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forestall it, the story was widely admired. As he was known to be of above moderate taciturnity, no one dared ask Mr. Darcy to either concede or disclaim the rumour.
    In truth, there was another, far more scandalous reason for him to be in town that week. He would have come too his friend’s rescue regardless, but the other motive was of such detestable urgency that Mr. Darcy risked life and limb to keep it a private matter. Saving Lydia Bennet-Wickham-Kneebone from herself was hardly a singular event. He undertook that office with no small reluctance, determined to untangle his family from George Wickham’s clutches once and for all.
    Through considerable monetary compensation, Wickham was persuaded to forgo his undying love and devotion for his child bride and give her up to her second husband, Major Kneebone. As Wickham had charges of murder and desertion from duty filed against him, he had reason and means to make his escape. Whether he did or not remained unknown. Darcy had left Wickham that day alive and well (albeit with a line of vengeance-seekers forming at his door), reported his whereabouts to the magistrate, and wiped his hands of the matter.
    After everyone that was in his power to be put to right had been redressed, the Darcys left town and sallied forth unto Pemberley, content to abide there into peaceful eternity.
    Their serenity had been shattered ere they gained the portico steps.
    They were met not only by their children, nurse, and Mrs. Bennet, but two hand-wringing servitors as well. (Obvious in his absence was their steward, which foreshadowed news of the most disturbing sort.) Having never seen either of these specific servants in such a pother at the same time—at least over events unfamiliar to him—Mr. Darcy was of a mind to take an audience with them directly. There were far higher priorities for Mrs. Darcy. She was quite happy to leave such bad business to her husband and hurried off to fuss over their twins and to submit to her mother’s aggravations and spleen.
    Neither envied the others’ task.
    Whilst Mrs. Bennet caterwauled about the impudence of Sir Morland to Elizabeth, Darcy was apprised of the unhappy news that whilst they had been in town, the very privacy Mr. Darcy had striven to protect with his every word and deed, had been lacerated. All the worse, the party guilty of this breach was not a stranger. Nay, the culprit was the man whose very life had been sworn to uphold that privacy.
    Advising Mr. Darcy of misconduct within his house should have fallen to the errant Cyril Smeads, Mr. Darcy’s steward. As Mr. Smeads himself was the malefactor, there had been a passing (but very contentious) rhubarb between the butler, Mr. Howard; Mrs. Darcy’s maid, Hannah; and Mr. Darcy’s long time dresser, Goodwin; as to which of them would have the pleasure of tattling first. Mr. Howard held the senior position, Goodwin, trumped them both in longevity. Hannah, however, was both outraged and loquacious. She elbowed passed both men and the story began tumbling from her lips ere either of them gathered their thoughts.
    “Smeads, sir—he done sold viewings of our dear babies ! People gave him two pennies a head to come to the door of the nursery—,” her voice trembled with anger and she was unable to carry on. Instead, she held out her hand. In it was the money Smeads had collected. “Poor Margaret didn’t know what to do!”
    Mr. Darcy’s grasp of the situation was remarkable in its rapidity. In the wake of that understanding, his state of mind swerved from well-above angry to just shy of apoplectic. This rage was betrayed only by the barest flicker of his nostrils.
    “Where is Mr. Smeads at this time?” he bid mildly.
    His economy of language and evenness of his tone did not in any way suggest that his interest in the whereabouts of his steward was casual.
    “Gone, sir,” sputtered Mr. Howard. “Stole away in the dark of night like the dog he is!”
    “He got his comeuppance, I