A/N: Once again, I have to thank everybody for the tremendous feedback I've been getting. My ego would thank you again, but he believes that you are just giving him the respect that is his due :) I wonder what would happen if I put emoticons like that in the middle of Regency text? Would people get out pitch or creosote; or maybe a pitchfork or would locking me in a room with Mrs. Bennet be sufficient? Hmmmmm….

Mr. Darcy, that is the most insulting proposal of my life ;(

At any rate, I'm tremendously enjoying the reviews. Last Monday gave me the biggest single day hit count ever, and this month has just been tremendous start to finish.

Everybody's either loving the depth of characters and breadth of the story; or bored to death with the side stories. I'm hoping for more of the former and less of the latter. Feel free to weigh in with a review. I have noticed that guest reviewers seem crankier on average than named reviewers, as expected. I'm happy to have guest reviewers, but if you sign in I will usually PM a reply to you.

The timing is not super-obvious, but Lizzy really only asked Darcy to stick to his duty for a month (which is about five years in Darcy-Time). I will make it a little more obvious in an edit, but Lizzy woke up around March 1, and Easter is April 18. Best case for a letter to Pemberley is 4 days, and 4-5 days travel back; so he would be ten days at best. A month probably won't kill him, although I suspect he'll think it will. Hopefully that will be long enough for Lizzy to talk Charlotte off the ledge. Everything that happened between the initial eavesdropping episode and Collins attack was just over a week, so the first part of the story was in fact jam-packed.

Lizzy woke up confused, but aware that Wickham is still alive, and her father still has his appointment with the gravestone. However, she does not quite realize that there is very little of her original motivation left since all of her sisters are fully protected and you couldn't pry them out of Rosings with a crowbar. We'll find out what she does once she figures that out.

Here's an open and somewhat unrelated question for the nerds who didn't just scroll down to the line. JA almost never used contractions, so I have been experimenting with an almost total embargo on them the last couple of stories. I used to mix them in at about half my normal level because I thought the text a bit stilted without them but thought I would give it a shot. Now that I've been doing it for a while, I am completely undecided. So, if you'd like to weigh in, that's the open question (or if you would like to express your opinion). Contractions – Yeah, or Nay? This story will obviously keep the current style, but it's not my last story by a long shot (I currently have 3 novellas and 2 novels in progress, and that's to say nothing of the new epilogues for Elizabeth Bennet's Wager).

I have one new character to introduce, probably the penultimate (next to last). The POV should be recognizable within two sentences.

Wade

Bloody Heaving Slatternly Ballocks, I hated St. Giles. I hated every damn thing about the festering slunkhole. There was not a cherry tart to be had anywhere, without a price and sometimes a hidden price. The older strumpets were as likely to kill you as give you a good taste of quim, and it was entirely a matter of chance whether they got you with the clap, the french pox, a confederate after your purse, or a knife to the throat. The gambling was exciting, except that most of the tables were populated with entirely too many bears and not enough chickens for my taste. This was truly a dangerous place, even for a man such as myself, accustomed to suchlike. The players were not unfriendly, precisely. They just had a very different idea of the right division of stacks than I did, and a decided lack of interest in extending debts of honor. Once you got behind, you stayed behind. I hated every stinking thing about St. Giles… except for the fact that pigs, thief catchers, creditors and most importantly, the militia, never came here. I even knew Darcy had a dozen men looking for me in other places, but they would never find me here, no matter how big the reward, so long as I kept my head down and did not get noticed.

The mark was familiar. Something about him rang out as someone I had once known, but not well. Being acquainted with someone could be a good thing or bad, depending on how and where you knew him, and how you played it. The wrong man could gain more advantage by making my presence known to certain people than through gambling; while others could be worked if you knew their story; especially if they had an excess of coinage and a lack of good sense. There was advantage to knowing something about a man, particularly if he did not know you were even there. I could not remember exactly where I had seen him, but I was certain I had. He had the look of new gentry on the way down, a flash of money maybe from his father; that he did not have the sense to hang on to. It was a look I could easily recognize, since I was the same… except without the money. His clothing was of the first circles, but it had not seen a valet in some time. His hair was once fashionable, but was now becoming unkempt, even worse than a tradesman. A tradesman would have been taking care of his appearance all his life and would know what he was about. This was a man who had been pampered, but was no longer being seen to. He had learned the rudiments, but there was no style to it… no flair… certainly no fashion. His boots were recently buffed, but it had the look of a man who did not particularly know how to do it, or more likely a street boy who knew how to take advantage of a chucklehead.

He obviously did not recognize me. I watched him most carefully; he and his confederate who pretended they were not known to each other. They both had the look of desperation about them. Their card play was careful and even most of the time but with odd lapses. There were no big shows of flash or elegance, and they were holding their own for the moment but I could tell the cards would not be friendly to them over the long night. Neither of them had the stones to make the big bets that might make them a real score; but on the other hand, their odds of being found by creditors and dumped in the river were probably about even; whereas mine were decidedly worse if someone were to recognize me.

Even if I had known them before, there was little chance of them recognizing me. I looked nothing at all like I had a year or two ago. Colonel Miller had seen to that. Life in the militia had seemed like such a lark. Pretty girls were falling all over themselves to attract a handsome officer, even if we did not have two farthings to rub together. I would sometimes even get two or three sisters competing with each other to lay their precious virtue open to my perusal. The best had been that family of five daughters in Meryton, until the mousy bitchy one interrupted my fun. They were all just like sheep, easily found, easily led and easily slaughtered by the big bad wolf. Gentlewomen and shopkeepers were equally easy to manipulate in those small villages outside town where the society was easy, the fathers were lax, and the militia held in high esteem. Better yet, villagers were happy to extend credit, should you apply with all the appearance of a gentleman. Fellow officers were easy to bamboozle and happy to take debts of honor, certain it would be repaid. They were as easy to fool as Darcy.

It all came crashing down with a change in commander, and the new one was nowhere near as accommodating as Forester had been. He was one of those pox-infested honorable men who felt it his duty to protect the local cattle, and worse yet took his business seriously… deadly serious. It was hard to tell with Miller whether he truly felt a duty to protect the citizens, or whether he just liked the whip, but I can tell you, he does like his whip. His pleasure with the instrument was obvious to any who watched; and he made dead certain everyone watched. Whether that was to improve the punishment or to give him an audience, he would not say… but being of a similar bent, I imagine the latter was the case.

I can tell you here and now, that I do not recommend thirty lashes. Even one was too many. The man was also in love with showing off his skill, and managed to lay one on each cheek to go along with those on my back, and since one cheek already had a festering wound from the tart's fingers, it got ugly. The changes in my looks were not in the least helpful in my quest for sweet young things. It is one thing for the silly sisters to fall in love with a handsome, well‑mannered and well‑dressed militiaman, but quite another to go for a man in ragged cast‑off clothes with scars on each cheek. It was only by the sheerest good fortune I managed to escape the prison cart taking me to 'serve' in France, but now I had to hide in the worst slums in London until I could manage enough coin to go somewhere entirely different. I could have tried to make my way overland to Scotland or Ireland, but there were just too many soldiers on the roads looking for deserters like me; and they had very more efficient and permanent idea of 'justice' than Miller. The docks were out of bounds, as the navy was impressing men at a frightful clip, even if you looked upstanding. So I was stuck here, trying to make one more big play to get me to a place I could live with my head attached to my neck for some time.

It took me three days of following the newcomers before I finally remembered who he was, and then I became very suspicious. Bingley! I had met him briefly in Hertfordshire when he had an estate there, and he was apparently great friends with Darcy. As I remembered, he was after the eldest Miss Bennet, but then ran off the same night I did. Maybe he tried his hand at his girl and was rebuffed as well. I was fairly certain based on… what was her name… Sarah?... Charlotte?... Mary?... No, wait. Mary was the little strumpet who kept me away from the delights of the youngest… Lillian?... Abagail?... Rebecca?... No wait, Lydia. Oh yes, the delightful Lydia! Pretty as an angel, and dumb as a basket of hammers. So according to her, Darcy took a run at one of the elder sisters… Anne?... Hannah? No wait, Elizabeth. Yes, Lovely Lizzy. She was ripe for the plucking, but I saw her tear the hide off one of the other boys who got a bit fresh, so I thought to try my hand at fresher and more willing meat. Yes, Elizabeth! I had not thought of them in some time, but now that I think of it, Darcy must have taken a run at her at that ball, and she probably has his stones in a sack on her mantelpiece. She really disliked him, while he just stared at her like a mooncalf.

So, Bingley! Could I use him? What was he doing here? It took another two days of asking questions to find out the scuttlebutt. He had sold his townhouse, with some weak sounding excuses, and then started gambling in Rookeries. He was definitely a man who could no longer afford to gamble in his usual haunts, but why? Another two days of watching him carefully told the truth. I almost missed it. He took a swipe from a bottle of gin he kept on the table, but then so fast I almost missed it, he took a swig from another bottle, and then it all became clear. Laudanum! So, the boy was an opium eater. That explained a lot. If you wanted to turn yourself into a chuckleheaded idiot fit only for the army, and did not have the patience to do it with gin, opium would do the job nicely. I had seen more than one member of the gentry brought down by it. One or two bad wagers when muddled and ever so happy and your estate was gone. Make the bet just a bit bigger and your sister and mother were gone with them. I remembered his sister… pretty girl, but nasty as a badger, chasing after Darcy like a calf to the teat. Yes, I could use an opium eater.

He looked at me somewhat strangely an hour after I joined him at a table and cleaned him out of a few pounds. He made odd wagers, as if his mind was not quite on the game; which may have been true or may have been an act. But then, as I watched him carefully I remembered more of what I had heard in Meryton from people who kept company with him. He was a happy, bumbling sort of man that leaned on Darcy for everything. Didn't even know how to ride his estate, and bought elegance by throwing fistfuls of money at it. Not the type of man who would come hunting for me in St. Giles, that was for certain! It would take a hard‑bitten man to come after me here, and there was not the slightest chance of taking me out of the district by force. At least in the slums, we were united against everyone else. He could certainly cut my throat if he wanted to, but if he was going to do that, he would have already.

I finally broached the subject.

"I believe I may know you sir!"

His expression was as blank as that Lydia chit's, and he said, "I think not."

"Bingley, right?"

Now he looked at me. Granted, with longer and unkempt hair that had more than a bit of black dye, and a full beard similarly treated and the scars on my cheeks, I looked quite different.

"How do you know me?"

"We were in company, in Meryton."

At that, he spit on the floor and went back to his cards. Apparently, he was not that enamored with Meryton.

"I believe you were friends with a man I grew up with. Darcy?"

The man thoroughly surprised me by standing up, reaching across, grabbing my cravat and dragging me halfway onto the table by my neck.

"Do not say that name in my presence!"

So, it seemed the pup had grown some teeth.

"My apologies, sir! I had not realized you had a falling out."

He seemed to gradually come to himself, and his face returned to its normal color.

"Forgive me! I get… agitated when I hear that name."

That sounded promising.

"Forgive me. Having known the so called gentleman all my life, I can understand your feelings. What has he done to you? Withheld a debt? Owes you money?"

He scowled at that, so I carried on as if I had only a passing interest in the conversation, and took another swig of my watered down gin.

"Maybe he ruined your sister?"

At that, we both howled like monkeys. His sister would take her ruination with the greatest pleasure, not that I could imagine any man dunderheaded enough to attempt it."

"Maybe he denied your affection for his sister?"

That was it! I saw his face contort in a look of rage for just the tiniest of seconds, before he schooled it into drunken indifference. So, the man was besotted with Darcy's sister, and denied access to her treasures… all 30,000 of them.

"So, that is the way it is. Not a man from trade for his precious sister, eh! Does he also owe you money?"

His hand squeezed his bottle of gin until I thought it was like to break, and said, "Yes."

Pushing my luck, I said, "Why have you not requested kindly that he pay you back."

He looked sheepishly at that, and finally said, "I cannot take him by myself. My friend over there…"

And there he glanced at his confederate.

"… is afraid of the man and offers no help."

So, the man wanted some revenge on Darcy. Interesting!

"A sensible attitude. He is a powerful man."

"Just a man"

I took another sip of my gin, and said, "Should you wish some… assistance… I assume the work would be well paid?"

He looked at me with a cagy look, as if evaluating me, before finally replying.

"Very well"

"How will you get at him? All of his houses have servants piled up to the ceiling, and some of them are armed to the teeth."

Here he chuckled, and asked, "Are you serious about this. There is no going back after this."

The fool did not know there was always going back… always leaving things behind… always someone to pick up the pieces… and it might be his turn.

"Dead serious! I have my own debts to collect."

He looked at me appraisingly for a few minutes, apparently trying to determine if I looked trustworthy enough to at least not stab him in the back… not that he would ever show me his back or I show him mine.

"I have a man who has been keeping quiet tabs on his movements. He keeps a bit of muslin at the parsonage near his aunt's estate in Kent. You may know her. Mrs. Collins… formerly Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

I had to smile at that. Apparently, not so unsuccessful. All the milk without paying for the cow.

"I assume her husband finds that inconvenient?"

"You met the man. Will he oppose Darcy?"

That was interesting. Right under the old bat's nose! Maybe Darcy was growing up, but he was still only one man, and he would keep that sort of thing quiet as a mouse… would not want to endanger precious Georgiana's reputation. I think not!

He took a breath, stared at me hard, and said, "Do you know it – the parsonage?"

So, the trout wanted the bait. Time to set the hook.

"I know it well. I spent many summers there, and the last parson had an… accommodating daughter. I know it very well."

Now the man looked at me more carefully, for a very long time. Finally, he blew out a breath.

"Can you get into the parsonage and back out without being seen? That is what I have been waiting for. The place will be surrounded, and I cannot afford to be caught."

"It could be done. When?"

"Saturday week"

And with that, the chucklehead walked right into my trap. Oh, we would go to Kent together all right. Probably in his carriage, if he still had one. We would go into the parsonage together. We would collect some money or some blood from Darcy; I would take either. He had very good horseflesh, so with my intimate knowledge of the stables at Rosings and the surrounding countryside from many a tryst, I could get away with one or two horses clean. But only one of us would leave the parsonage for the greener pastures of Scotland.