Chapter 22
The inn stood above the harbour, its paint flayed by wind and salt. Within, the rooms smelt of seaweed and candle smoke. Wickham called it temporary inconvenience—as if comfort waited only upon the right signature.
Kerr said nothing. He paid the bill, carried the trunks, and let Wickham rehearse his charm upon the landlady.
The weeks passed much the same. Letters came and went through Mrs Younge’s hand; Kerr saw the careful loops of a young girl’s writing, the guarded softness of her phrases, and enough mention of guardians, jewels, and allowance to know Wickham had not lied about the fortune.
Wickham spoke of her as if she were a horse already saddled.
When at last he said, “Tomorrow, my friend—we ride for Gretna,” Kerr believed the money possible. The debts would be gone; the future, paid.
Darcy and Fitzwilliam would be made answerable first. Bennet would wait.
But that night, as he sat in the common room counting the last of their coin, the landlord came to his elbow.
“Mr Kerr?”
Kerr closed his hand over the coins. “What is it?”
“There are gentlemen asking for you, sir. In the private parlour.”
“Gentlemen?”
The landlord’s eyes flicked towards the passage. “Quality, sir.”
Behind him stood two men Kerr had not noticed before. They wore plain coats, but their white summer trousers and polished boots betrayed the army. One stood half a pace before the other. The younger man never looked to the landlord for instruction.
Kerr looked from one to the other. “Am I summoned?”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam requires you,” the older man said.
Something in the landlord’s face gave him pause. Fitzwilliam? Here?
Kerr rose, gathered the money, and followed them.
The private parlour stood at the rear of the inn, away from the taproom noise. The older soldier opened the door and stood aside.
Kerr entered.
The room was close and over-warm. A small fire had been lit though June pressed damp and heavy against the windows; its glow trembled over closed curtains, a sideboard, and chairs pushed back against the wall. No glass had been poured.
Wickham sat in the only chair left clear of the hearth.
He had not chosen the seat. Kerr saw that at once. His coat was dragged crooked at the throat, his hair damp at the temples. An officer—Colonel Fitzwilliam—stood behind him, one hand closed in his collar, holding him upright with no visible effort.
Near the mantel stood a gentleman in dark evening dress, tall, pale, and still enough to make the room seem arranged around him.
Wickham’s smile trembled.
The door closed behind Kerr, his escorts outside the room.
Kerr’s throat worked once. He kept his hands at his sides.
The gentleman near the mantel spoke first.
“My father fed you, educated you, trusted you, and remembered you in his will.”
Wickham’s smile steadied by effort. “Darcy, surely you do not mean to rehearse old grievances before strangers.”
“There are no strangers here,” Darcy said. “Only men concerned in your conduct.”
“Concerned?” Wickham gave a faint laugh. “Mr Kerr is a tradesman in inconvenience. He has no interest in family sentiment.”
Fitzwilliam’s hand tightened in Wickham’s collar. Wickham’s chin lifted a fraction.
Darcy did not look at Kerr. “You sold your claim, spent the price, returned for more, and when that failed, contrived to reach my sister.”
“Contrived?” Wickham said. “A harsh word for mutual affection.”
Darcy’s face did not alter. “She is sixteen.”
“And not without understanding.”
The blow came so quickly Kerr scarcely saw the hand move.
Wickham’s head snapped aside. The chair legs scraped hard against the boards, but the officer’s grip held him upright.
“Speak of her again,” Fitzwilliam said, “and I shall break your jaw before you form another word.”
Only then did Darcy turn to Kerr.
“Now, sir,” he said. “You.”
Kerr drew himself up. “I am a guest at this inn.”
“No,” Darcy said. “You are the man engaged to arrange the carriage.”
Kerr’s eyes moved to Wickham.
“Do not look to him,” Fitzwilliam said. “He has sold you already.”
Wickham’s mouth tightened. “I said only that Mr Kerr was misled.”
“A distinction you may enjoy later,” Darcy said.
Kerr kept his voice even. “I collect debts, sir. That is all.”
“So does every gaoler in England.” Darcy stepped away from the mantel. “Whose debt brought you to my sister’s door?”
Kerr did not answer.
Fitzwilliam shifted his grip and struck Wickham once in the ribs. Wickham folded forward as far as the hold allowed, breath leaving him in a broken sound.
Darcy did not look away from Kerr. “Whose debt?”
“Mine,” Wickham gasped.
“He did not ask you,” Fitzwilliam said.
The room pressed closer: the June heat, the needless fire, Wickham’s shallow breathing, the two soldiers beyond the door. Kerr looked at Darcy and saw no anger he might answer, no vanity he might prick, no opening at all.
“Roark’s.”
Darcy’s gaze moved to Fitzwilliam.
“Seven Dials,” Fitzwilliam said.
The words dropped into the room with less disgust than recognition.
Darcy looked back at Kerr. “You knew enough, then.”
“I knew of an elopement,” Kerr said.
“With a girl of sixteen.”
“With an heiress of thirty thousand pounds,” Fitzwilliam said.
Kerr’s eyes moved to him.
Fitzwilliam’s face was cold. “Do not pretend delicacy now.”
Darcy said, “And you arranged the carriage.”
Kerr did not answer.
“With my sister removed before I could reach her.”
“No.”
The word came too late, and too softly.
Darcy’s face did not alter. “You should have found it sooner.”
Kerr’s jaw tightened. “Your sister was not my object.”
“No,” Fitzwilliam said. “Only the price upon her.”
Kerr’s colour rose. “I took no price.”
“Not yet.”
Fitzwilliam let Wickham sag against the chair, but did not release him. Wickham gripped the arm and drew a shallow breath through his teeth.
Darcy’s gaze remained on Kerr. “Who set you upon us?”
“No one.”
“Do not compound your offence with stupidity,” Fitzwilliam said.
Kerr looked at him. “I am not afraid of a uniform.”
Fitzwilliam stepped round the chair. “Then you have not learnt enough from it.”
Darcy lifted one hand, and Fitzwilliam stopped.
The gesture was slight. That made Kerr hate it more.
Darcy said, “You came to Ramsgate for Wickham’s debt. You arranged the carriage. You knew of the elopement. Yet you say my sister was not your object. What was?”
Kerr said nothing.
Darcy stepped nearer. “What account did you hope to settle?”
The old names rose before Kerr could master them.
“Ashby.”
Darcy looked at Fitzwilliam, who shook his head. He turned back to Kerr. “What of Ashby?”
“Lord Julian Ashby. Miss Arabella Pember. Cambridge.”
He paused. “Stamford. 1781.”
Fitzwilliam’s mouth hardened. “What has that to do with my cousin?”
“Your names were there.” Kerr looked from Fitzwilliam to Darcy. “Fitzwilliam. Darcy. Near enough to know. High enough to be spared.”
Darcy’s expression did not change, but something colder entered his eyes. “My sister had no part in those events.”
“No.” Kerr’s voice roughened. “She had only the fortune Wickham promised would reach Pemberley.”
Fitzwilliam took one step nearer. “Take care where you lay that filth.”
“I found it already laid, Colonel. In magistrates’ papers, sealed letters, and family silence.”
Darcy’s voice cut through the heat. “You came to Ramsgate to purchase justice with my sister’s ruin?”
Kerr’s jaw tightened. “I came for an account.”
“No,” Darcy said. “You came with Wickham.”
Darcy held his gaze until the silence became answer enough.
“You will leave Ramsgate by morning. You will not look upon my family again. Do you understand me?”
Kerr’s throat tightened, but he managed a nod.
“Good.” Darcy turned away. “Come, cousin.”
Kerr exhaled.
Darcy had not reached the door before Fitzwilliam turned back. His hand shot out, catching Kerr by the lapel. The first blow took Kerr across the jaw; the second found his stomach and drove the air from him. Kerr hit the floor beside Wickham, his vision clouding white.
Fitzwilliam looked down. “If I find you within ten miles at dawn, I shall have you horsewhipped through the street.”
They left without another word. The door banged wide, and cold sea air rushed in after them.
Kerr lay still. The taste of iron filled his mouth. Beside him, Wickham gave a strangled laugh, blood running from his split lip.
“Welcome to society, Scotsman.”
Kerr spat blood on the floor. “You said Pemberley would make us rich.”
“It will,” Wickham whispered. “Just not tonight.”
* * *
The inn was still half-dark, the fire sunk to its heart. A candle guttered on the sideboard, its light catching the smear of blood on the floor that no one had cleaned.
Kerr had reached the wall and no farther. He sat there, shirt torn, one sleeve stiff where it had dried against his arm. Wickham lay on the bench opposite, eyes closed, the cut at his lip crusted brown. The silence between them was heavy with the smell of salt and smoke.
Through the open door came a quick, hard tread. Mrs Younge appeared in her cloak, her bonnet askew, a carpetbag in her hand. Her face was white with rage.
“They sent word,” she said, her voice low and sharp.
“I am dismissed. They will have my name before every household in London. I might as well go to France.” She glanced once at Wickham.
“There was to be no scandal. Miss Darcy was willing.” She took in a deep breath.
“Thirty thousand pounds was in our hands.” She turned to Wickham. “This ruin is your doing.”
Wickham opened one eye, winced, and said nothing.
Kerr rose slowly, feeling the pull of every bruise. “You should leave now. If they find you here, they’ll make an example of you as well.”
She did not look at him. Her eyes remained on Wickham. “I know what was written. I know what was answered. I know who carried the notes and which door was to be left unlocked.”
Wickham’s smile failed before it formed.
Mrs Younge drew her cloak tighter. “If I am ruined, Wickham, I shall not be ruined alone.”
She turned and went out, the door closing with a neat, final click.
Wickham shifted, drawing a long breath. “A charming woman. Loyal as long as the money holds.”
Kerr looked at him. “You are lucky you are not dead.”
“Darcy has too much pride for a public charge,” Wickham said, touching the swelling at his jaw.
Kerr took his coat from the chair. “Is Colonel Fitzwilliam as careful?”
Wickham swallowed. For one instant, nothing of charm remained. Then the smile returned, thin and bloodied. “And we begin again. You and I.”
Roark came to Kerr then—not his face, but his ledger. Names. Sums. Dates. Consequence. Fitzwilliam had done in scarlet what Roark did in plain wool: taught a debt with the hand and left the injured man to understand the account.
Kerr looked at the smear of blood on the floor, then at Wickham. Darcy and Fitzwilliam could not be reached by that road.
He still had one more name remaining.
“Gower Street, then.”