Page 6 of A Debt Inherited

Darcy straightened. “We are.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me whether he is ill, or abroad.”

“He spoke to me of a horse in Newmarket the other day.”

True enough to pass muster, Bennet thought. Fitzwilliam always fought fog with fog.

“A horse.” The Bird’s brow rose slightly. “On a Monday in term?”

Fitzwilliam shrugged, the motion too studied to be careless.

“And you?”

The Bird did not look away; the silence lengthened, thin as wire.

Bennet heard the seed of derision underlying the query, as well as the absence in address. “I have not seen him since Sunday evening, sir.”

“Ah.” The Bird’s gaze lingered on him. “Sunday evening, you say.”

“As I said.”

“Late in the hour?”

“After Hall,” Bennet replied. “We spoke a short while in the court.”

“And you recall nothing of his intentions for the following day?”

“He mentioned none, sir.”

“Nor to you, Mr Darcy?”

Darcy’s expression was even. “He was in good spirits when we parted, sir. Nothing more.”

The Bird leant back, the chair giving a faint creak. “Good spirits. That will console the dean, I am sure.”

A beat passed. The clock on the mantel clicked its slow rhythm.

“It is no crime to leave the college grounds,” Fitzwilliam said, rising to his full height. Bennet admired the ease of it—the careless lord before a tradesman.

“Indeed, Lord Fitzwilliam,” the Bird replied, “but it is required that one make a declaration of absence.” He turned to Darcy. “You understand the reason.”

“We do,” Darcy said.

The Bird’s eyes went from Bennet to Fitzwilliam, settling upon Darcy. “If you learn anything—anything at all—you will inform me before dinner.”

“We shall.”

The Bird stood and waved his hand. “That will be all, gentlemen.”

As they reached the door, he spoke again. “Mr Bennet.”

Bennet paused.

Mr Finch regarded him steadily. “You translate Cicero well. See that you live him equally.”

Bennet inclined his head. “I shall try, sir.”

He stepped into the corridor, the air cooler there. Fitzwilliam exhaled sharply once they were clear.