Dinner passed much as breakfast had that morning: father and son Fitzwilliam provided the conversation, Darcy added a few words here and there, and not a peep came out of young Georgiana, to the point that even her brother thought she was taking the maxim of, 'Children should be seen, not heard' a bit far. The few times he did intercept her momentarily raising her big blue eyes to him, he cocked an eyebrow at her as if to ask what was wrong.

But all she did was cast down her eyes again and continue her meal in silence, leaving him with the disturbing feeling that something was wrong, without having an inkling what that could be.

Which was rather frustrating. Did she expect him to read her mind, or what? What did he know about little girls and their troubles?!

"Darcy," his uncle cut into his thoughts, "What do you say we return to the study after dinner and look at the ledgers together? Are you at all acquainted with bookkeeping?"

Darcy nodded. "It is basically keeping track of your income and expenses, is it not?"

Uncle Matlock chuckled – rather patronizingly, he thought. "Well, it's a little more complicated than that, Nephew. Come to the study with me after dinner, and I will teach you the basics."

"But…" Darcy frowned. "Why should I have to learn that? Surely the estate can afford a bookkeeper?"

"Of course Pemberley has its own bookkeeper. It's a man in Kympton; his name is Walton. But as the master of the estate, it is imperative that you have an adequate insight into his job. For if you have no idea what he is doing, how can you make sure that he is doing a good job?"

Darcy heaved a sigh. "If you put it like that, I will have to learn the job of every person working on the estate."

Fitzwilliam snickered. "That sounds like an accurate assessment."

Darcy glared at him.

"Well, maybe not in every detail," Uncle Matlock conceded. "Still, in the end, you are responsible for everything that happens on this estate – including its financial situation. And you cannot possibly do a good job of that when you don't know what you're doing."

He sighed. Clearly, he had no choice but to accept his fate: he would have to become a true Jack-of-all-Trades. "I understand, Uncle. I shall join you in the study."

"It shouldn't be too bad," Fitzwilliam consoled him. "After all, it's just maths. You've always been good at maths." He turned to Georgiana. "But that leaves you and me to entertain each other, Georgie. What shall the two of us get up to while the big men talk business?"

"… but of course her nurse wouldn't let me out of her sight in Georgie's presence," Fitzwilliam was saying.

Darcy and he were alone in the drawing room after supper; the others had gone off to bed, leaving the two cousins in front of the crackling fire with a large decanter of brandy between them.

"But she was so quiet and withdrawn," he continued after topping up his glass again. "So I thought perhaps a game would help her come out of her shell. So I fetched the chess game from the library and taught her how to play. You don't mind, do you?"

Darcy shook his head and took another sip of his brandy.

"Good. Her nurse did frown a bit, I confess, but Georgie liked it well enough. Of course I let her win, but she showed some promising strategic thinking of her own. She's pretty smart for a ten-year-old, Darce!"

Darcy just sipped his brandy.

"Fortunately, over the game she opened up a little and finally started talking to me. Seems to me she is simply shy, and uncomfortable around strangers. Not unlike someone else I know." He punched Darcy in the shoulder and downed the remainder of his brandy. "Anyway, one thing led to another and soon we were engaged in a serious swordfight, which…"

Darcy nearly spat out a mouthful of brandy. "You what?!"

Fitzwilliam grinned, and picked up the decanter to refill his glass again. "With croquet sticks, Darce. Nothing to worry about – though I admit her nurse wasn't overly happy with that either. Prissy lady, that. So we had to find something a bit calmer, a bit more ladylike, so she showed me her doll's house. She seemed pretty fond of it, though it's beyond me what she finds to play with that. Then we did some drawing – that was more fun, I thought. She really opened up there; in fact, she laughed her head off at my stick figures, but hey, she's got four years of instruction on me." Another swig of brandy. "And then we went to the library, because she wanted me to read to her. Of course that worried me, and I asked her if she could not read herself then, but she said, of course she could, but she just likes being read to. So she curled up in front of the fire and I read Robin Hood to her until we were summoned for supper."

Darcy grimaced. "You're not thinking of turning her into Joan of Arc, are you?"

Fitzwilliam chuckled. "Now there's an idea…"

"Remember: that did not end too well."

A sigh. "No. I suppose you're right. Plus it wouldn't go down too well with the family if she ended up fighting for the French." Another sigh, and he filled and drained his glass again. "Still, she seems a bit young for gothic novels, not to mention romances, and I certainly don't want to burden her with my tales of battle. So what else is there to talk about?"

Darcy made no reply, and instead refilled both their glasses.

"So what do you talk to her about?" Fitzwilliam insisted, swirling the brandy in his glass before taking another sip.

A rather helpless shrug. "We talked a bit that first evening, about what will happen to her now. Other than that…" Darcy threw back his drink in one go. "It sounds as if you have talked more with her in one evening than I have in the past year."

Fitzwilliam shook his head and filled up the glasses again from the quickly emptying decanter. "Not good, Darce. How are we going to be her guardians when we don't even know our ward?"

Morosely, Darcy stared down into his brandy. "It's not as if I asked for it," he muttered.

"As if I did."

A pause, in which more brandy found its way down their respective throats.

"Maybe we should just send her off to school," Fitzwilliam at last suggested lamely. "At least they'll know what they're doing there." He suppressed a hiccup. "Well, I hope they do." Another swig.

"And her nurse does not? Besides..." What was he going to say again? Oh. Yes. "Besides, I promised her she could stay here." He laid his head in his neck, and closed his eyes for a moment. He was just so tired... To be honest, he was beginning to feel a bit woozy, too. He needed a drink to clear his head. But when he reached for the decanter, the naughty thing deftly evaded his hand. "Blast..." he mumbled.

"Here." Fitzwilliam got hold of the wayward decanter in one go and upended it in Darcy's glass.

But nothing much came out. He peered inside it. "Huh. Seems we need another bottle of brandy, Darce. Maybe even two."

Darcy squinted at the tiny little bit of liquid in his glass, and decided he might as well drink it. "Well, good thing I'm the master of Pemberley now." He plonked down his glass and struggled to his feet. "For that means I now have free access to the wine cellar! Yay! And no one can chase us away anymore, like… you know."

"Yeah." Fitzwilliam, a little less affected so far, followed his example and climbed to his feet, too. "How old were we again – fourteen or so?"

"George and I were eleven, so that makes you…" Darcy screwed his eyes shut in concentration to work out the sum.

"Thirteen," Fitzwilliam supplied.

"Yes. Thirteen. Boy, did we ever get a thrashing!" A belch welled up. "Oops! 'Scuse me!" He shook his head. "Well, we are children no longer! To the wine cellar we go!"

He staggered, and Fitzwilliam grabbed his arm to steady him. "Easy now, Darce. Don't fall over. We need to get some more brandy first."

"And I'm the king of the wine cellar!" Darcy announced, pounding his chest like a gorilla. "We need some more brandy – now!" He made another grab for the (empty) decanter on the table, and nearly keeled over as he gloriously missed. "Why won't it obey me?" he whined. "I'm the master of Pemberley, am I not?"

"Sure you are." The not quite steady Fitzwilliam began to guide his cousin towards the door. "But we need another bottle. This one is empty. And since you're the king of the wine cellar…"

"Yes. I am…" An idea struck his befuddled brain, and he exulted raucously, "I'm the king of the cellar, and you're the dirty…! Wait. The dirty what?"

"Rascal," Fitzwilliam supplied helpfully, and he caterwauled, "You're the king of the cellar, and I'm the dirty rascal!"

"No. That doesn't rhyme," Darcy chided him. "It has to rhyme with 'cellar'. What rhymes with 'cellar'?" He vigorously shook his head to clear it, but suddenly, the room was mysteriously jumping every which way. He blinked in confusion. "What...?" Totally bewildered, he looked around the otherwise familiar room. And sighed. "I need a drink. I can't think."

Fitzwilliam actually whinnied. "I need a drink. I can't think. That rhymes!"

Darcy swatted at him. "Wrong. We need something that rhymes with 'cellar'! Oh. I know!" And he bellowed, "I'm the king of the cellar, and you're the dirty dweller!"

Fitzwilliam immediately belted along, and after Darcy nearly fell through the door, they wandered unsteadily down the hallway, accompanied by the sound of their rowdy, seriously off-key singing. They passed a servant or two, who quickly stepped out of the way, even when Fitzwilliam cordially invited them to come along.

"We're gonna plunder the wine cellar!" he crowed. "Down with the French! We're gonna drink up all their wine, and then they'll just die of thirst! Long live the King!"

"Hey, I'm the king," Darcy protested.

"That's right: long live King Darcy!" Fitzwilliam laughed uproariously. "Now where's that wine cellar of yours? There's too many doors here, and I want another drink. Now." He pulled one open, and stared utterly baffled at the contents of a broom closet. "That's not a wine cellar."

"It's there somewhere." Darcy gestured vaguely down the corridor.

Fitzwilliam tried the next door, but found it locked. But then his face brightened as he noticed a young bootboy hurrying down the hall. "Hey, you!"

"Sirs?" The boy came to a halt at a wary few meters distance.

"Yes." Fitzwilliam squinted at his makeshift name tag. "Ro… Robert. We need some help. Where is the bloody wine cellar in this house? Your master here needs some more brandy."

The master in question was now hugging the wall with crooning little groans.

"Erm…" Young Robert – he couldn't be more than fifteen, sixteen – looked like a deer caught in the headlights. "It's erm… it's just three doors down, sir. On your right."

"Good. Good." Fitzwilliam patted his head and dug up a coin from his pocket. "Here. This is for you. Unless you wanna join us?"

The boy looked absolutely terrified.

"Never mind, we'll find it." Fitzwilliam sighed. "Come on, Darce." He pulled the swaying Darcy along, and soon they were stumbling down the pitchblack stairs into the musty wine cellar.

"Why didn't you bring a light, Fitz?" Darcy complained.

"I can see like a cat in the dark," Fitzwilliam bragged, only to be followed by a heartfelt, "Oof!" as he walked straight into a big solid cask. "Well, maybe not quite like a cat. But look, I did find us that drink, didn't I?"

Darcy inspected the cask by touch. "How do we drink from this? With a straw?"

"With glasses of course."

"Did you bring the glasses?"

"Nope. Did you?"

"Nope."

"How about the bottles then?"

"Which bottles?"

"We can use the bottles as glasses. We do it all the time. In the army, I mean. Did you bring the bottles?"

"Nope. Did you?"

"Nope." A sigh. "I guess we should find some then."

They stumbled around in the dark until Darcy's hand happened to meet with some cilinder shape made of glass.

"Fitz, I found one!" he cried. He pulled the bottle out of the wine rack and shook it. "It's full though." He sounded disappointed. "We'll need to empty it first. And I haven't got a cockscw…" He screwed up his face. "Corksw… cork-shrew. Fooey!" He wiped his forehead. "So how do we open it?"

"Easy." Fitzwilliam's hands fumbled over Darcy's person until he got hold of the bottle.

"Hey, that's mine! I found it first!"

"Hold your horses; I'm just opening it for you."

"How?"

"Military secret. Close your eyes."

Darcy did as he was told.

"You just…" There was the sound of a wrapping being torn off. "… push down the cork…" A groan. "… into the bottle…" A satisfying pop. "… et voilà!" There was the clucking sound of someone taking a generous swig. "Here. It's good."

The bottle was pushed into his hands again, and Darcy took a greedy gulp. "Can I open my eyes now?"

"Wait." Some clanging of glass, then the sound of the tearing wrapping again, followed by the dull pop… "There. You can open your eyes now."

Darcy blinked owlishly against the darkness. "I still can't see a thing."

"Never mind. We got our drink, right? Now settle down. The night is still young."

Lord Matlock was quite put out the next morning when he found himself sharing the breakfast table with no one, save for his timid and taciturn little niece.

"Ben," he beckoned over the footman on duty when after a full twenty minutes there was still no sign of either Darcy or Fitzwilliam. "Where are my son and my nephew?"

The footman coloured slightly. "I do not know, my Lord, but…" He glanced at Georgiana picking at her porridge and lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. "Word got around that they got rather… intoxicated last night. And their valets reported this morning that neither of them has slept in their rooms."

Lord Matlock scowled. "Where were they seen last?"

"Entering the wine cellar, my Lord."

"Hm. You better send someone down there to wake them up. And have some black coffee waiting for them."

"Yes, my Lord."

Ben the footman bowed out of the room, only to return a few minutes later. "My Lord," he whispered near Matlock's right ear, "They are not in the wine cellar anymore, though judging by the empty bottles lying around, there can be no doubt that they have been there. However, the door leading outside was left wide open, so they've probably gone out. We have set two men with a dog on their trail. With the amount they must have drunk, they won't have gotten far."

"Hm. Keep me informed of the progress, and let me know when they're found, the fools."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Bring them back to the house. I want to have a word in season with them, before we turn them over to the care of their valets."

"Yes, my Lord."

Ben disappeared again to pass on these instructions, and once the door was shut behind him, Lord Matlock heard an unexpected sound.

"Uncle?"

Surprised, he turned to his young niece, forcing the scowl off his face. "Yes, Georgiana?"

"Is…?" A gulp. "Is my brother alright?"

A reluctant little smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Don't worry, lass; he will be. Tomorrow, that is. Today however, I suspect he will be suffering from a most dreadful headache."

The first thing Darcy became aware of as he began to drift back to consciousness (you couldn't call it 'waking up' exactly…) was his brain. It seemed to have expanded all the way down to his toes – were those his toes? – as well as crowding in every hair on his body. And it was still violently pushing to expand even further, to escape its confinement.

And it was killing him.

A groan welled up from his throat. Too loud – way too loud! His throbbing head couldn't handle the noise, and instinctively, he slapped his hands – were those his hands? – over his ears.

And howled in pain. Touching his head, his ears, or even his hair, felt like a burning hot knife was slashing through his head. It made the howling noise – and with that the horrific headache – even more unbearable, so immediately, he tried to protect his ears from that awful howling and…

"Stop it," a gravelly voice croaked from somewhere outside of him, just adding to the insupportable cacophony.

Darcy desperately tried to stay still. Still as death, for even the sound of his own breathing was sheer torture for his poor beleaguered head. Death seemed like a blessing in comparison. If only someone would stop that monstrous churchbell from tolling inside his skull…!

Tentatively, it began to dawn on him that he was in fact awake. And that he was not in his bed. It pricked, but his whole body ached far too much to even contemplate that. Let alone to try and figure out his whereabouts. Or even just to open his eyes. Or even one eye.

There was some violent, earsplitting rustling next to him. And someone – who? – cursing under his breath. The sounds reverberated all the way down to his finger nails, but he couldn't bring himself to voice even the tiniest of protests; such would only exacerbate his own agony.

"Darce," a rough voice whispered boomingly by his ear. "Darce, you 'lrigh'?".

Once breakfast was over, and Lord Matlock had sent his young niece off to the nursery, he himself had settled down with the day's newspaper, awaiting the return of his irresponsible son and his equally foolish nephew.

Truth be told, he sure had had his own bouts of drunken foolishness in his younger years. What man hadn't? But that's what fathers (and uncles) do: they pass on the same scathing lectures to their offspring as they received from their own father in their time. There was a kind of poetic justice to it. A tradition, if you will.

True: it wasn't Richard's first time, and undoubtedly, there had been quite some instances in the army as well that he did not know about. (And probably did not want to know about.)

But of Darcy, he was less sure. The boy had always come across so calm, so upright and studious, yet so reticent, that he doubted the lad had ever gotten seriously drunk before. But with his father gone, well, it fell to his uncle to give him that particular lecture.

He had a grim chuckle. Trust his Richard – the outgoing, excitable and adventure-loving Richard – to acquaint the boy with that particular part of life. It had always amazed him how two boys of such totally different character managed to be the best of friends. He supposed they complemented each other in a way, with their mutual and well-developed sense of honour and justice serving as the essential common ground to make it work.

And yes, Richard had calmed down and matured a bit in recent years. The army could do that to a man. It was...

He looked up at a knock on the door, and chuckled involuntarily. There they were, the two prodigal sons! "Enter!" he called.

The door opened, and the butler announced, "Lady Catherine de Bourgh."