcy announced.

"I had no part of this!" Jamie hissed. He was livid now, anger clouding his judgment. "If only for Elizabeth's sake! Do you think I should want her to marry you?"

"Oh!" Darcy laughed outright. "No doubt you would not. It would be such a misalliance for your sister, Bennet! God forbid she should marry up!"

Jamie started and for a second, the two young men stood chest to chest, each eyeing the other meanly, not unlike two fighting cocks.

"I'll thank you to leave this subject alone," Jamie said, coldly. As if obeying, Darcy stepped back, hiding his eyes. Seeing that, Jamie felt his anger evaporate. It had never been his intention to fight with his best friend: if nothing else, he felt for the poor bastard. It was rotten of his father to do what he had done. He said, his tone gentle and meant to assuage and to calm:

"If you wish to talk about this... allow me to take Bess back to the house-"

"No matter, Bennet." Darcy's tone was still biting, and Jamie felt something inside him clench like a fist. "I've nothing to say that my future wife is not fit to hear."

"Your future wife," Jamie murmured, stunned by the venom in his friend's voice.

"As I said, Bennet. I wish to limit my dealings with my future relations, who are by now so repugnant to me, until I absolutely have to. I shall thank you not to talk about this in society. I wish to lead a normal life and have no desire to become a laughingstock."

"Darcy," Jamie said, a warning in his voice. "Take care what you say."

With a shrug and a superior grimace, Darcy ignored him and went on. "No-one needs to know that your father has palmed off his daughter on an unsuspecting fool. Who knows what people might think?"

Like a coil unwinding, Jamie flew to his feet. Grabbing Darcy by the shirt, he swung him around and slammed him against the tree.

"Will you stop talking this rot?" he asked through his teeth. "Do you think I want her to marry you?! Sink your bloody Pemberley, and your wastrel of a father together with it, and sink you most of all, you god-awful bloody idiot! "

Darcy did not take kindly to being touched, nor did he seem to like the substance of what was said. Pushing Jamie away with all his might, he lunged after him in turn. Jamie parried, bloodying Darcy's fist, and landed a heavy punch at his friend's shoulder. Another moment, and the two were swinging furiously at each other, snarling profanities into the bargain. A gentleman passing by might deduce from the accompanying conversation that one of the combatants, a rotten bastard, would be dammed lucky to have her, and that his counterpart, a goddamned lousy liar, hailed from a long line of frauds and swindlers.

Finally, in the heat of the battle, Jamie did become aware of something, someone grasping at him, pulling him back. He glanced, only to see Elizabeth, in stockinged feet upon the grass (clearly she had lost her other slipper somewhere). She had grabbed his tails and was yanking at them with all her insubstantial might.

She might have as well poured a bucket of ice water over his head. He released Darcy's shirt, stumbling back. Something trickled down the side of his face, and he wiped it with a back of his hand.

"I am sorry-Bess-" he murmured. "Dearest Bess!"

She let go of his coattails and stared at him, white-faced and trembling.

"You fools," she said, biting her lips, fighting her hardest to keep from bursting into tears. "You idiot fools, you both. Mr. Darcy," she said to the man in front of her (he was sitting on the grass now, gingerly touching his bruised cheekbone). "I do not wish to marry you, any more than you wish to marry me. I shall never force you-"

"Enough," he snarled, jumping back to his feet. The contusion on his cheekbone had grown an alarmingly purple hue. "I shall take no more of this drivel! If you are your father's daughter, Miss Bennet, you will not fail to grasp at the opportunity to make yourself rich! I take it that deceitful and avaricious natures are passed from parents to children."

Elizabeth shrank back, her valiant attempt at combating tears failing immediately. Thoroughly hurt by so grave and unfair a condemnation, she quickly wiped at the two clear rivulets streaming down her cheeks. Turning her face away and biting her lip, struggling-and failing-to hide her misery from her accuser.

Jamie rose and wrapped one arm around Elizabeth; immediately, she pressed her tear-stained face into his side, her shoulders jerking with the effort to keep quiet.

It is strange how quickly camaraderie crumbles, Jamie thought. He stared at Darcy, so pale and proud and somber, despite even his ruffled appearance and his bruised face, and it was as if he was looking upon a stranger. He had called Darcy cold: but it was merely a reflection of how poor a match he was for Elizabeth. He was cold compared to her; fundamentally, Jamie believed, he was as good a fellow as any. He had not thought-could not imagine-to see such cruelty in him.

"Sh-sh-sh," he whispered to Elizabeth, his fingers soothing on her shoulders and hair. "Sh-sh-sh, Bess. You need not marry him if you've no wish to."

Dark eyes flashed as she pushed away from his side. "I should rather die!" she cried hatefully. "You are the last man in the world I could possibly marry!"

Darcy said nothing to that, but his countenance expressed the deepest contempt. Jamie pulled Elizabeth back against his side.

"I have always thought you arrogant, Darcy, and rather princely at times. But I have never thought you cruel, nor did I think you a fool. 'Tis a cruel awakening to learn that you are both."

Darcy drew himself up, obviously furious at the insult. Holding up one hand, Jamie said, in the softest voice possible.

"Pray hear me out. You are correct, of course-we children take after our parents. But if deceit and avarice are passed from parent to child, then so are wastefulness and imprudence! You lay blame at the wrong door, Darcy."

"How dare you!" Darcy snapped. "Take care what you say, Bennet!"

"No-I have asked you to take care. You did not heed me. Now it is too late." He cradled Elizabeth tighter against himself, his voice never rising above the softest murmur; yet, there was a peculiarly eerie quality to it. "You have insulted me and my family, had behaved abominably towards my sister, who is but a child. You should have spared Elizabeth, if only because you, too, have a sister that someone might hurt one day. Sadly for us both, there seems to be only one way to teach you the proper address for your grievances." He raised his eyebrows, knowing that his meaning would not be misunderstood where it mattered.

It was not.

Darcy nodded, eyes narrowed. "Most certainly. I will expect to hear from you on that, Bennet."

"Soon as may be."

He turned sharply and walked across the green in large strides. Jamie watched him, absent-mindedly, his fingers still moving, instinctively, through his sister's hair. Finally, he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Come, Bess. Father worries about you. Come on home, darling. Find your shoes, Bess. Come on."

Clasping his sister's hand in his, Jamie Bennet strode across the green. Elizabeth's feet skidded on the grass, and she made little protesting sounds, well-nigh forced to run after her brother. Stomping furiously towards their father's apartments, Jamie seemed to pay her no mind. Finally, she caught his attention by yanking her hand out of his grip. He stopped and turned on one spot, glaring at her.

"What is the meaning of this, Bess?"

"Did you call him out there, under that tree?" she asked abruptly. He seemed lost, if only for a moment. He had not thought she would guess. But she eyed him meanly, arms crossed on her chest. "Do not think me stupid, Jamie!"

"I do not-" he began, and stopped, for it was precisely what he had thought: that she would not understand when their rowdy exchange had drifted into deadly civility. Her perception caught him off-guard. "Very well," he said stiffly and hurried to add: "But you are not to tell Father!"

"You are a fool!" Elizabeth said, a bitter grimace twisting her features. "Mr. Darcy will kill you!"

Jamie hastened to reassure his sister. "Have no fear, Bess," he said. "Maybe I shall kill him." He essayed an encouraging smile, only to have it shatter against the wall of stone in his sister's eyes.

"You do not amuse me, Jamie," she said grimly. "You know Mr. Darcy is an incomparable shot."

Jamie had to admit that there was a grain of truth to her words. Darcy, indeed, excelled at shooting; but then again, this was only a sign of his overall excellence, for he rarely did anything halfway. Jamie shivered a little inside, images of his own death intruding, for the first time, into his thoughts. But it was not in his nature to be afraid for himself; and so he sought to drive the dark thoughts away by comforting another.

"Lizzy, my heart," he said, kneeling next to her on the grass, putting his hands upon her shoulders. "You know I should never let him kill me. I should never leave you all alone."

He spoke with conviction, but she remained dubious.

"And what if you should kill him, indeed?" she asked resentfully. "What then? You should be jailed, banished!"

"But you would be free of him," Jamie said quietly.

"Freedom dearly bought!" she snapped. Suddenly, there seemed nothing more to say. For years, she would not admit to this; but already now, Elizabeth knew that Jamie's readiness to fight his best friend stemmed, in some measure, from his desire to bring to resolution this impossible deadlock.

"He is your best friend," she whispered incredulously. "You two have been thick as thieves ever since your first year-"

Elizabeth's words affected Jamie more than he could say. Unexpectedly, he felt lost, dreading what was to come, mourning the passing of a great friendship. Awash with grief and guilt. He took a deep breath, willed the tears to disappear.

"Perhaps he is," he said. "But I do not recognize a friend I have loved. I did not call out Darcy my friend, Bess. And if I did, if that man was my friend, then my friendship was wasted on him. If that man-that blackguard today was, indeed, my friend Will Darcy-then I have been blind these three years." He paused, biting his lip, clasping her hand in his. Having, in some small measure, taken control of himself, he said, "Be it as it may, Bess. I cannot let him abuse you. He must be taught a lesson." He looked, searching, in her eyes. "Do you understand, my love?"

Moved beyond words, the girl threw herself at her brother and wept. Quickly, Jamie picked her up, rising, and carried her towards their father's apartments, thankful that she could not see the tears that had welled up in his own eyes.

At their very doorstep, sensing the joyful commotion inside-for surely they had been spotted by Hill, or a maid, as he had carried her across the lawn--he held her aside and looked intently in her tear-stained face.

"Promise me," he said. "Promise me you will not tell Father."

She hesitated, dark lashes in clumps from weeping, lips trembling.

"Why should I?" she asked him, spitefully.

"Because you have never betrayed me," was his reply. She kept silent for a moment longer, and then she said, vehemently:

"Very well, but if you go and get yourself killed, I shall never talk to you again!"

Professor Bennet evidenced no emotion upon seeing his daughter safely returned to him. He said not a word to Elizabeth, which suited her perfectly, for she had no wish to speak with him herself. Therefore, the two parted their ways, Elizabeth ushered to her rooms and into a bath by a disapproving Hill, and the Professor returning to the correspondence that had been interrupted by Jamie and Elizabeth's return.

Jamie, on his part, remained certain that Elizabeth would not betray his secret. The last thing he needed was his father attempting to interpose himself between him and Darcy on the field of honor. Duels were not uncommon, certainly, and yet Jamie had no doubts that the Professor would be livid, had he found out. Most certainly he would attempt to prevent it, using all his leverage at Trinity.

But, for all her threats of exposure yesterday morning, Elizabeth had never informed their father of any mischief Jamie might have wrought. She had been witness to a considerable amount of it. Indeed, she could have made his life hell if she so wished. Yet, Jamie knew, his sister was a veritable safe when it came to keeping other people's secrets-an invaluable quality in one's sibling when one is bent on mischief. He trusted her like he trusted no-one else, not even Darcy. Perhaps an older woman might question the misplaced loyalty of silence at such a moment. But at the age of thirteen, Elizabeth would be absolute in her devotion to him.

He retired to his apartments, outside the walls of Trinity, reaching his door just as the sun rolled leisurely behind the horizon. It drowned the street in gold and porphyry, and for a moment, Jamie stood outside his door, greedily drinking the beauty of the sunset. Though not given to sentimental musings, he could not help wondering whether it was to be his last. He hoped not; he had never wanted to live quite so much as he did tonight. Once again, he willed the dark thoughts away. Sighing, he shook off his reverie, and went inside, wondering, with no small measure of apprehension, whether Darcy would be there. They were, after all, roommates as well as best friends.

He walked up the stairs, and fumbled with the key. It became apparent to him, straight upon entering, that Darcy had come and gone already-for some of his things were missing, most prominently-his rapier, which usually hung upon the wall. Jamie could bet his life that a black velvet box with Darcy's Manton dueling pistols (which he had never truly used) was gone as well. He knew that as the affronted party, he would have the choice of the weapons. He meditated a bit about the protracted bloodletting of the swords, as opposed to the clean, quick, efficient violence of the bullet. The choice was his. He could also choose the place and time of the duel. Yet he could not think of it, not now. The thought that he was about to meet his best friend across a dueling field was all of a sudden, all too real. Come tomorrow, he would shoot at Darcy, whom he loved like a brother, would kill him or be killed himself. Jamie shivered, the loneliness of his room excruciating, the waiting intolerable.

No more games now, he thought. He was not afraid, merely overwhelmed and deeply pained. Perhaps he could leave all the small decisions to his second, he thought, for he did not wish-could not bear-to dwell on them right now. He rose and paced around the room. Yes, he thought, a second. He needed a second. Someone to deliver his choice of the weapon, and the place of the assignation to Darcy.

He wondered whom he could ask to be his second. The first one to come to mind was, naturally, Darcy himself. Jamie laughed aloud at his folly. What an idiot he had been, what a wretched, miserable fool. His friend-his best friend-despised him, thinking him the lowest of the low. His father's perfidy had thrown a dark shadow upon him, and perhaps, Jamie could see the wrong Professor Bennet had done. But such was Jamie's nature that he did not apologize for those he loved. He would not grovel before Darcy, begging his forgiveness; would do nothing to prove his innocence where he had done nothing to make Darcy doubt it. After all, his friend already believed him complicit, guilty. It rankled Jamie more than he could say; but at the end, he could do nothing, would do nothing to change his friend's opinion of him. If it pleased Darcy to think him disloyal... well, then, so be it.

Thereupon, with a heavy heart, he sat down in front of his writing desk and penned a letter to young Lord Alex Gregory, a mutual friend of his and Darcy's, asking him to be his second. "Perhaps you might consider relaying these particulars to Mr. Darcy on my behalf," he wrote, already envisioning the amazement on the part of the recipient. But then again, he thought, it is always the closest friends who hate the fiercest. When he finished, the darkness had fallen behind the window. He posted the letter with a servant and settled into a gloomy silence, waiting for the answer. The only candle in the room soon sputtered and died, but he did not rise to light a new one. Darkness, inside and outside, suited him quite well.

Darcy had, indeed, visited at home; but he could not remain there, for he had no desire to run into Bennet. Nor did he wish to see his father, or the Professor; he did not return to Mr. Darcy's lodgings. As he had quit his own apartments, he was, at first, lost. Still, he rallied soon enough: there was but one place for him to go now, and thither he directed his weary steps.

It occurred to him, as he knocked at the door, that he might be intruding. In all likelihood, his friend Charles Bingley had family visiting as well. But he knew, all too well, that in matters of exigency, such considerations were moot. Hopefully, he would be forgiven. Still, he was relieved to see that he did not infringe upon a scene of family reunion (at least partly, for fear of meeting Bingley's simpering sisters, who were, he could swear, two of the most repellent adolescent females he had ever come across). Bingley's valet saw him in, casting a wary eye on the rapier sticking out from under Darcy's cloak.

"Please take a seat-" The valet began, but a voice carried down the hall:

"Is this Darcy? Just have him come in, Mannering!"

Darcy swept past the troubled-looking valet (who had tended to his Master since he was a boy of five and saw this nighttime appearance of a mysterious, cloaked and daggered Darcy, as a most worrying event. God knows to what misfortune it could lead), and was, a mere minute later, admitted to his friend's private chambers.

The owner of which, easily dressed and in stockinged feet, stopped his pacing across the rug. As the door opened, Bingley turned towards it and cried, rather impetuously:

"Jolly good, my friend, jolly good to see you here!" Charles Bingley was the same age as Darcy and Bennet, but at heart, a much greater child than either of them. Both friends had genuinely liked the fellow, despite the fact that they had failed, repeatedly, to corrupt him. Now he strode towards Darcy, holding out a piece of paper, covered with multiple lines of writing, not a single one of them completed. Some of the lines were crossed out, half-sentence, furiously scribbled out, as if the writer had felt overwhelming disgust with himself and his insipid verse. "Perhaps I could tap your incomparable eloquence and wit, Darce..."

"What is this?" Darcy took the piece of paper. He was still holding the box with the Mantons under his cloak, the pistols a solid, lethal weight, every ounce of it commanding absolute respect. Words tumbled down the page, in Bingley's schoolboy hand: "Miss Forester..." "...dear madam," "heart" and "dare hope." It was a love letter. "A billet-doux, Bingley?" A sardonic smile curved his mouth. "You are becoming a regular cicisbeo, I see."

Bingley blanched and quickly yanked the letter out of Darcy's hand.

"What on Lord's earth is the matter with you, Darcy," he muttered, scowling. "I find myself unable to put my heart on paper in words eloquent enough to show my-my-" He waved his hand, a hopeless gesture. "I wanted your help."

Seeing the emotion in Bingley's face, Darcy felt a quick stab of shame. He checked himself. Why had he spoken so callously? 'Twas most unlike him...but the imminent duel with Bennet weighed heavily on him, as did the ghastly news he had learned this day. It seemed ironic that Bingley should want his help with composing a love letter. Darcy could not imagine wanting to write a billet-doux, ever again.

"Forgive me," he said simply. "I am not myself today." Bingley's face softened a little. He thought to offer to proofread the letter, but that would be lying. He had come here on business, after all. He could not prance about, checking Bingley's love letters, full of clichés and misspellings. He opened his cloak and held out the Mantons.

Bingley's jaw dropped.

"Who?" he asked. "Who are you fighting?"

The challenge came in the morning. A very proper Lord Gregory appeared, bringing with him a letter from Bennet. How he knew where Darcy was staying, God only knew. All parties behaved with admirable politeness, concluding the matter within minutes. They would meet that same day, at six o'clock in the evening. Bingley had suggested waiting until the morning, but Darcy thought it inadvisable: he would not risk his father and the old Bennet finding out. If they had found out, surely they would act to prevent the duel.

Dead he would be, a laughingstock-never.

Of course, it remained to be seen who would die tonight. He was a better shot than Bennet, by far, could take a sparrow right out of the sky. He would manage, somehow, would force himself to see the man before him as just another bull's eye target-not as his friend, his companion of challenging days and wild nights. The thought of killing Bennet chilled him to the bones; but the thought of apologizing made him ill to the depths of his heart. He had done nothing wrong. If he was angry, it was justifiable. It was righteous anger, at the ill joke this whole-goddamn-family had played upon him. If he had spoken out of turn to Elizabeth, the little brat deserved worse. Impertinent little chit!

He would offer Bennet no apology. He could not believe that Bennet knew nothing of his father's insidious plans. Bennet knew everything, always. He was as shrewd and curious as a hawk flying high above. Nothing escaped his notice, or at the very least, his inquiry. Something deep inside him whispered that surely, Professor Bennet would guard such a secret most watchfully, and perhaps not even his clever son would know... After all, the voice said, unbidden, you knew nothing of your father's secrets... he swept those thoughts aside.

Perhaps, if Bennet offered his apologies first (for what? The voice murmured inside, he knew nothing!), perhaps then... but Darcy could not imagine that happening. Not after the way he had spoken to Bess.

So shall it be, he thought darkly. Bingley would be his second. The young man seemed a little shocked at the importance of such an office and spent that day reading, carefully, the Code Duello, murmuring to himself, "the seconds shall... the seconds shall..." He had never been anyone's second before. He would be meticulous, would insist on every single detail, every single propriety.

Darcy, leaving him to it, went to spend the day with Georgiana. He had no other attachments left. He had no wish to speak to his father. Certainly not to Professor Bennet. His classmates no longer mattered; he wished for no lady's company, intimate or friendly.

He found her with her nurse, walking the grounds, looking morose. Her parasol had a regrettable propensity to fall behind and drag on the grass. The nurse would stop and right it, and a moment later, it would tip backwards again. The girl made no effort whatsoever to keep it upright; by the time Darcy found them, the white lace edge of the parasol had acquired a grimy green hue.

Then, at the sight of him, she threw the thing behind her on the grass and ran towards him, tripping on her long skirts. Darcy took a step forward, stooped and gathered her quickly in his arms. It healed him, a little, to hear her exuberant laughter, and it also made his eyes sting with only a hint of tears. How unwilling he was to leave her!

Without asking permission, he took Georgiana away from the nurse. She dared not protest, though she looked mutinous. The brother and sister walked across the green, back towards the town. Darcy did a cartwheel for Georgiana's amusement, and she laughed and clapped her hands. He put his sister on his shoulders and walked like that, listening to her laugh. He was just tall enough, and she just small enough a child, to effect such a feet. Passerbys in the streets looked back at them, some smiling, some scowling in disapproval. At the confectionary, two pairs of eyes stared at the sweets laid out on the counter covetously.

"Nurse does not like me eating sweets in the middle of the day," Georgiana said bravely, testing her brother's goodwill more than anything.

"Nurse need not know everything," Darcy said, before buying an assortment of confections, nougats and sugared fruit. After that, they stood in a crowd, and he held her on his shoulders again, the better to enjoy a puppet show that went on in the square. On the draped stage above, two knights, one dark and one fair, fought to the death with wooden swords. Fought, as far as Darcy could see, for the privilege of courting a pretty painted princess, who fainted conveniently for most of the fight, but came alive as the villain received the obligatory coup-de-grace. Above, Georgiana laughed in delight. He held her tighter, hoping, fiercely, that this was not the last blithe afternoon he would spend with her. Finally, his arms and shoulders tired, he maneuvered his way out of the crowd and gently, slowly, let her down.

"Are you pleased, little one?" he asked her. She nodded, eagerly, quickly claiming his hand as they walked back towards Trinity. For the remainder of their walk, skipping next to him, she waxed poetic about how beautiful the princess was, and how brave her champion. Darcy managed to stay in the moment, the sun-spattered, beautiful, truly happy afternoon. Here was a being who loved him, would love him always, no matter what. He had not a shred of a doubt that Georgiana's heart would always be his, regardless of whether he remained in possession of Pemberley.

On the lawn, under a shady oak, they sat down and ate the forbidden sweets.

"Promise you'll not tell your nurse," he said. "For she will tell Reynolds, and she will skin me alive."

Georgiana threw an awed look at him; it had not occurred to her that you could hide things from the grown-ups. But the appeal of sharing a secret with her brother was far too great. She promised, fervently, that she would not tell.

"Will," she said. He looked down at her: she was nestling comfortably against his shoulder, looking sleepily up at him. His heart squeezed painfully at the sight of her.

"What is it, little one?" He gently moved a long golden tress out of her face.

"Today was the most wonderful day ever." Such conviction rang in her voice that Darcy knew: she was telling the absolute truth. He wondered how lonely she had been, alone at Pemberley.

"And for me," he said, seriously. He would talk to his father about finding her a better nurse; perhaps, about moving her to where he would be. He wanted to tell her about that, but felt her slump against him. She was fast asleep, leaning her forehead against his forearm.

He wrapped the remaining sugared plums and peach slices in a pristine handkerchief, and put it in his pocket. As he rose, Georgiana slipped onto the grass; quickly, he leaned to pick her up in his arms, and she did not wake, only sighed and murmured something angry in her sleep.

The sun was rolling towards the horizon as he took Georgiana to Professor Bennet's apartments. He was lucky to miss both the Professor and his father; instead, eyes narrowed, Georgiana's nurse stared at him furiously from a rocking chair in the corner of the girl's room, her disapproval at such liberties with a child's schedule palpable (She would dare say nothing to him, but she could glare). At the sight of them, she hurried to take Georgiana out of his arms, but he walked straight past her. He laid the sleeping child upon the bed, then stood for a moment, watching her. Her hair, matted gold draped across the pillow, shining majestically in the rays of a setting sun. The nurse knelt by the bed, taking off her shoes, and soon enough, Darcy was forced to quit the room.

He well-nigh run back to Charles Bingley's apartments.

Bingley was already dressed and waiting for him, pacing furiously up and down the room. The box with the Manton pistols stood open on the dining table, the metal gleaming menacingly in the light of the first candle lit tonight. It looked like Bingley had checked and rechecked the pistols more than once.

"Do not distress yourself so, my friend," Darcy said. "I shall not spoil your first duel by being unfashionably late."

Bingley said nothing to that, only threw him a glance which served to show Darcy that another word, and he would have the shy Bingley vying with Bennet for the right to put a bullet in his head. Darcy smiled darkly and squeezed his friend's shoulder.

The place for their meeting had been arranged by Bingley and Lord Alex Gregory. It seemed Jamie Bennet had impressed upon his second the need for absolute secrecy of the whole enterprise. The spot chosen, therefore, was a mere clearing in the woods, wide enough for two men to stand twenty paces away from each other. Not even Darcy himself had known where they were going. It was also agreed that Lord Gregory would bring with him a physician. Bring a clergyman, too, Darcy thought darkly.

"Shall I offer him an apology?" Bingley asked. They had taken his carriage, and it was not a new carriage, and not the most comfortable one. On the unpaved country road, it was positively a menace. Jumping up and down on the hard seat, Darcy felt as if all his bones had somehow disengaged and now flew about inside his body, every which way.

An apology. One did not offer an apology first, if one did not offend first. He had not offended first. Whatever harsh words he had said, whatever unkindness he had committed towards Elizabeth, it had come after the evil that was done to him. Bennet had lied to him, he must apologize first. That whole family had used him exceedingly ill.

"No apology, Bingley," Darcy said coldly.

Bingley sighed torturously. As the fateful moment neared, the considerable honor of being asked to second a duel had started to wane upon him. Now, it seemed that he would rather prevent a duel than second one. A kind heart, he could not bear to stand by and let carnage happen between his two friends.

"Will you at least accept his?"

"Yes," Darcy said. "If he offers it." He knew his adversary very well, better than Bingley did. Indubitably, Jamie Bennet was the most stubborn man walking this earth. No apology would be forthcoming. He sat back, hoping to God he would not get ill in this awful bone-shaking carriage. It would not do to embarrass himself. It would not do.

Much like the rest of his life, death-his own or his best friend's-had better be dignified.

Elizabeth Bennet had spent the afternoon pacing her room. They had locked her in here a day ago. She had barely slept last night, turning and twisting fitfully, her dreams full of monsters and loss. Then, having risen, she expected that orders to release her would come; but they did not, and so she paced, and paced, and paced. She had picked on her breakfast for a while, then set it aside, barely touched. Up and down and across she went, her mind in upheaval, her heart in confusion. She had prided herself on being a good and honest friend, trustworthy and loyal. She had never told on Jamie in all his exploits. At Longbourn one summer, she had stood by and watched as he let the pigs out of the pen, the biggest boar decorated with a purple plume and ribbons. She had heard him telling Darcy last year that he planned to "borrow" a full-size skeleton from the office of H.G. Herbert, the professor of physic, for the express purpose of dressing it up in robes and sitting it down in class, in place of his friend Thomas Smiles (out ill that day). She had seen him break a thousand rules, all in plain view of her, as if daring her to tell. She looked on, disapproving; but running to their father, so that she might report his insupportable behavior-that was far beneath her.

Besides, she had given him her word. Women, she heard, were called fickle. Elizabeth, for her part, did not see how and why women were more fickle than men. She refused to prove it true, and had never broken her word, given to anybody. Much less so, her word given to Jamie.

Hill, charged with watching her, lest she should escape again, had grown weary with her incessant striding up and down and across the room.

"Will you do something useful, Miss?" she snapped, finally. "Read a Psalm or two? Finish that screen you were covering the other day?"

Elizabeth marched up to the door and flung it open. Hill started from her chair, but Elizabeth stood in place, pointing:

"Out."

Hill's countenance expressed utter bewilderment. Planting her hands on her hips, Hill regarded the girl indignantly from above.

"Oh, very well, you ungrateful thing!" she cried, finally. "If you think I have nothing better to do than to sit here watching you!"

Thereupon, she quitted the room, very vexed. Elizabeth, turning away, heard the door slam, and then the key turn, locking her in. Coming up to the window, she looked down three stories, down to the flat stones of the courtyard. This was stupid of you, she thought. Now she is gone, and you will not get anyone to come here, not unless you scream and scratch the door until there is blood under your nails. She turned and paced some more. Hill had been correct: it was most unlike her to spend her hours so idly. Usually, she would read or trace her imaginary future voyages upon a large old atlas. But now, she could not sit still. Deep unease plagued her, keeping her attention on the duel that was to happen-when? Indeed, if she were to tell their father, what exactly would she tell him? She knew neither the place, nor the time of her brother's deadly rendezvous with Darcy. She swept the thought aside. She had given Jamie her word.

But as the hours passed, it began to dawn on her that it was not merely a childhood prank she was covering up. Jamie could get killed. Killed. The word echoed in her mind, hollow. For some time, she treated it like so: a mere compendium of letters, without meaning. Then, no longer able to evade the terrible truth, she forced herself to understand and accept what was too terribl