Fitzwilliam indeed had no objection to the plan. "I still have three weeks of leave left. I would be happy to show my little cousin around London," he said. "But I do think we ought to apprise Georgie of the plan as well. Most people prefer to have some advance notice of major changes in their life."

Darcy blew out a breath. "You are probably correct. But what do I say?"

"You want me to tell her?"

"Could you? No," he backtracked. "I should be the one to tell her. I am her brother after all. But I would appreciate it if you would accompany me."

So to the nursery they went, only to be told that Georgie was in the music room practising.

They found her at the pianoforte, playing a merry little piece over and over again.

"Fitzwilliam! Richard! Have you come to hear me play?"

"No, I am afraid not." Darcy as usual was categorically incapable of telling a lie – even a small one.

"We can do that, too," Fitzwilliam quickly amended. "I would love to hear you play, Georgie. But we need to talk first. If you will allow us to interrupt your practice?"

Georgie smirked. "You already did. So you might as well continue."

With an answering smirk, Fitzwilliam fell down on the settee, while Darcy gravitated towards the fireplace.

"Well?" Georgie asked as the silence stretched out.

More silence.

"I believe it is your line, Darce."

A deep breath. "Yes…" He turned to face his little sister, with her golden hair and her big blue eyes and the dark grey gown that was so utterly unflattering for her fair complexion. His little sister…

"Georgiana," he began uneasily, followed by a totally unnecessary clearing of the throat. "You know a good education is very important, don't you?"

She nodded with a frown, obviously trying to work out where he was going.

"Do you remember that first evening, when I told you I could not go back to school because I had to take care of Pemberley?"

"Yes…" Fitzwilliam clearly saw her apprehension rising, but so far, she seemed willing to hear her brother out.

"Well…" Another clearing of the throat. "It has been brought home to me that I really should finish my education. It is only a few months, and Mr Wickham can take…"

"You're leaving me alone here!?" she interrupted him at shrillness factor hundred.

"No!" Darcy countered emphatically. "I am not leaving you alone!"

"But…!"

"Will you just listen?" he snapped.

Georgiana bit her lip; she seemed on the verge of tears already. Not a good sign…

Darcy took a deep breath. "I have to go back to Cambridge for a few months, but I am not leaving you here all alone. Unfortunately, you cannot come to Cambridge with me, but I want you to come and stay in London. That is less than a day's travel from Cambridge, so we can visit. And you want to go to London, don't you?"

Her only reaction was a tremulous, "Alone?"

"No, of course not alone. Your governess and your nurses will be coming, too, and Fitzw… Richard will be staying with you as well."

"And you?"

"I will have to be in Cambridge to prepare for my exams, but I will come and…"

There was no point in finishing the sentence, for Georgie had streaked past them and out of the room.

Fitzwilliam blew out a breath. "I dare say that went well – not."

Darcy looked stricken. "What did I say wrong?"

Fitzwilliam shrugged. "Nothing that I can see. But clearly she is upset. I guess we had better find her."

In a house as big as this, a mere five minutes to locate Georgie in a rarely used parlour was no minor feat. But there she was, curled up in a wingback chair, crying her eyes out.

The two cousins looked at each other, each hoping the other would volunteer to try and console the crying little girl. Fitzwilliam was the one to ultimately give in.

Warily, he approached her, as if she were a wounded animal. "Georgie? Please don't cry?"

No reaction.

"Georgie?" He looked back at Darcy, unsure of the most effective strategy and afraid of making things worse. "What do I do?" he mouthed.

"Pat her knee," Darcy mouthed back. At least that seemed to work last time.

"You pat her knee!"

Darcy sighed, and joined his cousin kneeling in front of the chair. "Hey, Georgie." He patted her knee. "Please don't cry. Talk to me. What is wrong?"

She raised her head; but looking into those big blue tear-filled eyes was nearly their undoing. "You lied to me!" she tearily accused him. "You promised you would not leave me alone!"

"I am not leaving you alone!"

"Yes, you are!" she insisted. "You would be in Cambridge, and I would be in London." A new bout of crying. "How is that not alone?"

"I would help you settle in first, and I promise I will come and visit you a few times on the weekend. But you will have Richard with you, and Miss Keeling, and your nurses… How can that be classified as 'alone'?"

She just kept on crying.

"And think of all the fun we will have together!" Fitzwilliam tried. "There is so much to do in London, so much to see…! You won't have time to feel lonely!"

"Or would you rather go and stay with Cousin Stephen? He said he would be happy to have you. He even has a little girl about your age. But then you would not see me until the summer; Matlock is too far from Cambridge for a weekend visit."

Georgie shook her head. "I want Papaaa…" she wailed. "I just want Papa…"

There was not much her two guardians could say to that. All they could do was watch her cry, hand her their handkerchiefs, and feel utterly helpless in the face of the girl's tears.

"Maybe we should take her back to the nursery," Fitzwilliam whispered at last. "Her nurse might know what to do."

Darcy nodded dejectedly; he had no better idea either. "Come, Georgie." He climbed to his feet and tried to gently pull her up as well. At first she resisted his attempt, but then she all of a sudden threw herself at him and clasped her arms around his neck. He staggered under her sudden weight.

"Don't leave me alone," she half whispered, half sobbed in his ear. "Please don't leave me alone. You promised…"

"Georgie…" He tried to pry her arms off his neck, but she would not let go.

"You may have to carry her," Fitzwilliam said in a half-chuckle.

Darcy grunted, but did as he suggested. The result however was, that Georgie practically climbed in him, wrapping her legs around him, too. "Um… Georgie?"

Fitzwilliam found he had to bite back a laugh despite himself. "I don't think that is quite according to propriety."

Darcy sighed. "Propriety be hanged," he declared. "Come on, let's go. You open the doors."

They made their way back to the nursery, where an alarmed Miss Bosley quickly put aside her book and got to her feet. "What happened?!"

Fitzwilliam explained the plan of Darcy going back to Cambridge for a few months, with Georgie staying with him in London.

"Oh dear," Miss Bosley said. "I imagine that would have been a shock indeed. She has never been away from here for more than a day."

Darcy sighed, and shifted his sister's weight a little. "I don't understand. I thought she wanted to go to London?"

"She does; she couldn't stop talking about it yesterday after you promised her she could come to London with you next winter. It is probably more the fact that you will not be coming with her this time."

"And obviously, I don't qualify as a worthy replacement." Fitzwilliam sighed morosely. "So what do we do? Do we need to call the whole thing off?"

"I doubt it." Miss Bosley patted Georgie's back; she seemed pretty sure of herself. "Just give her a little time to get used to the idea. As long as you come up with a solid plan to stay in touch – like writing to her every day, if only to prove to her that you have not forgotten her – I am sure she will come around."

Darcy wavered. Could it really be that simple?

"Now why don't you put her down on the sofa, and you ring the bell for tea. I am sure some hot cocoa would do her good. And don't worry; I will talk with her."

Once the two young men were out in the hallway again a few minutes later, Fitzwilliam blew out a frustrated breath and rubbed his face. "We have a lot to learn, Darce. I had no idea being a guardian could be that hard…"

This time, when Darcy's brain registered the click of the door to his rooms being closed, he was instantly awake enough to know what it meant.

And he didn't like it.

The ominous soft footfalls behind the door, the near soundless opening of his bedroom door…

He groaned and pulled a small pillow over his head – but not before peevishly grating, "Georgie, go back to bed."

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping against hope to go back to sleep. The pillow at least was nicely smothering all sound.

He groaned again as he felt his sister climbing onto his bed. "Georgie, come on," he moaned. "You can't sleep here. Go back to your own bed."

Instead, he suddenly stiffened as her soft, warm fingers began to caress his neck, tracing his jaw all the way up to his ear. It felt kind of nice actually – soothing, and yet exciting in an understated manner. And quite a change from her previous shaking and pulling at his shoulder to…

The sudden sensation of a nose touching his cheek and wet sensual lips closing around his earlobe however made him suddenly bolt upright, hitting his head on the headboard.

"Ow!"

But he was too shocked to pay the bump much heed. For the ghost of a long arm reached up and hooked itself around his neck, and a looming figure approached his face to…!

With a startled squawk he managed to duck out from under the arm and roll off the bed, where he landed painfully on his knees. "Get away from me!" he squeaked. It was too dark to make out who it was, but of one thing he was dead sure: this was not Georgie! Had one of those pushy young ladies from the gathering today managed to stay behind on the sly perhaps?!

"Come to me, darling…" The well-endowed figure leaned over the side of the bed, reaching for him again. He couldn't scramble away fast enough, and having his feet entangled in the covers did not help matters. "You've been under so much stress lately," the seductive voice whispered. "Allow yourself to relax for a bit. Come in my arms, Fitzwilliam – let me help you relax."

"No!" He finally managed to free himself from the sheets and scramble to his feet.

It did not exactly improve the situation: she was instantly – almost like magic – standing in front of him and now hooking both her arms around his neck. And as he wrestled to free himself from her chokehold, she pressed her body up against his and her lips brushed against his mouth – he only just managed to turn his head enough to avoid an even deeper intrusion there. The scent of chamomile forced its way up his nostrils as his assailant rubbed her hair against his cheek. He tried to back away from her, but her talons kept him securely captive, and she followed his every move. Again, she tried to press her lips against his; he only half evaded her this time.

"Get away from me!"

Instead, she pressed up her body even harder. "Let me take you to paradise, my love… Just you and me, in the throes of passion…"

"No!" He stepped back again – and instantly felt a surge of panic: he had backed into the wall; he was trapped!

He struggled with all his might, caring less and less whether he was hurting a woman. All he knew was, that he couldn't call for help, for if they were seen in this intimate entanglement, he would be forced to marry this shameless whore. No, never would he allow that to happen if he could help it! But it did mean he was truly on his own in trying to fight her off…

Another attempt at a kiss; he felt a rising temptation to use serious violence against his assailant – female or not. "Get off me!"

But then – oh wonder! – she made a tactical mistake: one of her hands let go of his neck and slid into his nightshirt.

He pounced on it: grabbed her by the wrist, finally succeeded in pulling her other hand off his neck and pushed her an arm's length away from him.

And there they both stood, panting.

It was too dark in the room to make out her features, but she did seem familiar.

"Who are you," he bit out.

"Oh, don't be such a ninny." Her voice was still playfully seductive, but clearer now, and realization hit him like a brick.

"Lady Agnes!?"

"Yes – who did you think it was? Your bitchy Aunt Cathy?"

His mind reeled. "Does Hartwell know you are here?"

She scoffed. "That stick-in-the-mud? Don't be silly." She tried to advance on him again, but still holding her wrists, he managed to hold her off. "Come on," she crooned. "I've seen you look at me. Admit it: you want me most desperately, don't you…"

"I want you most desperately out of here," he countered. "You will leave this house tomorrow morning, and I never, ever want to see you again!"

"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport," she pouted. "I was just trying to give you a good time. Where is the harm in that? You looked like you needed it, after that dreary gathering today."

Darcy made no reply; instead, he began to first push and then pull her in the direction of the door. She struggled a little against his manhandling her, but it seemed more for form's sake than any real resistance. There was still the tense moment when he had to let go of one of her wrists to be able to open the door, but it seemed she had given up on her quarry. It was a matter of moments to guide her through his sitting-room to the door, and dump her out in the hallway, where he could finally see her properly.

"As I said," he reminded her as cold as he could muster, "You will leave this house tomorrow, and I never want to see you again. I am sure Hart… your husband will understand. Good night."

With that, he closed the door in her face and turned to slide down against it to the floor. His heart was pounding, and he was shaking all over. Good God, was this the kind of thing he had to look forward to when trying to find a wife?!

He buried his head in his hands. Of course he had heard of the concept of compromising someone in order to enforce marriage. But he had had no idea how powerless a man was in the arms of a determined woman… Blast the chivalrous honour and propriety that had been instilled in him since birth! You do not hurt a woman – ever! But when that woman is trying to claim you against your will – what then?!

His thoughts went to poor Hartwell. Did he know? Did she do this more often? From what he had seen, there certainly did not seem to be much love lost between the two, and Fitzwilliam's story confirmed that. But for a married woman to sneak into his bed and… well, assault him…?!

He leaned his head back against the door. He desperately needed to talk to someone. Fitzwilliam preferably; he would be the most likely to understand. And confronting Hartwell over this was not something he could countenance – no matter what he told Lady Agnes just now.

What time was it anyway? Could he disturb Fitzwilliam?

He climbed stiffly to his feet, and felt his way to the nearest sconce. Some fumbling with the tinderbox, and the room was suddenly bathed in welcome warm light.

His eyes sought out the pendulum on the chimney piece. Quarter to two – not really a civil time to disrupt Fitzwilliam's sleep. Clearly, it would have to wait.

He glanced at the door, and suddenly remnants of the earlier panic pawed at him again. For what if she came back?!

He darted back to the door – but as he should have known, there was no lock or bolt or some such. He would have to barricade it instead – with that wingback chair perhaps. And with that little side table and the fire irons on top. If anyone would try to open the door, it would cause such a ruckus that the interloper would flee forthwith.

Hopefully.

Darcy slept very ill the rest of the night, alert as he was to any sound from beyond his bedroom door. But all remained quiet (as it should), and once the clock approached six, he felt he could safely alarm Fitzwilliam; after all, as a soldier, his cousin would be used to rising early.

But first he had to remove the barricade in front of the door. He thought he already heard the servants moving about in the hallway. So once he had cleared away his barricade, he opened the door at a crack. Indeed, a maid was just passing with an empty bucket.

"You, miss!"

The girl turned, with her hand on her heart. "Master! You gave me a fright!"

"I am sorry, Tilly. But could you… or could you ask a male servant to deliver a note to Major Fitzwilliam? It is urgent!"

"Of course, sir." She curtseyed.

"One moment," he said, and disappeared back into the room. A pen, the inkwell, a scrap of paper…

Fitzwilliam,
I need to talk to you. It is urgent! Meet me in the stables as soon as you can.
F.D.

"Thank you," he told the waiting maid. "Please have this note delivered immediately."

"Of course, sir. Immediately." A quick curtsey, and off she hurried with her bucket and his note.

Darcy went back into his room, decided to skip shaving for now and just get dressed. And ten minutes later he was down in the stables, saddling his Pegasus and a horse for Fitzwilliam.

His worried cousin joined him when he was nearly done. "Darcy, what is the matter?!"

"Not here," was his terse reply. "You check the hooves."

Fitzwilliam did as he was told – he was a soldier after all. And five minutes later, the two friends rode out of the courtyard. Darcy immediately prodded Pegasus into a gallop, and Fitzwilliam followed suit. It was barely light though, so they couldn't run at full speed. Darcy led the way – not all the way to Sherwood Knoll this time; he held in his horse under a large bare chestnut tree by a babbling brook.

Fitzwilliam pulled up next to him. "What on earth is the matter, Darce? Something has got you spooked!"

Darcy looked around as if to check for eavesdroppers before turning to his cousin. A deep breath and… "I hate to tell you this, but…" A gulp. "Your sister… I mean, Lady Agnes… She came to my room last night."

Fitzwilliam's brow already furrowed into a ferocious frown.

Another gulp. "And she… I am sorry to say this, Fitz, but…" He did not dare to look his best friend in the eye.

"Go ahead."

"She… she practically assaulted me…"

Fitzwilliam's face hardened in obvious anger, but his first words were a clipped, "Are you alright?"

Darcy's head shot up with a jerk. "You believe me?"

It was Fitzwilliam's turn to look away. "Unfortunately, yes."

Darcy gaped at him. "She does this often?!"

"Of course. Why do you think she lives in London and Stephen at Matlock."

Darcy needed a moment to assimilate that. He had long known from Fitzwilliam's allusions that Hartwell and his wife did not get along at all. But this…!

Fitzwilliam cut into his thoughts. "Are you alright? Did you get away unscathed? Or did she… you know, cross the threshold?"

"No. Just a few bumps and bruises; I managed to get away. But of course I did not sleep a wink the rest of the night."

Silence.

"I am sorry, Darcy," Fitzwilliam at last said contritely. "I am sorry for my sister-in-law, I am sorry my brother is unable to control his wife, I am sorry he married the whore in the first place, and…" He looked up. "I am sorry I did not warn you that this could happen. I had not thought her as brazen as to go after you when you had lost your father mere days ago. I see now that I miscalculated. I am sorry."

Darcy nodded, and once more they descended into silence.

"But what should I do?" Darcy asked at last.

Fitzwilliam's jaw set. "You have every right to kick her out of your house."

A mirthless chuckle. "Already done. I told her to leave here today, and that I never wanted to see her again."

"Good."

"But what I meant was: what can I do to protect myself? If this is the kind of thing I have to look forward to in London when looking for a wife…"

"Talk with your valet," was Fitzwilliam's advice. "Have him sleep in your dressing-room or something whenever there are female guests in the house, or when you are staying with others. Your valet is your best protection from such unwanted nocturnal visits. And I am sure my Thorpe and Stephen's man – and even my father's – would be happy to share their tips and tricks with him."

Darcy nodded gratefully. "That sounds like sage advice."

They looked out over the dim fields to where the brightening sky at the horizon heralded a beautiful sunrise.

"I feel sorry for Stephen though," Fitzwilliam suddenly confessed. "He deserved better than this." A sigh. "I met her several times when they were courting, you know. She was all sweetness and light; no sign of… this. True, I was only sixteen or so at the time, but... she must be a consummate actress to have fooled him so." He fidgeted with the reins. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but his youngest, Philip, is not his son."

Darcy looked at him in understanding and sympathy. "I am sorry I cannot say that I am surprised."

"Don't be." A dark chuckle. "Henry is a typical Fitzwilliam. Virginia looks disturbingly like her mother, but does have a few distinct Fitzwilliam features as well. But Philip…" He shook his head. "He doesn't look like either of them – at all. At two years old, he is darker than you are, and you obviously got your colouring from your father."

Darcy frowned. "Could he not have gotten his colouring from his mother's family, too, then?"

Fitzwilliam shook his head. "Not a chance. You met them yesterday, didn't you? Her parents and siblings are all as blue-eyed, pale-skinned and very blond as she is. And I don't know how my family did it, but there is not a single dark-haired, brown-eyed ancestor in our lineage. All blue-eyed and blond or light brown – or at least blond in their youth." A deep breath. "Stephen has never said anything. I suspect he has chosen to pretend that Philip is his son in order to avoid scandal. But he is not stupid – I am sure he knows. As do I. And I have no doubt that Father has realized the truth as well."

They watched in silence as the bright orange disc of the sun came peeping over the horizon. And Darcy discovered to his surprise that he mostly felt sorry for little Philip. What humiliation awaited the boy once he was old enough to realize the facts himself!

His horse began to get restless and cavorted a little; he patted the animal in the neck to calm him down.

Fitzwilliam cleared his throat. "Maybe we should get back to the house. Or…?"

Darcy nodded, but asked, "Before we go – do you think I should tell Hartwell?"

Fitzwilliam sighed. "Yes. He ought to know what his wife was up to." And at Darcy's apprehensive look, he amended, "But I can tell him if you prefer. After all, it would not be the first time."

A frown. "What do you mean?"

A grim chuckle. "What do you think? She tried it with me, too, some years ago."

"She did?!"

A nod.

Darcy gawked at him. "So what did you do? Did you…" He swallowed. "I felt so powerless in her arms, bound as I am by honour and propriety not to hurt a woman in any way. I didn't know what I could do…"

Fitzwilliam gave him a rueful smile. "You know what my philosophy on the matter is?"

"What?"

"If the lady is so lost to propriety that she tries to have her way with me in my bed, then I have every right to ignore the strictures of honour and propriety in order to protect myself."

Darcy nodded slowly. "That sounds like a workable strategy. I will try and remember that."

Fitzwilliam smirked. "Good on you. Now let's go riding a bit. I need to burn off some frustration, and I would be very much surprised if you did not feel the same way."