A/N: Thanks for checking out my first post! I'm currently working on three projects (all of them JAFF), but I'll only be posting one at a time for now. I welcome your thoughts feedback via comments or private messages. This is a first draft and I intend to treat it as such. :)

PLEASE NOTE: Because this story is a WIP, I would appreciate it if you would refrain from posting any reviews/ratings of this draft outside of FFnet to sites like Goodreads and other JAFF review forums. When the final edit is complete, this notice will be updated to reflect any changes in this policy. Also, please do not remove, share, or post this story or any part of it anywhere without my written permission. While this work is inspired by Jane Austen, the original story, writing, and any additional characters are entirely my own.

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xo brynn

PEMBERLEY LOST

A Pride and Prejudice Variation

Written by Brynn Ashley

PROLOGUE

"Farewell happy fields,
Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail."
– John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book I –

"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting!"

The sharp tone of his voice could have been described as disdainful, indignant, or even menacing as it cut through the air towards her. Indeed it would have been, had it been overheard by anyone other than the blanched young woman at whom such vitriol was directed. As it was, only the two of them would ever have reason to consider his manner of speech at present, and although both would think back on this day many times in the years that followed, neither would ever disgrace the recollection of their parting moments by describing his current disposition in such vulgar terms.

It was the flash of his eyes that would stay with her. At the moment she had refused him, an expression of such excruciating anguish had crossed his countenance that she had felt the shock herself. His eyes, so soft and temperate, had turned to coal. She did not trust her legs to carry her away from him, and so she could only watch as the two fierce embers heated, burned, and cooled before her. Yes, she had looked him in the eyes when she broke his heart. He deserved no less, after all. Still, the scorching display before her was quick to etch itself on the walls of her heart—and it would continue there long after the particular phrasings of his sentiments or the inflection with which they were delivered had faded.

She would often wish she had looked away. Perhaps it would have been better for them both if she had.

In the beginning, he would recall every detail, of course. There was little else for him to do. He would reflect at length on his preparations and expectations for the day, the incongruously fine weather as he had walked to the grove where they often met, and the first glimpse of her light form as she came around the bend. She had worn a pale pink gown that day and he had smiled at the sight of her, the color of her dress instantly bringing to mind the first apple blossoms of the season. It more than suited. But—he had conceded to himself—it hardly mattered what she wore, the lady herself was as vibrant as any spring.

Their paces had slowed until they stood facing one another at the edge of the path. He had searched her face then, hoping for some small glimpse, even the barest sign, of her true feelings. Though her surprise at his uncommonly solemn appraisal was evidenced by a delicate crease of her brow, she did not speak. But, of course, she had no need to. He had watched with satisfaction as a light blush crept across her exposed skin.

This was love.

In that moment, he had allowed himself to see and feel it all; her soft voice steady as she repeated the words which would leave them man and wife, the exhilarating sensation of her bare skin against his as he took her in his arms, the impish smiles of their many beloved and undoubtedly troublesome children.

And now he knew that none of it was to be.

As hours became days and days became weeks, he would consider his words and hers until he had thought on them so long that they almost entirely lost meaning. He would douse himself with brandy and be swept away by the current of increasingly bittersweet recollections—her sweet, soft lips, her airy laughter, her easy manners, her quick wit, her sparkling eyes. He would eventually spend days considering the few seconds of silence that had passed between them in that moment. It had seemed as though she had looked into his very soul. She had seen everything that he ever was or would ever be. And she had found him wanting.

But those thoughts came later.

At present, the words he unceremoniously spat forth stung them both as he raved. "I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, in such a manner of decidedly indifferent civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."

Her eyes welled with tears as she hesitantly sought to remove her own hand from where it was clutched between his. To her horror, his grip tightened and she found herself either unable or unwilling to repeat the action a second time. She bit her lip in an attempt to maintain her composure. The single tear which traced its way down the curve of her cheek was left to serve as his only response.

"Fear not, madam. I would not have you shed a tear for my part," he rumbled. "I have long been destined to play the fool, and you have certainly provided the opportunity most graciously."

She turned her head, forcing herself to evade the stricken glare she could feel sweeping her face. He pressed on, undeterred by her silence—daring her.

"Truly, my Lady, I am forever in your debt. Would I had ever known the true nature of love, but for you? Certainly not! For I am ill-fitted to mercenary schemes or idle attachments. If not for you, I would have remained in ignorance of my own purpose—to play the fool. To love where no love can be returned. To cast myself at your feet, offering my very soul as payment for all I would gladly give to you freely, only to be cast off as a beggar. How should I ever repay you for delivering such a destiny, my love? It seems I have nothing that can tempt you."

He laughed then, but it was like no sound she had heard from him before. Gone was the throaty chuckle which had caused her to catch her breath so frequently when in his company. In its place was a sound she could only assume would better befit an injured animal.

"Desist!" she seethed, pulling her hand forcefully from his grasp. She cast a fiery glare in his direction, but she did not quite meet his eyes. White hot rage coursed through her very veins now. To think this was easy for her! To think she wanted this life! He, with all of the opportunities and advantages of a man, to think she had any choice at all!

"You have had your say, sir. And now I would have mine."

To her great relief, the gentleman did as instructed. Yet despite her indignation, she suddenly found herself in a rare condition of speechlessness. As much as she felt she might like to admonish him, punish him, or tease him—she could not bring a single word to mind!

He waited. She paced. Somewhere, a bird sang. Their eyes met. He waited. She paced. Neither could say how long they remained so engaged, but as he pressed his lips to hers in confirmation of an unspoken truce, words soon became unnecessary, and all but the strongest feelings were swept away by the cool breeze which fell upon them.

When the need for speech returned some time later, they found themselves seated together on a nearby fallen log. As she reclined against him, he pulled a small golden coin from its place in his coat pocket and ran it across the tops of his practiced fingers before her. She smiled at the sight of it, as he knew she would. They had tossed this same half-guinea often in their many years together; to settle childhood disagreements, elect a leader to appeal to cook's better nature, or to decide upon the course of their afternoon activities—and in one heartily mischievous moment from their fifteenth year, he had chanced to wager a chaste kiss in the formal gardens behind her father's house. He had won the touch of her lips and lost his heart to her in the space of a single breath. To think that such simple coin could purchase a treasure of memories!

"You will marry him then," he delivered flatly, the coin still dancing across his hand.

"Go on then, dearest," she replied with a laugh. "Ask our friend if you must." Though they both knew her answer, she would play along.

"Call your lot then, my Lady."

"I should think you would rather call yours," she quipped, pressing a soft kiss into his empty palm. He could not have kept the smile from his countenance if he had tried.

"And right you are, as ever," he grinned, pulling her deeper into his embrace. "Heads for your heart then, my love. Heads being the only choice for such an intelligent, accomplished, handsome, and enchanting woman… Especially one impertinent enough to insist upon the inclusion of such qualities in any description of her person, of course."

She could only laugh again in response to his melancholy jest, and she felt his familiar chuckle rumble against her for a final time before they were both silenced by the quick flip of the coin, which, as expected, soon revealed the upturned face of Queen Anne. It was fortune's folly that the heretofore fortuitous coin had landed once again in his favour—as it so often did—when they both knew that it meant nothing.

Heads or tails, she would still not be his. Heads or tails and she would still never consent to away with him to Gretna Green or anywhere else he had repeatedly beseeched her to consider. Heads or tails and the future he had allowed himself to imagine would forever remain a fruitless dream. It was but another diversion, another game—just as his proposal had been. Pretty words meant to distract them from their true and doubtlessly divergent paths, if only for a moment. Heads or tails, he knew the truth as well as she. None of it could ever be.

He bent his head into the hollow of her shoulder as he closed his fingers around the coin's decidedly grim visage—gently at first, reverently. He did not notice the rough ridges cutting into his skin until she placed her smooth hand atop his to still him.

"Leave with me," he murmured into the base of her neck, setting off a familiar tremor in her belly. She knew that the words sprang more out of habit than any serious request. As he had long known better than to await any affirmative response, he busied himself with dropping soft kisses onto her exposed skin. He moved slowly with the knowledge that they must be among their last. Against his own better judgement, he allowed one final plea to escape his lips as he continued his ministrations. "Leave with me, my darling girl, and you shall want for nothing. I swear that I shall love you all the days of my life, no matter where you lay your head. But I would much rather you laid it with mine."

"You know I cannot," she pleaded. "I would no sooner refuse my duty than regret you."

She stiffened slightly, and he endeavored to persuade his heart to accept its fate. It was not his first attempt, nor would it be the last. Eventually, he would cease trying. Still, he allowed the moment to settle on them both before continuing. It would not do argue any longer.

"Fickle woman," he relented at last. "I love you still."

Her small voice was almost a whisper now, though he knew enough of her to anticipate her reply even if she had kept the words to herself.

"As I love you, my dearest. Always."

For the moment, he felt at peace. He would bask in it as long as he could, though he knew it could not be for long. He had always known it might come to this, but he had hoped against all odds that it would not—that her father would see more than just the idealistic son of a country squire when he looked at him, that she might not attract the interest of any gentlemen too wealthy or too well connected for her father to refuse, that the luck of a single golden half-guinea would be on his side forever.

But it was not to be, and he knew it would not be long before all loving remembrances of his one true love were lost to him forever. Indeed, they were to be replaced all too soon by torturous fantasies of what he knew to be a less worthy man's wife.

"Always, my love," he echoed. "Always."

x x x

CHAPTER ONE

"Me miserable! Which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Whichever way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And in the lowest deep a lower deep,
Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,
To which what I suffer seems a heaven."
– John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book IV –

Tuesday 21 April, 1812
London

"Impossible woman!"

The towering figure of a young man stalked the length of the room, his pace emboldened by the equally involuntary and onerous recollections which raged within. His thunderous steps and frequent exclamations disturbed the usual solemnity of his grand study so much so that his butler, Mr. Maxwell, was compelled to look in on him. In return for his consideration, Maxwell found himself greeted with an unwelcoming scowl which twisted across his master's otherwise fine features. Maxwell, who was as wise, polite, dutiful, courteous, loyal, and ancillary as his position demanded, was above all other things, quite sensible. Sensible enough, that is, to immediately turn from the room and leave his master to his demons.

Once aware that his own features were safely concealed in the shadows of the great hall, Maxwell pressed his back to the stately door and rolled his eyes, thankful that none of the lower servants would glimpse the evidence of his own growing displeasure with master Darcy. He knew not what business, person, or circumstance had left his master in such an ill temper over the past fortnight, and although he did not necessarily wish to, he could not help himself from lamenting the master's own impossible behaviour.

Master Darcy had rarely slept, eaten, or indeed sat still for ten minutes all-together since his unceremonious return from Rosings Park. Despite Maxwell's best efforts, the master seemed in a constant state of agitation. Most of the gentleman's time was spent ensconced in the study, where he would alternate between aimlessly milling about the room or urgently anticipating the completion of some mundane task that would doubtlessly go unfinished. Whether he decided to write a letter before ultimately giving up the practice in favor of a long walk through the halls, sat down to read a book before storming off to stare menacingly out a nearby window, or requested his business correspondence in such haste that Maxwell arrived near dripping with perspiration–only to discover that his master had entirely lost interest in the matter—it was all for naught. Maxwell did not believe the master had finished a single task he set out to accomplish in the weeks since his return—unless of course one counted the several bottles of brandy and port he had consumed amongst his efforts. Surely he had completed an overwhelming number of those.

A loud thud resounded from the opposite side of the door, followed by several intermittent, softer thumps that Maxwell assumed to be books falling from the shelves. He sighed, supposing he would have a full day of work tomorrow—what with the master's burgeoning penchant for disarray and the likely need to air the room in the morning. In all his twenty years in service, Maxwell had never felt a fortnight lasted so long. It was all he could do to continue masking his irritation with solemn nods and tight-lipped smiles while he appeased himself with what were rapidly becoming fond memories of young master Darcy's childhood spankings.

A new sound, something like metal clattering to the floor, struck Maxwell where he stood. With a groan, he straightened his coat, schooled his features, and made his way below stairs in anticipation of a long conversation with the housekeeper. Mrs. Norris would not be best pleased with the growing number of assignments necessary for her maids to complete in the morning, but for now, it could not be helped.

"Impossible indeed," scoffed Maxwell as he made his way to the paneled staircase–unaware but likely unsurprised that the young man on the other side of the study door continued to proclaim sentiments which were very much the same in parlance though perhaps not in perception.

After all, he was a sensible man.

xxx

"Impossible indeed!" Darcy sneered at his imaginary companion, whom he assumed to be seated across from himself in the high backed chairs near the fire. He raised a half-empty glass to the flames in a mock toast, his movements so abrupt that he nearly spilled the remainder of its contents across the fine Axminster carpet under his feet.

Impossible woman. Impossible reply. Impossible.

He had applied a great number of other descriptors to the lady in question in the several hours which had preceded this moment—most of which were decidedly less flattering than impossible. By now, he had ruminated at length through a veritable lexicon inspired by her character, her person, and her thoroughly exasperating expressions. Foolish, vexing, headstrong, unfeeling, simple, vain, ill-favoured, vicious, and hateful had all had their day, and he was at last struck by the futility of it all. Try as he might, none of them seemed to fit her, nor did they do his feelings any justice. Eventually, he had settled on impossible, not only because it so accurately depicted her own behaviour, but because it also reflected his own inability to reflect on the situation he now found himself in with any degree of clarity.

"Impossible," he mouthed again, shaking his head at the latest recitation of his newly adopted mantra. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair and allowed his head to sink into his palm. He closed his eyes, the bottom of his glass tapping quietly against the arm of his chair. This most recent attempt to divert his thoughts, much like the others, was proving inadequate. Try as he might to conjure an appropriate synonym for mendacious, the only word which currently came to mind was beguiling—an infuriatingly polysemantic descriptor which fit certain other aspects of her person all too well, and encouraged an altogether unwelcome shift in the direction his thoughts tended. It was infuriating. Though he could not stop himself from thinking of her, he had found some small victory in his ability to focus his attentions on her less estimable qualities. Few as they were, the garish spectres of her vulgar mother, occasionally soiled petticoats, and her callous, nonsensical misrepresentations of his own esteemable character were soon replaced by a flood of decidedly more tender recollections. They rose up inside him despite the mechanisms he designed for his distraction or the self-induced fog which clouded his mind—unbidden, unwanted, and impossible to escape. Her bright eyes laughing at him across a crowded assembly room, her pursed lips struggling to contain a smile, the soothing scent of lavender rising from her soft curls, her graceful movements as they danced at Netherfield, the feeling of her warm hand in his.

He leaned his head back against the chair with a grumble and took a long sip from his glass.

The turn of her countenance as she aired her many grievances against his character.

He kicked back his head and finished his drink with a flourish. Huffing softly to himself, he reached for his decanter and proceeded to fill his glass. He could not remember how many times he had repeated the action this evening, but it was no matter. Whatever the sum, it was clearly not yet high enough. Though he had never been overly fond of spirits and certainly cursed his inability to direct his thoughts without the aid of drink at present, he could not help feeling grateful for the sense of numbness which would eventually overcome him. Fitzwilliam Darcy was not accustomed to wallowing, and the brandy helped.

Sinking back into his chair, he gulped as much of the amber liquid as his body would allow. Soon, his mind was much more agreeably engaged indeed, guiding his meditations from the very great displeasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.

Instead, he thought of his chair.

And a very fine chair it was!

Instead of the impossibility of the indomitable, tenacious and entrancing Elizabeth Bennet, he preferred now to think of the words he would use to describe his chair, for it would surely be a better use of his time. Grand, expensive, and comfortable came to mind. Fashionable, too, which a chair ought to be if it could. Who could find fault with such a noble accoutrement? A very agreeable chair it was indeed! He had many such chairs, of course, in a variety of shapes, sizes, patterns, and colours. His enviable position as master of Pemberley allowed him ample access to an array of comfortable, fashionable, and valuable furnishings. He was sure she had none so fine.

In fact, he could hardly remember a comfortable moment spent at Longbourn! In what sort of seat did she find herself at this very moment? Was she haphazardly attending to her embroidery atop some shabby artifact pulled from the dregs of her father's ancestral hand-me-downs? Whatever she rested upon, it should have been consigned to the fire some years ago, no doubt!

"Hardly worth its weight in kindling," he assured his invisible companion. Yes, wherever she was, in her rickety seat which likely creaked as the sat and whose cushion was rubbed nearly threadbare, perhaps offering her backside a sharp edge now and again—which he could not regret—she was likely far less comfortable than he was at present. He smiled cheerlessly, the thought giving him some small joy.

Yes, she was likely very ill-settled indeed, shifting her weight atop some derelict heirloom in some drab sitting room in a small country town no one had ever heard of and were unlikely to ever hear of again now that she was so far removed from his own excellent company! He found that he enjoyed imagining her physical discomfort. If she were impertinent enough to remain comfortable in her opinion of him, his character, his addresses—he winced—well, he would fill his imagination with thoughts of her low connections and abysmally deficient wares. In fact, he would buy new chairs as soon as he returned to Pemberley, he told himself. He would fill his rooms with them, and everyone would agree that he had the most comfortable and wholly agreeable furnishings in all of Derbyshire.

He took another long sip and congratulated himself on his fine accoutrements as well as his ability to think on anything other than Elizabeth Bennet.

"–had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.''

He groaned. There they were again. The words that haunted him.

He closed his eyes and sank into his—well, miserable and overly-extravagant chair, rather incensed by its luxury. He let the echoes come as they would and tried to ignore the tortured feeling which grew within his gut.

Despite his efforts, he could hear her strained voice clear as day and nearly make out the fire in her eyes when she spoke.

"From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."

Not for the first time, Darcy cursed his excellent memory.

He took a shaky breath and braced himself for what was to follow. She had certainly been comfortable in her opinion of him then, likely as comfortable as he had been in anticipating her reply to his offer of marriage.

When his vision of the future had shattered before him, he had sought a way, any way, to regain his equilibrium. He had no hope for a reversal of her deeply held feelings and erroneous beliefs regarding the many apparent evils of his character. But, he admitted to himself, he could not bear to think that she was alive in the world and thinking ill of him. Or, at the very least, supporting such ill considerations of him with facts he knew to be untrue. And so, there had been a letter. That wretched letter, from which he could expect no reply!

He knew he could not defend himself with regards to her sister. In part, he still had no wish to. Despite what she or any other Bennet thought in Bingley's best interest, he remained of the mind that his friend could certainly do better for his choice of wife. Still, it was not his opinion on this score which mattered. If Bingley preferred a beautiful yet destitute wife with no connections to speak of, he was welcome to her. Bingley's situation in life was, of course, well and above that of the Bennets—despite the draw of a small country estate and what even Darcy assumed was a family lineage of at least an adequate length. As it was, Bingley was wealthy enough for ten Bennets together. When paired with the acquisition of a tolerable estate, his recent investments and inheritance would certainly increase his standing amongst the mothers and daughters of the ton.

Darcy was well aware of the fact that, given the entertainments of the day, far too many young gentlemen of name and consequence had little else to live on—leaving the wealthy sons of tradesmen free reign to woo their sisters, daughters, and the women that would have been their wives. Twenty years ago, a match with Bingley would have very well been regarded as reprehensible to the whole of London society. Today, he would be considered by some, if not a catch, at least a reasonable option for those inclined to fill family coffers depleted by a deluge of noble debts.

Yet, if Bingley were to forgo the lure of societal connections and choose a pretty face and a serene disposition, Darcy could hardly blame him. Bingley was affable to a fault. He deserved to love where he chose.

Darcy slung a long leg over one side of his chair and absentmindedly drummed his fingers against his thigh, propping the arm that held his glass atop a bent knee. He took a slow sip and swallowed hard against the rising burn in his chest.

Love had never been a consideration for Fitzwilliam Darcy. Love, or something like it, had never been a consideration for anyone in his family, as far as he knew. The first consideration was always the Darcy name. Next, the opportunity to grow the Darcy fortune. The Darcys had always married well, and they had much to show for it. Darcy himself had made a number of profitable investments, and he congratulated himself—not unduly, he believed—on being one of the most revered landowners in all of England. He would pass the Darcy wealth down the Darcy lineage, providing for the sons and daughters of Pemberley, their sons and daughters, and so on, thus fulfilling the promise his name had made to his ancestors on his behalf. With so many Darcys depending on him, including the dead or not yet living, love was barely a passing thought. He was sure many of his line had liked each other well enough, and perhaps even one or two had found a love match, but such partnerships were far from the rule and it would be a reach to even consider them an exception.

And yet, he had hoped, had he not? He had hoped for perhaps even longer than he knew. Was he not eight and twenty? Had he not given every thought to the importance of making a good marriage? He was not set against the idea of marrying for duty. Hardly so, as he was not inclined by nature to converse with or entertain the whims of strangers of either sex. He had long since believed that if he were to marry at all, an arranged marriage might save him time and no little trouble. It was a thought he had often considered sensible until he had spent any great length of time in the marriage market of town.

Must they all be so decidedly unbearable? Had he not considered daughter upon daughter of the ton, only to find them wanting, in some aspect or another, enough to conclude that he could not marry them? Tall, short, trim, plump, primped, dark, freckled, and fair. They each claimed some command of the modern languages, sang, sketched, embroidered all manner of useless objects, danced, demurred, flattered, and flirted without fail. It would require a small army to keep any of them perfectly coiffed and in good company, but the thought that he might have to spend any length of time seeing to such a woman's entertainment had sent his gut churning. Worse, they bored him. And so, he had stopped trying to justify his actions when it came to marriage, or rather, his lack of interest in the institution. He had told himself he had plenty of time. He had told himself that he had more important and pressing responsibilities that were of interest to him; his estate, his sister, his club, his holdings. The list went on and on.

A new thought struck him.

Had he been waiting for love?

Had he been waiting for… Elizabeth Bennet?

Oh dear—No. Certainly not! He could hardly be so… Well, it was impossible.

He reached back to the side table where he knew the answer to his many questions was stowed. Pulling the top off the bottle, he poured himself a portion of brandy large enough to account for an entire night of his usual consumption–prior to his departure from Rosings, at any rate.

With a sigh, he resolved to push thoughts of love, and especially any warm feelings relating to Elizabeth Bennet, far from his mind. In order to do so, he employed the next item on his list of sins against Elizabeth Bennet and the only remaining tool he had to turn his thoughts away from her—his equally disagreeable musings on the topic of George Wickham.

He took a thoughtful sip from his glass and—What had he just been thinking of? He pinched his brow between his fingers and tried to remember anything but Elizabeth.

Mr. Wickham. Darcy's eyes narrowed. Yes, Wickham would do.

He stood rather too quickly and sauntered to his desk in order to obtain the latest evidence of the thorn in his side which was his father's godson.

It had been sometime during the first three or four days of his self-imposed banishment to Darcy House when he had received news of Wickham's latest exploits, or to be more specific, his latest ruined shopkeeper's daughter and his soon-to-be latest abandoned child.

The news was not as surprising to Darcy as it once had been. He supposed such an acknowledgment should distress him. However, this time, he found himself unable to summon the strength to care. Instead, he moved through the motions, having become reasonably familiar with them in the five years which had followed his father's death and left him responsible for the same services that George Darcy had employed in his godson's interests.

Darcy had written up the note to send to his solicitors entirely from memory. He did not wait for a response and he did not anticipate receiving one. He knew what would follow. A small sum would be set aside for the woman and her child. A distant country cottage would be obtained in the interest of shielding the woman's confinement and preserving what few tatters of her reputation remained. Once delivered, the child would either go to the woman's family, should they have any interest in taking such a burden on, or be placed with another of his solicitor's choosing. The woman would return to her home with enough money to purchase some second-rate husband's respect, or she would find a position where no one could be aware of her shameful secret. Darcy knew not and did his best to avoid thinking on it.

It was from such a fate Darcy had thought to save Elizabeth Bennet when he had written to her. He told himself that he had written what he had only to warn her of Wickham's true nature. He had told himself that, despite her feelings towards him—or his towards her, for that matter—it was his duty to impress upon her that he was not so devoid of feeling or character as to allow Wickham's sins to go unchallenged in Hertfordshire. If putting his history with the man in question on paper had the resulting effect of redeeming some small part of her opinion of him, he would not concern himself with it.

The object of delivering the letter to Elizabeth Bennet, he congratulated himself once again, was to avoid the appearance of another missive similar to the one he had just received from his solicitor. A letter which would reach his house, sit atop his desk as he drank the night away, and inform him that the sum of some odd pounds was requested in order to provide for the child of George Wickham and a Miss Elizabeth Bennet, formerly of redeeming some, Hertfordshire.

He would never see Elizabeth again, of that he was certain. He would likely never even hear her name again—which he assumed must be preferable to hearing of her future engagement, marriage, or children. Still, it was this fate that he most wanted to avoid—seeing her name next to Wickham's on a scrap of paper in his study. He had thought her a better judge of character before their meeting at Hunsford, but after their… conversation, he could no longer be sure. In the end, he had decided that it was best she be informed. As Fitzwilliam had mentioned nothing to him on the subject during their return voyage to town, he had no idea if she had given any credence to his assertions—or, for that matter, if she had even broken the seal of his letter at all. It was this final point which vexed him above all others.

He took a slow drink and considered his actions should he ever receive the ultimate proof that she had done neither. What if his warnings went unheeded and Elizabeth Bennet paid the ultimate price for placing her trust in the wrong man? Would she sink so low? He would pay, of course. And what else? Would he go to her? Berate her? Provide for her? Despise her?

He knew not, and he prayed he never would.

Another swallow from his glass and he resumed the business of not thinking about Elizabeth Bennet. The effort was beginning to make him feel rather befuddled, but given the alternative, befuddled would have to do.

Back to Wickham, then.

For years, he had paid George Wickham's gambling debts in much the same way as he now provided for the women and children he cast aside. Even after Wickham had refused the living and been granted the sum of 3,000 additional pounds above his initial inheritance, he continued to mount debts and have them delivered to Darcy. He had paid them for years, faithfully discharging his father's regular duties to the man they all knew to be his favoured, though unrelated, son.

It was different after Georgiana, of course, but try as he might, Darcy still fought to reconcile the two Wickhams in his head and heart. When he returned from Ramsgate, Darcy had taken up the long overdue task of addressing Wickham's debts and the strains they placed on him. He had sent word to Wickham's collectors—at least those he had already been made aware of—and informed them that all current and future debts should be charged direct to George Wickham, of an address he knew not, but which was certainly not at Darcy House of London or Pemberley of Derbyshire. He did, on occasion, continue to buy up some of Wickham's debts, having long considered the option of having Wickham transported or sent to a debtor's prison. Still, each time he found himself on the verge of doing so, he remembered the mischievous boy with the bright eyes and the lopsided grin. He remembered the boy who had brought a smile to his mother's face and eased his father's pain after her loss.

Darcy sank back into his chair with a sigh, placing the latest letter confirming Wickham's artful deceptions beside his nearly empty decanter. He poured himself another glass and raised his feet up to meet the chair across from him. His imaginary friend had been supplanted by memories of what had seemed, for a time, to be a very real one.

He and George had been raised more like brothers than mere neighbors or unlikely friends from such disparate stations. They had played together in the groves of Pemberley, learned to hunt, fish, shoot, and swim. George had listened to all his boyhood secrets, teased him and laughed with him, and been there as he grieved the loss of his beloved mother. Foolish as it might have been, Darcy had always longed for the return of the young man he remembered. He had wished, rather than believed, that George—no, Wickham—had it in him to become that boy again. Even as a child, Darcy's reticent nature had made making friends difficult at best, and he had relied on Wickham's easygoing and affable manners to lead the way. He had confided in him, trusted him, loved him as a brother for all of his life, even when his behaviour had turned towards the libertine.

He, like his father, had looked away.

After all, George Darcy had never seemed particularly bothered by his godson's activities, preferring to see them as a series of youthful indiscretions that would soon be outgrown. It wasn't until much later that Darcy came to realize Wickham's behavior had won out over his character, rather than the other way around. He could not pinpoint the precise moment when the realization first struck him, but he believed it had likely coincided with the time he had discovered Wickham and Miss Ellen Ramsell, the only woman Darcy had ever thought himself in danger of loving, in an exceedingly compromising position. Even then, Darcy found it pained him more to lose respect for his near-brother than to lose the hope for a future with a woman he had briefly considered himself in love with. Now, nearly six years later, the wound caused by Wickham's defection continued to plague him more than he liked to admit to himself. What else was he to do? And so, he had continued paying the debts his wayward friend left in his wake and caring for the children he abandoned.

Lost in his musings, he failed to notice that he was no longer alone in his study until his untimely visitor was nearly upon him. In fact, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had burst through the door with great fanfare some moments earlier and was feeling quite put out to have been so egregiously overlooked. In an act of retribution, he raised his cane below his cousin's outstretched legs and knocked them from their perch, nearly landing Darcy on the floor in return.

"Really, old man. You've made quite a habit of being half in your cups when I come to call. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were drinking to make my company more tolerable."

"Go away, Richard."

The Colonel replied in his customary manner—with a wide grin and a wink. Darcy scowled.

Reaching for the decanter, the Colonel's hand stopped in midair as he noticed the solicitor's letter resting on Darcy's side table. He frowned as Darcy held it up for his inspection.

Well, the Colonel thought to himself. At least I seem to have discovered the reason for Darcy's black mood of late. With a shake of his head, he sought to attend to the ill tidings the letter contained. It did not take long for his own mood to turn.

"Again? After everything?" The Colonel huffed in disgust and sank into the empty chair across from his cousin. "Really, Darcy, you have to stop cleaning up after him. You're not his nursemaid."

"I don't pretend to be, Richard. But something must be done."

Darcy exhaled slowly and closed his eyes while his cousin considered him.

Something must be done indeed, the Colonel agreed silently. He let a long moment pass before he continued.

"Of course something must be done, and if you would let me call him out as I should have done last summer, we could be done with it for good."

Darcy only shrugged in response.

"Calling Wickham out would help Georgiana no more than it would any of these women, their children, his collectors, or me, for that matter."

Fitzwilliam let out a sharp guffaw at this, while inwardly acknowledging the truth of his cousin's statement. "So what is to be done then? We continue to feign ignorance and allow him to leave half of England ruined in his wake? You're a wealthy man to be sure, cousin, but I suspect even you will have a hard time feeding his wards once they outnumber the whole of the Darcy family tree."

Darcy waved him away. "Yes, something must be done. But not tonight," he sighed. "Tonight I have more pressing concerns."

"More pressing than Wickham?" Fitzwilliam made no attempt to hide his surprise and Darcy attempted to recover from his blunder.

"Business."

"Business?"

"I have said as much, Richard." Disguise of every sort may have been Darcy's abhorrence, but he could not and would not open any more of himself to Richard's inspection. Not tonight. He would rather think of chairs. Or perhaps sofas.

Colonel Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes and thrust out a polished boot, kicking his cousin soundly in the shin.

"If you refuse to speak any more on whatever sort of business concerns you, I can only hope that you come to your senses and tell me before it drowns you in your own brandy. However, I refuse to let you sit around in this stupid manner, drinking yourself into oblivion and attempting your best impersonation of Elliot Hurst. You will come out with me tonight."

"I will not."

"Come cousin. You are too young to drink your past away and too old to sit here moaning like a child. Also, your club is much more comfortable than mine." A familiar smirk crossed the Colonel's face then, though Darcy did his best to divert his attention by drawing out a fresh decanter of brandy. "You have the added misfortune that I am well aware that your credit at White's well exceeds my yearly allowance."

Darcy said nothing, but his cousin pressed on regardless. "Think of it as a compromise, for if you sit here any longer I will be forced to press you on the nature of your business matters." He bent forward in his seat and motioned towards the fresh bottle with an outstretched hand.

In response, Darcy closed his eyes and reclined his head against the back of his chair, willing his cousin to disappear.

"So cousin," Colonel Fitzwilliam said brightly, "what is her name?"

With a grunt, Darcy raised himself to his feet. Gesturing towards the door, he directed what he hoped was a withering look at his formerly favorite cousin.

"I will ring for Maxwell."

"An excellent choice!"

Half an hour later, Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam found themselves somewhat comfortably ensconced in Darcy's regular table at White's, though one was admittedly much more comfortable than the other, perhaps owing to the very different matters on which their minds were engaged. For his part, Colonel Fitzwilliam continued to speculate on the true cause, or rather identity, of his cousin's present distress—when he was not otherwise occupied with cards, or drink, or conversation, that is. As for Darcy, he would spend the majority of his evening regretting his decision to leave the relative shelter of his study. He was not fit for company and he wished he had stayed home.

Unfortunately, this would soon prove to be the most sensible thought Fitzwilliam Darcy had had in weeks.