Page 124 of A Debt Inherited

“Then I have not summoned the wrong man.”

“No,” Darcy said. “You have not.”

Mr Bennet gestured to the chair. “Then sit, sir, and tell me how much of my daughter’s danger belongs to you.”

That line would have angered another man. Darcy felt only its justice.

He sat. “Wickham was raised at Pemberley. His father served mine honourably, and my father rewarded that service with affection too generous for the son. Wickham had every advantage that could be given him without making him a gentleman.”

“And he spent them?”

“He sold them first.” Darcy laid the ransom note upon the table between them. “Upon my father’s death, he was left a valuable living in Derbyshire. He refused it and asked for money in its stead. I paid him three thousand pounds.”

Mr Bennet’s brows moved slightly. “A handsome sum for scruple.”

“It purchased none. The money was gone within the year. Since then, he has lived by debt, falsehood, and the use of my father’s name.”

“And now by ransom.”

“Now by ransom,” Darcy said. “But Wickham seldom contrives where another man may think for him. He is dangerous when cornered, not patient when required to plan.”

Mr Bennet’s eyes sharpened. “You believe another hand directs him.”

“I believe it possible,” Darcy said. “At Ramsgate last summer, Wickham had a confederate. A man named Kerr.”

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.