Page 3 of A Debt Inherited

Bennet’s next jest died in his mouth.

Ashby pressed one hand over his eyes, reached into his coat with the other, and dropped a folded letter on the table.

Bennet did not reach for it. “Bad news?” he asked.

Ashby gave a short laugh. “Admirably phrased.”

He pushed the letter across the table. “My father has chosen my bride.”

Bennet took the letter. The seal had been broken badly; the paper bore the marks of a hand that had crushed it, smoothed it, and crushed it again.

Glenbride,

Lord Dunrannoch and I have opened terms respecting Lady Catriona MacLeod. The matter is not yet concluded, but I see no cause for impediment.

When the settlements are prepared, you will come north and conduct yourself with the civility proper to the arrangement and the obedience owed to your house.

Your inheritance was not preserved through indulgence, and it shall not be imperilled by English sentiment. You will remember what is owed to your blood, your title, and the lands entrusted to you.

Ashby

“Well?” Ashby said.

Bennet looked at the letter, then at Ashby.

“I know something of fathers,” he said. “I know less of earls. We had better summon our friends before I give you advice fit only for Hertfordshire.”

Within the half hour, Darcy and Fitzwilliam stood in Bennet’s rooms, the earl’s letter lying open between them.

Fitzwilliam read it first, once through and once again more slowly. He set it down with unusual care.

“Well,” he said. “Hopton’s articles began with more compliments.”

Darcy took the letter next. His face altered little, but Bennet saw his hand still at the final line.

“George’s are longer,” Darcy said. “And more civil.”

“Because he is to marry Anne,” Fitzwilliam said, taking the chair opposite Ashby. “My younger sister has a genius for improving a family negotiation.” He poured a finger into two glasses and pushed one towards Darcy, who had taken the last chair. “Who is Lady Catriona? I know the MacLeods by name, but not by consequence.”

“A Highland heiress,” Ashby said. “Well-born, well-portioned, and admirably Scottish in every particular my father values.”

Darcy looked from the letter to Ashby. “This is alliance, not merely marriage.”

“My father wants a northern marriage that cannot be mistaken for affection, choice, or weakness.”

“Why so fiercely?” Darcy asked. “You are his heir. He cannot fear displacement.”

“He fears dilution,” Ashby said. “An English wife, an English household, English habits, English sons. He hears surrender in the cradle before there is a child to hold.”

“Then let him hear it,” Fitzwilliam said. “He cannot disinherit you for preferring an Englishwoman.”

“Not cleanly,” Ashby said. “But there are other lives within his reach.”

“Lady Marjorie?” Bennet asked.

“My elder sister. 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.”

Ashby lifted his empty glass. Fitzwilliam poured him a finger’s worth.