“You make it sound like paradise...where is the serpent and tree of magical fruit?” he had demanded, irritable with the man’s chronic whining and fanciful claims of superiority. George Wickham was the greatest of fools, for he fooled only himself, so many times that it had finally resulted in his courts-martial. “It is paradise, and rightfully, should be mine, or at least, half of it! And it would be, if not for Fitzwilliam Darcy!” The name Darcy was another repetitive torture. First a demon, then a saint, but most of all, the master of this grand estate. Kerrigan did not know what was worse, listening to fanciful tales of the wonderous Pemberley, or Wickham’s insistence upon his innocence. Well, he hardly knew about that, and truly did not care. When a person picked a fight, and then that fight turned sour, resulting in the death of one of the participants, it was only a matter of chance. But of his own guilt, Kerrigan had never denied. No, he had been guilty, but it had not been of murder, or any other such expected thing. His had been a crime of the heart, and for it, all had been lost. To make matters worse, the lady to whom he had risked everything, had turned upon him, claiming force when caught by her husband. It had cost him not only his rank and fortune, but resulted in six months in the brig, months he had nearly not survived. Now, it all meant nothing, and he had chosen his companions for their ability to do as told. Pemberley was indeed a treasure, but it had not taken long to discover that it was what was inside that held true value...the Darcys. The house and grounds were well guarded, almost as if they were expecting attack, making penetration difficult, but not impossible. Much like a medieval castle, patrols walked the near gardens and fields, while armed horsemen rode the paths and roadways, ensuring that no stranger passed through the estate without notice or inquiry. This had forced a change of plan, and one that entailed far greater risk, but the reward...if successful, would not require a further sink into what was already becoming intolerable. He would take his share and disappear, never to see the likes of Hendricks and Snell again. It would be necessary to re-invent himself, in a place where no one had ever heard of Captain Peter Kerrigan, or his disgrace. But until then, he was nothing, made a common criminal by the lies of a woman, with no regard for honor. No, now, as he watched father and son ride away through his spyglass, it was time to put his plan in motion. Putting away the instrument, he rose and kicked dirt over the fire. “Let’s go boys, its time to make some money.”