The rain was relentless. Pounding away at the windowpanes, rattling the sashes, causing an eerie quiet in the courtyard, usually filled with the clump of boots or shoes as servants hurried from one place to another. But today, all Georgiana could hear was the rain lashing the ground, and the sound of her own boredom. Fitz had ridden the five miles into Lambton, braving the weather to speak with the family attorney, Mr Winchester, and she did not expect him back before nightfall. Slouched on the settee in the drawing room, the fire crackled, it seemed as if the rain would last forever. A young red headed maid clattered in with a large tray full of vases containing little pink posies, and she began to place them on the table. Georgiana watched her intently, she was certain the girl was the same age that she was, she smiled at her, but the girl turned her head and moved away. Mrs Reynolds was performing her morning routine, checking that each and every housemaid duty had been performed to her satisfaction. She sighed at the sight of the youngest Darcy slouched on the settee and walked over to plump the cushions.

"Miss Georgiana," she said with an ill-disguised huff, "what are you doing out of your rooms?"

"I am bored, Mrs Reynolds," she sighed, "Fitz has gone to Lambton, Mr Bingley is still abed, and Miss Bingley and Miss Caroline are in the long gallery playing skittles."

"And do you not wish to partake in skittles?"

"Miss Caroline is very competitive…"

"And Miss Bingley?"

"Always lets her sister win," Georgiana rose from the settee and walked over to the bay window, where multi-coloured stained glass rose from each pane. Even on a dull day like today they still shone like jewels. "You know enough of me Mrs Reynolds to know that I am never of the mind to let people win."

"Aye, Miss Georgiana, I know enough of you indeed," she stood admiring the girl who she had practically raised from birth. It had been a rainy day like this when Lady Anne Darcy had died pushing her precious daughter into life, and a day when the world at Pemberley had almost crumbled. Georgiana was nearly a fully grown woman now, nearly ready to be out in society, but for all of her cleverness and learning, she was still a child in so many ways, and needed educating in the ways of fashionable society - the complicated rules that she would have to follow as member of the Ton. The older lady raised an eyebrow, "is there nothing that you can be doing to keep yourself occupied?"

Georgiana sighed again, absentmindedly plucking the strings of the harp, which gave out a satisfying deep tone, and then dramatically throwing herself down onto the large pink ottoman which dominated this side of the room.

"I wish George hadn't gone back to London," she whined, her legs swinging over the edge. "He always makes Pemberley much more fun, and I could most certainly rely on him to keep Miss Caroline busy for the afternoon so that Miss Bingley and I could play some duets," Georgiana rose to her feet again, as much as Fitz got restless and fidgety she got more so, and did not have the luxury of being able to ride off as and when she pleased. "George says he has a new pianoforte in his house in town, have you ever heard him play, Mrs Reynolds? He is very accomplished, I have never been so entertained…"

"George Wickham is not the kind of gentleman you should wish to be being entertained by," as soon as Mrs Reynolds said the words, she wished she could retract them.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, Miss Georgiana, I was speaking out of turn."

"You most certainly were, Mrs Reynolds, and you should think more carefully before you speak about Mr Wickham - "

"I am so…"

"Mrs Reynolds, George Wickham was my father's godson and is my own dearest friend, and a friend of your master's too."

Mrs Reynolds stood before the woman that she had cradled as babe in arms, "yes, Miss Darcy."

"I shall go up to the long gallery now, I think," she said sharply, "please send refreshment up there on the hour."

"Yes, Miss Darcy," she said quietly with a dipped head, before walking into the stag parlour thoroughly admonished.

The rain started to fall even harder, a crack of thunder in the distance. Georgiana Darcy had never felt so terrible in all of her life.

The offices of Winchester & Sparrow were on the newer part of the High Street in Lambton, although there was little business being conducted in the town on this cold, wet morning as the rain pounded the cobbles. Darcy dismounted, handing his horse over to the stable boy at the Bull's Head, the meeting was to discuss the terms of his father's bequest to George Wickham.

"Fitzwilliam," Mrs Helena Winchester had known him since he was a boy, and she greeted him with a gentle embrace, "why you are wet through!" He could see the mark of him on her dress. "I will ask Maria to stoke the fire and bring you a glass, Horatio is just through there," she gestured to the back office, "would you like anything to eat?"

"No, thank you," he said, handing her his riding jacket and hat, pools of water gathered on the floor. "Maybe I should have brought the carriage."

"A decision that would have proven valuable in hindsight!" She laughed as she took the garments from him, disappearing into the back room that constituted her own private parlour. Darcy knew that Helena Winchester was the driving force behind her husband's law practice, and a very clever woman in her own right – if women were allowed to be educated, he had no doubt that it would be Helena receiving the payment for her services. Horatio Winchester was the third son of his father's aunt, and so the two men were related albeit distantly. He was a solid slab of a man with a ruddy nose, grey sideburns that reached to almost his chin, and a deep, booming voice that commanded respect and, if you were on the wrong side of him, instilled a sense of fear. Formerly he had been a Justice in the City, before retreating to the north for a comfortable semi-retirement as a country solicitor.

"Darcy! Do come on in," the office was stuffed full of papers, stacked books on every surface, the walls lined with shelves filled with heavy official looking tomes. A small fire spat and sputtered as Horatio took a poker and agitated it back to life. "So, this terrible business with Wickham, eh? That boy – what are we to do with him?"

"That is precisely why I have come for your advice."

Fitz took a seat on the soft chair nearest the fire, Horatio pulled a folio from the shelf behind him, opening it up and laying the papers within it out.

"Right, let's get to business. Your father wished Wickham to be given the parish at Kympton, which is a good living…"

"Yes, over two hundred pounds a year."

"Plus, the thousand pounds he will receive as your father's godson," he studied the papers. "Does he baulk at this?"

"Indeed," he gave the older gentleman a pointed look, they both knew that George Wickham was not a suitable shepherd for the flock at Kympton.

Maria entered with a two tankards of ale and sliced of cheese and hunks of bread on a blue patterned plate, Fitz reached for the ale and drank heartily.

"All of us are aware that Wickham had no desire for a life in the Church, but what else is he to do? His looks and charm will only get him so far," Horatio grumbled, "unless he manages to kidnap a particularly dim heiress and run her up to Scotland."

"I wouldn't wish that on any woman."

"We could purchase him a commission in the Army? He could be an officer for the right amount…"

"He would like that…yes, I could see him rather taking to the idea. But it would have to be the right amount, of course."

"Alternatively, we can offer a monetary amount rather than Kympton, but he would have to sign something to state that he wouldn't contest it," Horatio took a piece of the still-warm bread. "But it would need to be a substantial amount."

"How much is a substantial amount?"

Helena came back in with biscuits and sat herself down on the edge of her husband's desk.

"I have been looking at the figures, and what we have worked out is…" Horatio looked back down at the folio.

"We worked out that the annuity for Kympton, plus the cost of housing would roughly be about two and a half thousand pounds," his wife interrupted, taking the paper from him and sitting next to Fitz at the fire, "plus another five hundred for the sundries and expenses which would be covered by that position."

"Three thousand pounds?!" Fitz rose to his feet, stood in front of the fire, seeking out some kind of advice from its blistering flame. "But if I settle this sum upon him, he will be out of my life… Georgiana's life for good?"

Horatio looked at his wife, who looked up at Fitz, "we cannot guarantee that. We can guarantee, via the law of the land, that he cannot then contest the will and ask for more money. But we cannot stipulate anything further than that."

"Unfortunately, Darcy," Horatio said with a sad voice, "you will have to rely on the gentleman's good nature."

"Well, we all know there is no value in that."

"Are you still paying his debts in town, Fitzwilliam?" Helena's sister was married to a baronet, and she knew the comings and goings of fashionable society, even up here in Derbyshire.

"Not willingly," he was frustrated now, because all of his attempts to free himself of George Wickham seemed to come to naught, "he gave his place of residence as Derbyshire House – most of our circle only know that we were raised together - and creditors were sent there. I cannot have the servants threatened in their place of work; it will not do."

"You are right," Helena said kindly, "but the fact of the matter is he should not be putting your name into disrepute. I think we could add a clause here to say that any future debts will result in him being sent to the debtors prison."

"Debtors prison?" Her husband exclaimed, "is that not a little harsh?"

"Horatio, darling, you and I are both veterans of London society, and with men like George Wickham you have to take them firmly in hand, show them that their behaviour will not be tolerated."

Fitz was unsure, as much as he resented paying for Wickham's lifestyle, he still felt responsible for him as if he were a younger brother beyond reproach, rather than the son of his father's steward who had been expensively educated and then improperly elevated to a rank where he had only his wits and charm to recommend him. The Darcys were responsible for the creature that they had created in George Wickham, and Fitz knew that he would be paying for it for a good long while yet.

"I am happy for us to offer him three thousand pounds instead of the living at Kympton," he wasn't, "and then the thousand pounds from my father as is his right."

"If you are certain, Fitzwilliam," he said, "but there can be no guarantee that he will leave you alone."

"That is a risk I have to take, write up the contract and he will sign it. I am due to meet him Friday in town, is that enough time?"

Horatio nodded, "aye, we can prepare the documents. Do you think he will sign it willingly?"

"He would sign anything if it guaranteed him money," Darcy lamented. "All I want is for him to have an income and live within his means."

"Four thousand pounds will give him an admirable income," Helena said, taking a bite of biscuit, "but I fear it will not keep him in the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed."

Fitz took a biscuit, "that is my biggest fear too."

"And why did you speak to Mrs Reynolds in such a way, sister?"

Georgiana blushed a furious red, she felt so guilty that she needed to speak to her brother as if telling him would absolve her of the crime.

"She spoke ill of George, and I thought it bad form from a servant."

Fitzwilliam sat down heavily in the chair in his study, he was still full of a chill from the ride home and gestured for Georgiana to stoke the fire. It blazed furiously, he was grateful for the heat. Pemberley was a draughty old house, even with all the new building works going ahead, he was sure that the chilly wind from the Peaks would still make its way into his bones.

"Georgie, Mrs Reynolds is more than a servant to us. She is part of our family, and we cannot reprimand her in such a way in front of the lower maids. That is where the real bad form lies."

Georgiana sat down in front of the fire, "is that why it felt so bad?"

"Probably… Mrs Reynolds probably should have held her tongue regarding George, but…"

"Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"Is it true what she said about George?"

"Well… I…." he started.

"Because Miss Caroline said something similar too when we were playing billiards with Charles, and they all laughed and called George a scoundrel… is George a scoundrel? For he never comes to Pemberley anymore, and you didn't invite him for Twelfth Night, you know how much he loves it. I checked the list after you gave it to Willis and I took the liberty of adding his name on, because I knew you had forgotten." She saw the frown pass across his face, "you had only forgotten, hadn't you? You didn't omit George on purpose, did you?"

Fitz didn't know what to say, he didn't want to tarnish the happy memories of Wickham that Georgiana had, because they were intimately tied to the memories and recollections she had of their father.

"I must admit sister that I did."

"Is this because of Egypt? Because of your quarrel? Did you keep him away from Papa?" She rose to her feet, "did George not come to see Papa when he was dying, because of you?"

"No," he shook his head furiously, "no Georgiana, that is not what happened at all"

She examined his face carefully for a moment, "tell me then. What did happen?"

He could tell that she was cross, that she had been sitting on this guilt all day since the incident with Mrs Reynolds, and now it had bubbled away inside her.

"George has been gambling in town," a truth, "and he accidentally lost a lot of money at the tables," a part truth, "so much that he was embarrassed to come back home to see Papa," a lie.

"Oh," she processed the information. "But he has enough money to live and keep a home, Fitz?"

"Yes, he does," another lie. Wickham was lodging in Soho with a woman called Mrs Churchill, who was well-known for keeping a house of ill-repute. Indeed, Mrs Churchill was one of London's most notorious bawds, and a former lover of half the aristocracy.

"Good, for I would hate to think that he would have to sell his pianoforte. Can we not bring him home to Pemberley?" Georgiana was all concern for Wickham, he knew she would be.

"No, he is currently seeking employment in town." Another lie.

"Well, you can invite him to Derbyshire House for the start of the season, for I am sure that he would love to attend any social engagements as our guest. It is the least we can do for him, brother, is it not?"

Fitz knew that his lies had him trapped in a corner, for he could neither reject nor accept his sister's proposal without seeming less than charitable to dear old impoverished George.

"That sounds like a good idea," he said, with the enthusiasm of a convict being transported to the colonies. "I shall be seeing George this Friday week; you may send a letter with me if you wish?"

Georgiana beamed, "could I not come to town with you to see him?"

"You forget sister, that your new companion is due to arrive, you need to be here to greet her."

"Oh, I had forgotten! What is her name again…?"

"Who?" he smiled. It had been a hard year for them both, but now they could start to plan for the future.

"My companion, silly, which lady did you and Aunt Fitzwilliam choose in the end?"

"Oh," he said, opening the door, "Mrs Younge."