Colonel Aloysius Fitzwilliam was the son of an Earl. It may seem like we'd be this point to death, but if you were the son of an Earl, you would beat it to death too. Being able to do so was one of the big benefits of being a son of an Earl, and of course, there was the not having to acquire any skills, or do any work part that had a lot to recommend it. As previously mentioned, his skill in map reading was perhaps not as acute as one might prefer. Perhaps this was the reason that he came into Gretna Green from the north, instead of the south. It might also account for the extra week it took him to get there.

He really didn't mind so much, since he'd spent the extra time with his newly betrothed most beautiful Bennet sister, and he didn't even mind Mrs. Annesley. Once you got Mrs. Annesley away from his stuffed shirt of a cousin, she was actually quite lively. Fitzwilliam thought that he would have to work on getting her a husband next. He was more than a little concerned that the son of an Earl should bear such a resemblance to a matchmaking mama though. Of course, that would not stop him from doing it. He was the son of an Earl after all, and could break a few rules.

Aloysius was a little bit surprised upon entering the town to see what looked like at least fifty or sixty armed men, standing around looking very sinister. He had spent his entire career so far avoiding armed men, so you would think that he wasn't in the least bit happy about this development, but to think so would be to show a complete lack of understanding of his character. Aloysius Fitzwilliam was a big believer in duty, honor, sacrifice and service. Fighting with Frenchmen or colonists in the Americas didn't offer any of that, but these… these were English ruffians, which was an entirely different matter. In this case, they were just like the patrons of the pubs he frequented, and if there was one thing he enjoyed, it was a pub fight. This was just too tempting to resist. His honor requested… no demanded… that he establish some arbitrary point of contention, so that he could provide them with the service of discussing his obviously merited opinion with his fists for the honor of his favorite tavern. He was sure they would be willing to make the sacrifice. He jumped out of the carriage and made sure his sword was secure, just in case he lost his point and had to fall on it later, and started running towards the melee. He still couldn't see who was actually involved in the altercation, but he was in no way planning to miss any of the fun.

Mary Bennet stepped out of the coach, and called to his retreating back, "Will you be long dear?"

Fitzwilliam was shocked at his own behavior. Here he was planning to be wed this very day to his lovely Mary, and he was about to run off and join a tavern brawl. What was he thinking? He became thoroughly ashamed of himself, and hanging his head down he slunk back to his betrothed, hoping he might be able to redeem himself. Maybe a week of groveling would be sufficient.

Mary and Mrs. Annesley were calmly standing outside the coach waiting for him.

"I apologize my dear, it appears that I've not quite reconciled myself to the behavior deserving of a woman such as yourself."

Mary held her hands on her hips in a perfect imitation of an angry nanny, and replied, "And were you planning to go get in a fight with all of those armed men while leaving me to fend for myself on my wedding day?"

"I'm afraid so."

He now officially felt lower than dirt. Lower than scum. Lower than Frenchmen even. Maybe not as low as the colonists in the Americas, but getting there.

His lovely betrothed looked at him with the most severe look he had ever seen on a woman. He expected her to call off the wedding post-haste, and probably make him wish he was back being skewered by the ruffians… but then he saw the corner of her mouth start to twitch. He looked on as she tried, and tried, and tried her best to keep from laughing, but just couldn't quite manage it. Once her mouth formed a smile, it was much too late. Mary and Mrs. Annesley burst out laughing and she said, "Please don't get blood on your coat unless you have a clean one to get married in."

With that, he was back in business. Duty, Honor, Courage, Sacrifice. All the divine attributes were to be satisfied. He had a look of heartfelt delight spreading across his face at the treasure of a woman he'd managed to capture, and he said, "I won't be long my dear."

"Have a good time. We'll meet you at the smithy."

Fitzwilliam took off running down the road, but he hadn't made it thirty paces when he saw one of the local townsmen step out onto the road directly in front of him.

"Excuse me sir, are you planning to engage those pirates down there."

"Pirates! Are you aware we're on land, sir?"

"Yes, I found it confusing as well but they call themselves pirates, and who are we to argue with their own self-identification."

"That seems a very pretentious word for a citizen of such a small hamlet."

"Oh, I'm an Oxford Don"

"So why do you live here."

"My horse went lame outside of town."

"Should that explanation suffice?"

"It will sooner or later. I wonder if I might perform a small service for you in exchange for a trivial duty you might do for me. A bit of quid-quo-pro if you will."

"You really miss your Oxford friends, don't you?"

"Sometimes, but not as much as you might think. The service, sir?"

"I'm at your disposal."

The don raised a glass and said, "I need you to drink exactly two shots of this whiskey."

"Exactly two?"

"Yes"

Fitzwilliam figured it was probably a wager of some kind, so he obliged.

"You mentioned a service sir?"

"Oh yes. Do you see the man with the tri-corner hat and the parrot on his shoulder?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you could cut the parrot off of his shoulder with your sword, before you fell him?"

This seemed a peculiar request, but not out of the ordinary for a pub night.

"Consider it done. You mentioned a small service you might perform for me."

"Oh yes, happy to do it my good man. You know when you cut off that parrot it will earn me a kitten."

"That seems worthwhile."

"So for you, I may mention that if you are who I think you are, then the man down in the smithy is your cousin Fitzwilliam Darcy, and he's being forced to marry some orange woman while his true love is held thirty paces behind him, and his cousin Anne de Bourgh is simultaneously apparently being hitched to some militia man with half his hair cut off."

Fitzwilliam took that news in with a bit of shock and consternation.

"I don't suppose you and some of your lads would be willing to assist me in stopping this tragedy."

"I'm afraid not."

"But the injustice of it all. How can you stand it?"

"There are wagers on the result."

"Say no more sir. I understand. What would it take to get some assistance? I am the son of an earl, so I have resources?"

"Do you have any kittens?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Can't help you then. My apologies."

Fitzwilliam thought for just a second and asked one more favor.

"Do you suppose you could go tell my betrothed over at that coach the same thing you told me?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Thank you."

With that, Aloysius Fitzwilliam took off towards the highwaymen at a full run. There was work to be done.

Back at the coach, Mary and Mrs. Annesley learned of her sister's plight with some dismay. They queried the don about all the information they could obtain, and then looked at each other critically.

"I don't suppose you know how to use a sword?"

"Afraid not"

"Me either. A gun?"

"Do we have a gun?"

"No"

"It's a bit of a moot point then."

"Yes. I imagine sword work is pretty bloody anyway, and I only have the one dress with me."

"Best avoid it then."

The coachman, who was fifty if he was a day, obviously wasn't going to be a lot of help, but he did offer a suggestion.

"We have cudgels, madam."

"Cudgels"

"Yes ma'am, they're short heavy clubs."

"Why do we have cudgels?"

"Your betrothed is the son of an Earl."

All right, that seemed to explain it.

Mary and Mrs. Annesley looked at each other for a moment and sighed.

"Cudgels it is then"