"What's this!" cried Mrs. Maguire upon sight of a dozen or more upper and lower servants gathered at the massive second floor window overlooking the front lawn. "Those who wish to keep their position have ten seconds to get back to it!"

"But m'um," chirped one of her chambermaids, "here come two carriages up the lane!"

"And we'll see to them, won't we? You get on with your work, Lottie Barnes. I ought to sack every last one of you, and don't think I won't the next time!"

Mrs. Maguire was just about at her wit's end with the increased insolence of the staff over the course of a certain someone's prolonged visit. There was none other to blame than that shifty rascal of a Lord and his determination to be a bother, always roaming about the halls at odd hours, disrupting the day's work for the telling of bawdy jokes, speaking French with the cook, and ridiculing Miss Baxter when he weren't barking orders at the poor woman. He antagonized the master, worried the mistress, and upset the children. He made them all laugh as well, but in that devilish sort of way that ought to repel the likes of her good employers. Lately it had felt as if the whole household had been flipped back to front with that man's presence. He was nothing but trouble, a real pest, far too vulgar and aloof for one so highborn, not at all gentlemanlike as the master. Why on earth an ill-bred rogue like him should be endured for this long she would never know, and would continue rebuking the outlandish tales bouncing from one worker's tongue to the next. With every faith in the Darcys' good judgment, she reckoned the whole arrangement must have everything to do with his low and sickly state having touched their bountiful Christian hearts.

As the guilty band of gawkers dispersed in haste, Mrs. Maguire turned to the one servant who had not budged from the glass. "Mr. Fleming, please come away from there; don't make me report you to Mr. Bridges. Why he would be even crosser than I am! And what would the master think to see his own man—"

"Thornhaugh won," whispered Fleming, his riveted gaze still fixed to the front lawn spectacle below. "Thornhaugh won the challenge."

Her annoyance climbed higher, tempted as she was to take more than a peek herself. "Are you not a professional, Mr. Fleming? Nearly two decades of service with not a blemish to your name, and now—"

"The carriages! Look!" He pointed and shook, like an eager youth at the circus. The behavior shocked her, for never had she seen any valet—let alone Mr. Fleming—in a state dissimilar to that of strict adherence to his occupation. "The carriages have stopped!"

"Blast! I must go and alert Mr. Bridges. We were not expecting more arrivals—"

Fleming shushed her with, "Not at the house, ma'am, but up the lane, nearer to the scene. The front carriage's driver is stepping down to get the door. Two ladies—no, three ladies are stepping out. Come and look."

"Certainly not!" She cried adamantly, squeezing her hands together tightly as if to crush the discomposing curiosity. "What ladies?"

Fleming answered first with an account of their ornate but immodest attire made of glistening satin and sparkling ornaments, the handsomely adorned matron of the trio a good ten years older than her two striking though less refined companions. He went on to describe one of the beauties as having a long Grecian neck and raven ringlets, the other like a living doll with her porcelain white skin, blonde curls, ruby lips and ample bust.

That clenched it. Mrs. Maguire rushed to confirm the appalling sight. My God, thought she, surely this party fits better in a high-end bawdyhouse than Pemberley's front lawn. She made her disapproval most evident with a loud and emphatic,"Hmph!"

Said Fleming like a simpleton, "I think…I think the ladies are here for his Lordship."

"How astonishing," she mocked, folding her arms tightly against her usual plain gown concealing an ill-endowed bosom.

Indeed these so-called ladies seemed oblivious of everyone and everything but him. The matron was clearly not of the overwrought and impulsive sort as she managed a more dignified gait than her silly cohorts, who had lifted their skirts and were speeding up as if they simply could not wait to close the distance between themselves and the apparent object of their visit. They cried out with exuberance as Thornhaugh was, on his own, able to take a few small steps at a snail's pace in their direction.

Several things were occurring at once, and through it all the encompassing servants held their station, awaiting an order while working hard as ever to give the appearance of detachment. The master looked nothing less than agitated as he made his way to the second chaise in which, on closer inspection, the Fitzwilliam crest was unmistakably identified.

"Lord Matlock," Mrs. Maguire whispered as the earl himself became visible. He stepped down to meet with Mr. Darcy, his manner even and unabashed, and the two of them began conferring in private at the edge of the lane. Sir Frederick, meanwhile, showed less interest in the new callers than the archery board, which he approached for the apparent purpose of making a keen study.

"Sir Frederick is displeased," remarked Fleming. And sure enough, in the next moment the gentleman's face took on that very expression as he turned away from the board to fix an ice-cold glare at the man who had bested him so expertly.

"Not a man accustomed to losing, it would appear," observed Mrs. Maguire. Back her attention went to the three courtesans (or so she suspected) who were making their way towards Thornhaugh at a quickened pace until he motioned for them to come no further. Reluctantly they obeyed, standing before him at a few yards' distance, gazing upon the man as if he were their long-lost brother just come home from the war.

Thornhaugh made a concerted effort to stand straight and tall before the women, but was ultimately, disappointedly forced to grip the table for support, inducing Mrs. Maguire to wonder briefly what had become of his walking stick. As if in a trance she and Fleming continued watching the scene unfold, neither of a mind or inclination to return to their normal and comfortable routine, and Mrs. Maguire too captivated to notice that she was committing the very transgression for which she had shooed away a band of oglers now slowly beginning to reconvene at the window.

Thornhaugh checked his watch before returning it to his waistcoat. "You are late, la Croix," he teased affectionately.

The forty-five-year-old madam stepped past her girls to take in the dreadful sight of him. "My dear Thorny," she said with a sad smile, "how I wish I could say the sight of you is good for sore eyes."

"What, am I not handsome?" He looked to her two voluptuous companions well remembered from the old days. "Ladies?"

"Of course you are, Thorny," cried the blonde, brushing away fallen tears from her cheeks. She closed the remaining distance and lunged into him, ignoring his lame effort to stop her arms from wrapping about his neck. "None of that now," she said over his feebly uttered protests, dropping kisses along the small tract of exposed flesh below his jaw. "I know you'll be careful with me, Thorny love. You always were."

All further objections died on his lips as the raven-haired beauty soon after demanded her share of attention, not bothering to wait her turn before she came around to cuddle his waist from the back. "Dear Thorny," she cooed, raising on her tiptoes to kiss the nape of his neck. "Making trouble again, love?"

Thornhaugh let himself relax into the double embrace, smiling with utter contentment as they squeezed him even harder. He said warmly over his shoulder, "Ah, my little June-bug. You were a mere sixteen when we met, were you not?"

"You were my favorite then and still are, Thorny," said June close to his ear, and then laughed at the small bit of lip rouge her kiss had left on his lobe.

"And you were all so lovely and still are." He caressed the bejeweled hand resting on his shoulder. "Clearly you have done well for yourself."

June giggled and said, "I've made a friend, Thorny. He's a baron, and particularly fond of me."

"That's my clever girl," whispered he.

"What about me, Thorny?" asked the slightly perturbed blonde pressed against his chest.

He chuckled into his freshly extracted handkerchief, scrunching it tightly against his mouth to catch a few light coughs, and then buried his nose into her full decolletage to inhale deeply of her fragrance. "Why of course I was going to ask all about you, sweet Violet. You were nigh on twenty, I believe, when last I beheld that pretty face of yours. And how have you been getting on, my dear?"

"Your Mr. Darcy don't seem too pleased, Thorny," said the more conscientious Madam la Croix, whose attention was more on that man's heated discussion with Lord Matlock than the scandalous show taking place in his park.

"In other words, this evening has been nothing short of perfection," said Thornhaugh with a fleeting, smirking glance at Darcy before returning to the blonde beauty in his arms. "Now tell me who has given you carte blanche, Miss Violet, and then try to convince me he's a better lover than I was. Go on and try."

"Never one better than you, Thorny," she said sincerely, brushing her ruby lips against his smiling face.

"Well, it would seem I have several more insubordinates to sack," Darcy growled.

Replied Matlock, "Now that would hardly be a just consequence, Darcy. Technically there was no disobedience, let alone mutiny. You placed Miss Baxter in charge of him, but never thought to make a rule that gave her sole privilege of interaction or assistance, now did you?"

Darcy's exasperated sigh was affirmation enough. "And pray what is your excuse, Cousin?"

"Desperation! I need him in Town, and this was the only way to get him there."

"And I take it this is all at your expense?"

"Believe it or not, it took little enticement. I told you he was a favorite, Darcy. Why la Croix and her filles de joie mourned his death more than anyone, I dare say. She and him were thick as thieves back in the old days. La Croix took as excellent a care of him as Mr. Reddy. In a decidedly different manner, of course. And she means to extend that care all the way to London. With any luck, we shall make it there just in time, laying the perfect groundwork for John to become Duke and our dear Georgie a duchess."

"And you think that title matters to her, do you?"

"That it matters so little to either of them is why they are most suitable. The Russells need a fresh start, free of all the corruption, ambition, and self-interest that tore them apart. A noble duke, a delightful duchess, an adoring couple, whose children are brought up with far more love and care than bitterness and disdain."

"This plan of yours is hardly a guarantee of a happily ever after, Richard."

"Indeed not, Darcy, but this shall improve the odds considerably."

"And what of Bedford? Suppose he still lives?"

"Dead or alive, England has done with him. Woburn is to be emptied and Bedford's wife and daughters are to be moved, though I know not where. Whatever that ol' wretch's fate, the title, the properties, everything tangible is lost to him completely. I have it on good authority."

"If this is settled, why bother with Thornhaugh then? Why not leave him to die in peace and solitude, as he is lawfully dead already?"

"Good God, Darcy! Could you for once stop thinking of yourself?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I received word from Matty."

"And?"

Matlock sighed deeply, knowingly. "Darcy, have you ever known of anyone but family to die under Pemberley's roof?"

"What are you arguing, Richard, that he ought to be turned out for tradition's sake?" Darcy pointed his gaze a mile out to the property's highest peak, where his sister's home was plainly visible. "And he is family."

"No, John is family."

"Precisely. We are John's family. That was his choice."

"But not his brother's, and you will not make that choice for him. Besides, he has a higher calling. He belongs—"

"Where he is cared for. That is where everyone belongs."

Matlock heaved another sigh in sad reflection. "I have always had to be the one to lower your feet to the ground in moments like these, Cousin. How I despise having to do so. It breaks my heart."

"I don't know what you mean. I have said nothing irrational or unreasonable."

"Have you not? I understand the children have become quite fond of him, as well. Would you really have them watch him continue to grow worse? Would you have little George watch his own rescuer fall weaker and weaker until—"

"Do not call him 'little George,' and my wife and I shall be the ones to gauge our children's fortitude."

"Then you and Lizzy are in agreement? Oh, dear. This is a fiercer battle than anticipated, but I remain resolute. Tell me, Darcy, do you mean to strap him to the bed against his will? Or do you imagine he will welcome the two of you nursing and petting him as you would a sick abandoned mongrel? Perhaps your sincerity does hold for him a certain charm, but quite frankly it matters not what any of you wish. The stage is set, and before this night is over we shall be London bound. Whatever his condition on arrival, he is to be exhibited before those who should rather keep pretending he never lived, and then shall the campaign for the restoration of his name and record be officially unveiled. Several peers have agreed to stand up with me, and we will take the matter as far as necessary. This whiteliming of our history must end! Every piece of it—small or large, shameful or honorable—demands to be preserved."

"Such a pretty speech, Cousin. May I hear it once more? Do talk again of my selfishness while affirming your intent to pawn his fresh corpse for political gain."

"This is not political!"

"The hell it is not! You do not give a damn about him, and you can make your noble crusade without killing him in the process!"

"This is not your decision, do you understand? Thornhaugh has agreed to this already. I have it in his own hand, Cousin. He will travel home to London with his girls, perhaps even die in their loving arms, and he will die a happy man. All the happier to see you so vexed by it."

"This is really what he wants?"

Matlock removed Thornhaugh's letter confirming just that, a motion Darcy barely noticed as a crude display caught over his shoulder made his head swivel and eyes go round as saucers. "Now what is the matter, Darcy?"

"What—just look at them!"

"Oh now Cousin, you needn't so be cross about it."

"I needn't be cross? Two whores wrapped around a marquess on my front lawn, and I needn't be cross?"

"Is that what you see? Why I see nothing more than a zealous and touching reunion between good friends as part of a dying man's passage into the next world. And how dare you cheapen this beautiful moment with your outlandish presumptions."

"How dare you act so bloody cavalier! Were your own property debased in so depraved a manner—"

"Darcy, calm yourself and listen, please. There are still things you have yet to know, which I myself have only just learned from Madam—from Mrs. la Croix."

"Oh, God!" Darcy shouted at Thornhaugh upon observing him give a firm squeeze to the blonde harlot's bum. "Out in the bloody open, you absolute deviant!" He began a swift charge towards the scene with Matlock right at his heels.

"If only you knew how long it has been, Darcy," groaned Thornhaugh painfully, coming dangerously close to nibbling upon the porcelain neck of his more than willing partner. "And I defy your definition of deviant, for this is a dance as old and common as time."

At his wit's end, Darcy vehemently demanded the vulgar show end at once "—and I want each one of you out of my sight and off my—"

"He is a bit overwrought, ladies," said Thornhaugh, still holding fast to his two sniggering birds. "I suppose we had better do as the master says." Reluctantly, the harlots released him and stepped away, having the gall to look annoyed. "Now Darcy, if you cannot manage a little composure, you leave me no choice but to quit the premises."

Darcy roared back, "Then we are at last in harmony, for your choices are spent and so is your welcome! I was a damned fool to ever—"

"Mr. Darcy," said Madam la Croix, "before you chuck us off your land, there is a small matter of business that needs reconciling. It won't take long, sir. Had you a footman under your employ by the name of Tom?"

The name seized Darcy's attention and stole half his rage. "Tom?"

"And a couple of maids as well, sir? Sally and Gwen, I believe?"

"I…yes, I…what is this?"

"And were there not two groom among the lot, as well?" La Croix strained to recall. "Frank and…"

"Basil was the second, my dear la Croix," Thornhaugh cut in. "That is all of them, should you not count the nameless ringleader."

"Right," the madam affirmed before returning to Darcy with, "I take it you have been unaware of our Thorny's investigation, sir?"

"Investigation?"

Matlock interposed. "As I was saying, Darcy, there are things you have yet to know, such as the fact that Thornhaugh has been even busier than you think. From almost the day of his arrival he has been endeavoring through correspondence to locate the robbers and reclaim your stolen property."

Darcy lowered his brow at Thornhaugh. "Why did you not tell me?"

The man shrugged. "My efforts had a remote chance of succeeding. Suppose I failed? You would have been terribly disappointed. It was disheartening enough that you were not making the endeavor yourself."

"Nor had I considered it, given the higher priorities demanding my attention."

"Which makes the others no less relevant. Revenge is passion, but vengeance is justice. Thievery and abduction ought never to be borne without repercussion; but as you seemed unwilling, I took the liberty of making inquiries from Derby to London, with the help of the less conspicuous portion of your staff. You know, those who light your fires and empty your piss pots? I know not why they are so fond of you, but reckon they posted for me no less than thirty letters on behalf of my little mission. Be not too hard on them, Darcy."

"Letters to whom?"

Thornhaugh smiled. "Old dear friends. And you were so certain I had none left, Darcy, never bothering even to ask." He then quoted airily, "'When pride and presumption walk before, shame and loss follow very closely.'"

Darcy was shaking his head in utter disbelief. "Dare I ask what you managed to achieve from your writing desk?"

"So sorry to throw water on this harem," said Blackwell on his sudden appearance at Thornhaugh's side. "Allow me to acknowledge your victory, sir. An excellent shot, indeed. And now you as winner own the privilege of making the next challenge."

Thornhaugh laughed. "Next challenge? Why I had forgotten you were still here, Blackwell."

"I am still here, sir."

"Well, I propose we call it an evening. As you see, I am more than satisfied, and to you most appreciative for the part you have played. You made one cracking good shot to beat and this dying man happier than he can articulate."

"I could not give a fig about your satisfaction, appreciation or happiness. We have hours yet, and I believe it was you who drew up these terms, your Lordship. Therefore, name the next challenge."

"Fred," uttered Darcy in his master's voice. "That is quite enough. There are more pressing matters—"

"That should have been considered before I was demeaned, and my life disrupted, for this human plague's amusement!"

Thornhaugh narrowed his eyes and grinned. "Are you certain about this, Blackwell? A sore loser just happens to be my favorite of all."

"You requested I bury you," said he. "I intend to honor that wish."

Darcy stepped towards him with eyes gleaming and lips pressed together tightly. "No, you will not. This contest is concluded, Fred. Be thankful for so minimal a loss as a horse."

Matlock heckled, "Aye, consider yourself lucky, Blackwell. Another hour against this man and you might not have had an estate to return to."

Ignoring the gibe, Fred glared at his unflappable rival with rising hostility. "You signed the terms too, Darcy. The contest is over when all debts are settled, and the losing player cedes ultimate victory to his opponent. I do not."

"Then by all means, let us proceed!" cried Thornhaugh with much vigor. "To the drawing-room, Sir Frederick. The next round is cards, starting with piquet! Ten minutes!"

Blackwell nodded curtly, and then began a determined march away from the party and towards the manor.

"Get'im, Thorny," snarled the dark-haired Cyprian to his left as she took hold of his arm. "Take him for ten thousand and every horse in his barn!"

"Now that would be a challenge, my dear. Let us see where the night leads, shall we? Would either of you lovely ladies care to serve as my walking stick?"

"How about both!" cried the blonde who swiftly attached herself to his right side.

"La Croix," said Thornhaugh, "You are in no hurry to depart, I hope? I should dearly love to spend the evening in your company. What say you, my dear? Care to watch me ruin a politician?"

"I suppose we could stay a bit longer," said the madam, then looking squarely at Darcy, "if we are welcome."

"You are all welcome, Mrs. la Croix." Darcy caught the expression of shock in his cousin's countenance, scarcely believing himself that he had made the invitation, tentative as it sounded. In the distance was heard an ominous boom of thunder, turning Darcy's attention skyward, more directly to the whisps of black clouds passing swiftly over the silver crescent moon. In a sturdier voice he repeated the offer "—for the settling of this business and until the storm passes." His skeptical gaze met Thornhaugh's. "I trust there shall be no further acts of debauchery within such time, for if there are—"

"Will not happen," the man swore, "unless you happen to lift that rule, of course."

"Will not happen." Darcy turned back to Matlock. "Shall you stay too, Cousin?"

"Stay to watch Fred Blackwell be humiliated?" he replied, grinning. "I would cancel an appointment with Christ for that privilege."