Page 46 of A Debt Inherited

“Do not thank me. Gratitude sits oddly in the mouth of a man who has just named the knife.” Hatherleigh lifted his cup. “Next time, Mr Kerr, send the footman up first. It is always better to let a house announce its own disgrace.”

Kerr bowed and withdrew. In the street, the air was cold and clean, the sound of hooves muffled by the fog. He weighed the envelope in his hand—a gentleman’s coin for a gentleman’s sin—and with a discomfort almost like pleasure, knew Hatherleigh had not mistaken him for a servant.

The insult had been precise; so had the courtesy. Kerr found, to his disgust, that the courtesy stung deeper.

* * *

Upper Gower Street, April 1811

The fog had thinned to a low drift that clung to the railings and the lamps. Kerr walked with his collar up, the list folded in his pocket.

Mowbray had paid before the kettle cooled—afraid, perhaps, of soiling his hands with coin touched by Roark’s name.

Barstow had needed a firmer tone, promises smelling of ale and delay.

Titherington talked of law and consequence; Kerr left him a deadline instead.

Denby had offered violence; his poker left a bruise across Kerr’s ribs. When Kerr related the incident, Roark’s reply had been brief:

“Lick your wounds. Denby will soon do the same.”

Hargreaves signed quickly, perspiring through his linen.

Penworth wept as he wrote his draft, sealing it with ink and despair.

The street ahead was quiet, lined with lamps and polished doors. He paused before the next house on his list and felt a short, involuntary laugh rise in his throat.

Mr George Wickham, Upper Gower Street.

Four doors from his own.

He looked at the light in the window, steady and warm, and for a moment wondered that debt could lie so near and still go unseen.

The house at No. 14 bore the look of gentility too long in service: clean steps, paint beginning to fade, a brass plate polished past legibility. The faint smell of boiled cabbage clung to the rail.

Kerr knocked. The door opened a fist’s breadth. A woman in a dark shawl looked out, one hand flat against the wood, the other holding the latch. Her cap had yellowed at the edge; a ring of keys hung from her waist.

“Mr Wickham?”

She lowered her eyes to his cuffs, his gloves, the mud at his boot, then returned to his face. “He lets the second-floor front. Are you expected?”

Kerr glanced up; a curtain vibrated, then stilled. He offered his card. “He will wish to see me.”

She looked at the card, then at him. Kerr did not lower his eyes. She pursed her lips, then stood aside. “Mind the stair; the carpet’s loose.”

The hall was narrow, the air heavy with starch and furniture polish. Voices murmured behind a closed door, and somewhere above, a piano played ill. At the second landing, Kerr knocked.

The door opened at once. A man stood there in a well-cut coat of dove grey, a striped waistcoat, and fresh linen. His hair was brushed with care. His smile came before Kerr could speak.

“Mr Kerr,” he said, as though the name were familiar. “From Roark, I suppose. I had wondered whether he would send civility or compulsion.”

Kerr inclined his head. “Today, sir, he sends civility.”

Wickham laughed lightly, with a polish the stairwell did not deserve. “Come in, sir. We needn’t transact business on the step. It lowers the tone of the street, and I am barely keeping it afloat as it is.”

The room beyond was modest but ordered: a worn carpet, two decent chairs, a decanter half-empty on the sideboard. Wickham touched the back of one chair.

“You’ll forgive the lack of fire,” Wickham said, taking his own chair with the ease of habit. “Coal’s dear, and I have a weakness for warmth in conversation rather than hearths.”