Chapter 28
The room above the bootmaker’s shop held the smell of polish and damp leather. Coats hung from a single nail; the washstand doubled as a table. Wickham’s laugh filled the narrow space.
“Come, Kerr! The evening awaits us. The town’s abuzz with talk of pretty women, and we the chosen heroes to oblige them.”
Kerr tightened the strap of his sword-belt. “Heroes are made after battle, not before it.”
“That depends who writes the account.” Wickham fastened his sash with a flourish. “I intend to give them something worth remembering.”
He turned before the small cracked glass. “Well? Do I pass inspection?”
“You always do,” Kerr said.
“Then the cause is just.” Wickham caught up his gloves. “Come, will you walk with me? The hour’s near, and the street below already hums like a fair.”
Kerr nodded. “I have no other road.”
“That’s the spirit.” Wickham brushed a sleeve against his cuff and looked satisfied. “We’ll dance, drink, and forget the day’s drills. A harmless night, unless fortune tires of us first.”
He went out, humming. The sound of his boots on the stair faded into the street below.
Kerr remained. In the mirror, the scar upon his forehead showed when his hair moved the wrong way.
He shifted it back, but the mark stayed—a thin, pale crescent that caught the candle’s tremor.
On the table lay a folded paper, its edge warped from damp: Roark will have his due. He turned it face-down.
From the street rose the steady rhythm of hooves on cobble, laughter already ripe with anticipation. He took his hat, the brim clean though the lining frayed, and went down.
Wickham waited at the door, grinning. “A sight, is it not? Every window alight, every face expectant. I’m told there are four and twenty families, most with eligible dance partners. Time to charm one or two.”
Kerr fastened his cloak. “I should hate to see any young lady sit due to lack of a partner.”
“The duties of a militia officer are many and varied.” Wickham checked his cuffs and stepped into the night.
The air smelt of lamp oil and the first cold breath of autumn. Wickham set his stride towards the square, light and certain. Kerr followed, the tread of his boots slow, deliberate—each step the sound of a man walking deeper into what he already knew.
At the corner near the square, a small knot of officers gathered beneath the lamplight. Their laughter rose above the rattle of carriages—young men in polished boots, their nerves disguised as cheer. Captain Townsend stood at the centre, his red coat bright even in the dusk.
“Ah, there you are,” he called as Wickham approached. “We were taking odds whether you’d arrive late, Wickham, or not at all.”
“Never late where beauty waits, Captain,” Wickham replied easily. “Have you reconnoitred the enemy?”
Townsend laughed. “A sound question. I can confirm the Bennet family fields two daughters to-night—one all beauty, the other all eyes and wit, if rumour has not lied outright. Gaining a set from either will be quite the competition.”
“Then the campaign begins,” Wickham said, touching his hat. “I may have to divide my forces.”
Kerr stood a little apart. He had meant to smile, but the name struck him before he could master it. “Bennet?” he asked. The word came quieter than he intended. “Are you certain?”
“As surely as I am standing here,” Townsend said. “I attended the colonel on his call. Their father’s a gentleman of the parish. You’ll meet him anon. Fine old family, by what I hear.”
Wickham turned, his smile crooked. “Does that sound familiar, Kerr?”
The tone was light, but the eyes searched.
Kerr felt the blood rise beneath his skin. The scar at his brow seemed to burn. “Every shire has its old families,” he said. “They multiply like sermons.”
Townsend laughed again, seemingly unoffended. “Then we are blessed indeed.” He gestured towards the square. “Come, gentlemen, let us test their hospitality. I’d not have Hertfordshire think the militia indifferent to beauty.”
The men moved off in twos and threes. Wickham fell in beside Kerr, his manner easy again.
“Touchy, are we?” he murmured. “I was only asking.”
Kerr kept his gaze ahead. “Ask less.”
Wickham chuckled. “As you like. But if the goddess or the wit take notice of me, I shall consider it Providence.”
“Then pray it’s mercy, not Providence,” Kerr said.
They reached the Assembly Rooms. Light spilt across the pavement, music already quickening within. Wickham straightened his coat and strode forward; Kerr followed in his wake.
* * *
The crowd parted for ceremony. Colonel Forster and Captain Townsend stepped forward, their scarlet coats bright against the lamps. Forster bowed first, Townsend followed. A ripple of applause—soft, provincial, sincere—passed through the room.
Kerr stood a pace behind the officers, the heat of the candles already gathering at his collar. Wickham leant close. “Observe, my friend—this is Hertfordshire’s court. Every duchess began as a farmer’s daughter if the lighting is kind enough.”
The colonel said something brief about honour, music, and local welcome; laughter answered him.
Then the orchestra struck the first notes of a country-dance, and Wickham was away, his smile quick and bright as a sabre.
He bowed to one lady, jested with another, and before Kerr could protest had written both their names beside his own on the card that hung at his sleeve.
Wickham carried him from group to group with the tyranny of good humour. Names passed too quickly to hold: Harrington, Long, Goulding. Kerr bowed, answered, and retreated whenever civility allowed. Wickham shone in his place, all polish and appetite, drawing eyes as a candle draws moths.
Kerr managed a bow and escaped towards the far wall, leaving Wickham to charm and sparkle without witness. The air there was cooler, though heavy still with the sweetness of pomade and powder.
He let his gaze fall to the floorboards, then to the swirl of gowns and red coats beyond. Music, laughter, the soft slide of silk—each sound seemed to pass through him rather than around him.
He looked up. Wickham was dancing, all grace and glitter, his partner a fair-haired young woman whose beauty made even admiration grow quiet. Her gown caught the light and returned it gently; her smile, when it came, silenced the chatter nearest them.
The dance ended; the crowd broke into talk and laughter. Wickham reappeared, his cheeks bright, his coat slightly out of order, a man entirely pleased with himself.
“Good God, Kerr, you look as if you were waiting for the firing squad,” he said, grinning. “Half the room unclaimed and you stand there sulking. You’ll have them think you lost a wager.”
Kerr’s mouth thinned. “I am not in the mood for frivolity.”
“Frivolity? Then you are already half-dead,” Wickham said. “I have just danced with the most beautiful creature ever set upon two feet.”
Kerr’s gaze drifted across the room to where the fair girl stood among her friends, light glancing off her hair like water. “She has been much admired,” he said quietly.
Wickham glanced towards the window, where his fair-haired partner stood with a dark-haired young woman beside her. “Come, I’ll introduce you before either lady can escape us.”
Kerr hesitated. “Then you must tell me their names, or I shall look a fool before half the town.”
“The eldest,” Wickham said, straightening his cuff, “is Miss Bennet. The other—Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Kerr stopped short. “Bennet,” he repeated, the name rough in his throat.
He looked at Wickham and saw that look—half amusement, half provocation—the man born to stir a wound just to watch it bleed.
“That name again,” Kerr said, too sharply.
A pair of ladies nearby glanced round.
Wickham’s smile deepened. “Careful, Kerr.”
Kerr’s colour rose. “You know very well I have no wish to stand up with a Bennet.”
Wickham’s smile widened, a provocateur’s victory disguised as charm. “Then I shall be generous and take your share.”