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Kitty pivoted to take in a pair of bright green eyes. “Mr. Fletcher?”
He gestured, the motion dimly visible in the light that spilled in from the hallway. “I must discuss a certain toxophilite situation with you.”
For once, Kitty didn’t need to feign ignorance. She had no notion what toxophilite meant. Still, she turned to where a footman waited at the base of the staircase, his attention fixed studiously out the front window, ready to summon Netherfield Park’s butler if needed.
“One moment,” Kitty told the green eyes. She hurried back down the hall to thrust the pile of bonnets and shawls at the footman. “Please have these taken out to the terrace, then have the ones that go unclaimed brought back in and set aside for my sister Jane, and please tell my sister Elizabeth that I will check on Jane.” Kitty didn’t want Elizabeth to make the journey all the way back up the staircase when she’d only just come down. She plucked her own shawl and bonnet free of the pile as she spoke. “I am going to have a word with Mr. Fletcher in that parlor, with the door open. Feel free to look in at any moment.”
Though he appeared startled, the footman nodded.
Kitty showed him her dimples. “Thank you.”
With that, she hurried back to where Mr. Fletcher waited and into the room. Ignoring him, she crossed to one of the tall windows, tossing her bonnet and shawl on a sofa as she passed, and threw open the curtains. Turning back, she met Mr. Fletcher’s startled gaze. “Really, I have no notion why you are standing here in the dark.”
He blinked several times. “It seemed more clandestine.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Are we being clandestine?”
“Apparently not.” He looked around the little blue-on-blue room, then at the open door. Crossing the small space, he came to stand opposite her before the window. “I missed you at dinner last night. I have given a great deal of thought to all that you told me yesterday.”
“Have you? Because I have given a great deal of thought to all that you did not tell me.”
His mouth quirked. “Oh?”
“Yes. You did not tell me what you do, for I know you are not a caricaturist. You also gave me no indication of why you and Mr. Hurst, of all people, are so interested in the Archers, or of what they may have done to garner such interest.”
The sunlight streaming in caught glints of gold in his sandy brown hair. “As to the first, I am a Bow Street Runner. As to the second—”
“You are a Bow Street Runner?” Kitty blurted.
He winced. “Yes. Were you at dinner last night, you would know as much and be privy to how unsatisfactory an occupation Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst find that to be for the grandson of an earl. Or for any gentleman.” Mr. Fletcher frowned. “I could not ascertain if Mr. Darcy disapproved or not. He glowered a great deal.”
Kitty waved that off. “I believe that is simply his face.” Who cared about Mr. Darcy when she had an actual Bow Street Runner before her? “I think it is an absolutely wonderful occupation for you.”
“You do? My family certainly does not approve.”
“But whyever not?” She shook her head. “You are not to be an earl, after all. Being a Runner gives you a purpose and allows you to help people. That must be much better than being some sort of lay-about gentleman who will only have responsibilities if enough other people die.”
“Well, yes.” He stared at her, his green eyes wide. “That is how I see it. Most people do not hold with gentlemen earning their way, however. We lesser sons are meant to be at the mercy of our fathers and older brothers, and at their beck and call.”
“How sad for you.” Kitty didn’t trouble to hide her rancor. “Try being a young miss. The only thing we are good for is getting married. At least you are permitted to earn your way.”
“Why, Miss Kitty Bennet, are you a bluestocking?”
Heat raced into her cheeks but Kitty raised her chin. “I may be.”
“Well, Miss Bluestocking, how is it that you would like to earn a living, were you given the chance to?”
They’d stepped onto dangerous ground, but Kitty wasn’t worried. No one ever suspected her of being able to do much of anything, let alone become one of the top caricaturists in England. “You ask with such disapproval. I imagine your righteous indignation over not being permitted to work extends only to your own gender.”
“On the contrary. Many women work.”
“Gentlewomen?”
“Well—”
“And do you expect me to believe that if you married a woman and learned that she earns a living, or even so much as wants to, that you would be pleased? No. You would want her at home, at your beck and call, and your mercy.” She deliberately threw his words back at him, her hands finding her hips.
He went still, silence stretching between them. “Do you know, I had not thought of it in quite that way.” He studied her face, lines creasing his brow. “Do you want to be gainfully employed, Miss Kitty?”
