Page 2 of A Debt Inherited

The musicale was the first of Dean Pember’s Michaelmas evenings, a civil custom by which he contrived to see each undergraduate somewhere other than chapel, hall, or court. He held three such evenings each term—not for music alone, though his daughter played prettily enough, but to take the measure of young men when Latin, chapel, and tutors no longer stood between them.

The Dean’s rooms were warm, overlit, and so carefully ordered that hospitality appeared only the politest name for scrutiny. Chairs stood in obedient half-circles, and candles multiplied themselves in the glass. At the far end, the square pianoforte stood polished to a dark gloss and placed where every eye must sooner or later find it.

Bennet kept to one side while he waited for Darcy, Fitzwilliam, and Ashby. The position suited him. No one looked twice at a young man who appeared to be waiting for his friends, and waiting gave him leave to take inventory.

Mr Finch, the new moral philosophy tutor, hovered at the Dean’s elbow, murmuring names, counties, and fathers’ fortunes with the soft industry of a clerk at judgment. Dean Pember received each young man with measured warmth. Mrs Pember softened the trial with civil questions. Miss Pember stood beside her mother, raising her eyes only when courtesy required.

Edmund Darcy arrived, dark-coated, exact, and grave enough to satisfy any room that wished to be reassured.

“Mr Edmund Darcy,” Mr Finch murmured, “of Pemberley in Derbyshire.”

The name did its work. Edmund was not the heir, but Pemberley stood near enough behind him to warm the Dean’s welcome by half a degree. Miss Pember raised her eyes, considered Mr Darcy for the length courtesy required, and lowered them again without reward to his consequence.

The Honourable Fitzwilliam followed. His coat sat well, his neckcloth sat better, and his expression carried the ready insouciance his elder brother, Viscount Hopton, had perfected.

Mr Finch murmured the name; Dean Pember’s bow acquired a shade more depth. Mrs Pember asked after Lady Matlock. Miss Pember endured the full measure of Fitzwilliam’s smile and returned to stillness.

Bennet liked her for her disregard of both his friends.

Darcy came first to Bennet’s side; Fitzwilliam followed, having acquired a glass from a passing servant. “Have you named the new tutor yet?”

Bennet smiled, then recovered. “The Bird.”

“Unoriginal,” Fitzwilliam said. “His name gives it away.”

“As does his manner—small head upon a long neck, bowing and pecking to order and seed.”

Both his friends coughed into fists. Bennet heard the silence before he looked up.

Mr Finch had stopped whispering. His small head had turned just far enough to find Bennet.

Ah. Too loud, then.

Fitzwilliam bent his head towards his glass. “You have fed him.”

Darcy said nothing, which was worse.

Lord Julian Ashby stopped before Mr Finch with the bright impatience of a man already halfway through the room.

Mr Finch murmured his name with more care than warmth. Dean Pember received him properly, though not with the depth granted to Fitzwilliam. Mrs Pember offered the civilities owed to a northern heir. Miss Pember raised her eyes.

Ashby’s smile came too quickly to be polite.

Miss Pember did not lower her eyes at once. Her lips moved.

Bennet could not hear her, but he saw her lips shape the first syllable—Ju—before she remembered the room. Miss Pember lowered her eyes too late.

* * *

Bishop’s Hostel, Thursday, October 25, 1781

Ashby came in without knocking and went straight to the decanter, as if port, not conversation, had summoned him.

Bennet watched him fill the glass too high.

“By all means, my lord,” Bennet said. He drew out a chair with his boot. “Take the room by conquest.”

Ashby dropped into the chair, his face pale. Sleepless hollows marked the skin beneath his eyes. He drained the glass and set it down hard enough to make the decanter tremble.