Chapter 46
“Kerr?” He shook his head. “Was he of Wickham’s stamp?”
Darcy’s hand moved once across his jaw. “He was more clerk than rogue. Where Wickham put on the pretence of being a gentleman, Kerr held fast to his position as a collector of debts.”
“He is a scrivener?”
“A front man for one. A man named Roark, dangerous enough in his trade.”
Bennet let that settle. “Would a collector of debts orchestrate a kidnapping?”
“If a man of Roark’s guile is behind this, perhaps.” Darcy frowned. “Though I cannot yet see why a Seven Dials lender would trust a Scotsman with gentleman’s manners and no visible profit.”
Bennet blinked. “Kerr,” he said before he could help himself.
He levered himself up.
“Sir,” Darcy said, “is there some—”
Bennet lifted one hand, asking silence. He took three steps towards the desk, stopped, turned, and took them back again.
Kerr.
The name touched some closed place in memory, then slipped away when he reached for it.
“Kerr,” he said at last, testing the sound against the room.
Darcy had not moved.
Bennet paced again, slower now. Not Wickham’s world. Not Hertfordshire. Not the militia. Scotland. A woman’s name attached to it. A widow.
Ashby.
He stopped beside the map, one hand upon the table’s edge.
Bishop’s Hostel returned by degrees: rain at the window, port too hastily poured, Julian Ashby’s father’s letter lying crushed between four young men, and Julian himself white about the mouth despite all his careless grace.
“Lady Marjorie?” Bennet had asked.
“My elder sister,” Julian had said. “Lady Marjorie Kerr, now. Widowed, dependent, and with a son my father may remember as blood or dismiss as another man’s boy whenever it suits him. She will always be Ashby to me, but she married Major Robert Kerr of Drumcairn.”
The memory stopped there.
Bennet looked up. “You did say Kerr.”
“I did.” Darcy’s gaze did not move from him. “The name means something to you.”
“It does.” Bennet lowered himself into the chair, his cane supporting his weight. Exhaustion crept up his legs. “It belonged to a room I had believed shut these thirty years.”
Darcy’s eyes sharpened. “What room?”
Bennet looked at him for a moment. Edmund’s nephew. George Darcy’s son. Lady Anne Fitzwilliam’s son. The old names had not gone; they had merely changed faces.
“Cambridge,” Bennet said. “Bishop’s Hostel. We were four then: Edmund Darcy, David Fitzwilliam, Lord Julian Ashby, and I.”
“David Fitzwilliam was my mother’s brother.”
“Yes. And he was my friend.” Bennet looked towards the fire. “Edmund, David, and I were second sons. It made a brotherhood of its own, or so we thought. Then Ashby came along.”
Darcy remained still. “And the Kerr connexion?”
“His elder sister.” Bennet looked down at the map, though he no longer saw it. “Lady Marjorie Kerr. Widow of Major Robert Kerr. She had a son.”
Darcy’s face changed by no more than a degree, but Bennet saw the calculation enter it.
“The man at Ramsgate called himself Kerr. Wickham used no Christian name in my hearing.”
“Then we have only a surname and a wound thirty years old.”
“That may be enough.” Darcy leant forward. “Was there money?”
Bennet gave a short, bitter breath. “There is always money when families speak of blood.”
Darcy waited.
“Julian Ashby was heir to Glenbride. His father meant to bind him to a Highland alliance. Julian loved another.”
“And you assisted him.”
“We all did,” Bennet said. “Edmund with a purse. David with gate passes. I with a path to Gretna.”
Darcy’s eyes widened. “An elopement?”
“An attempted one.”
The fire gave a low crack. Bennet looked towards it, and for one moment the study dissolved into rain, candle smoke, and the white line of Julian’s knuckles round a glass.
“It ended badly,” Bennet said.
Darcy’s expression sharpened. “Stamford.”
“You know the name?”
“Only from family silence.” Darcy’s voice had altered. “My uncle Edmund’s papers were sealed after his death. My father would never speak of that winter.”
Bennet closed his eyes once. “Then he had more mercy than I deserved.”
“Sir, mercy will not find Miss Elizabeth.”
The rebuke struck cleanly because it was true. Bennet opened his eyes. Darcy had risen without noise; the ransom letter lay between them, stark upon the table.
“Tell me only what bears upon her danger,” Darcy said. “If Kerr’s grievance comes from Ashby, what does he want of you?”
Bennet shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“And Wickham?”
“Money.”
Darcy’s jaw set. “Then Wickham is the more immediate peril. A man seeking punishment may delay for theatre. A man seeking money will not.”
Bennet stood. His bad leg protested; he ignored it. He did not have to ask if Darcy would assist. “What have you in mind?”
“Wickham,” Darcy said. “Kerr may explain the design, but Wickham will spoil it by appetite. When is he to return?”
“At noon.”
Darcy glanced at the mantel clock. Several hours remained.
“Then we have the morning.” Darcy took up the ransom note and read it once more. “Did he come alone?”
“To the door, yes.”
“And to the lane?”
Bennet’s eyes narrowed. “You think he was watched.”
“If Roark has a hand in this, Wickham will not be trusted with ten thousand pounds, nor with the only path to your daughter.”
Bennet’s face changed. “Then Wickham may not know where she is.”
“He may know enough to reach the next man. That is what we require.” Darcy set the note down. “I must send an express to my cousin. He will know what weight to give Roark’s possible involvement.”
“Your cousin?”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
Bennet drew a breath. “David’s nephew.”
“Yes.”
For a moment the old name stood between them. Darcy did not touch it.
“If Roark is a coincidence,” he said, “so much the better for your daughter. Until I know it, I shall not treat him as one.”
Bennet looked at the desk, at the map, at the ransom note lying upon it. All his careful marks had brought him only to this: another man must be summoned, another old name disturbed.
He drew the chair back. “Then write to him, sir. Use anything here.”
Darcy pulled a blank sheet from the side drawer and took up the pen. He wrote without flourish: Wickham, Kerr, Roark. Miss Elizabeth Bennet taken near Oakham Mount. Wickham to return at noon concerning the ransom.
Roark’s name has arisen. I do not know whether he directs this matter, lends men to it, or only furnished Kerr with means. Go to Roark before you come to Longbourn. If he has a hand in this, he may know where Miss Bennet is held, or who does.
I shall keep Wickham engaged and offer myself as surety until the money is called for.
Come quickly and bring whom you trust.
D
Darcy sanded the sheet and sealed it. “Please have my man come round.”
A moment later, Barty stood in front of Bennet’s desk. Darcy handed him the express.
“See James off immediately. This,” Darcy said, “is a matter of life and death.”
Barty took the letter. His eyes moved once to Darcy’s face, then to the seal.
“And after, sir?”
“Return here. You will remain with Mr Bennet until Colonel Fitzwilliam arrives.”
Barty bowed once. “Yes, sir.”
He left them.
Bennet followed his gaze. The hour hand had not moved far enough to justify impatience, yet it seemed ready to accuse them. His stomach turned once, hollow and sour. He had taken nothing since the previous morning; if Wickham meant to play at courage, Bennet would not meet him faint.
“Let us eat, Mr Darcy.”
Darcy’s mouth curved, the first sign of warmth Bennet had seen in him. “Darcy, if you please. May I name you Bennet?”
“Your uncle’s exact words upon our second encounter at Trinity Chapel.”
Bennet rose and gestured to the door. “Come, Darcy. Mrs Hill will have fed your men already. The dining room awaits our august presence.”