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“Mr Darcy,” asserted the officer, sidling closer.

Finn bristled but showed no outward appearance of it.

“I always assumed it was just the old biddies making a mountain out of a molehill,” replied the publican. “And as for Mr Bingham, I’m sure I never heard a bad word about him. He seemed a very affable fellow.”

“So affable,” said the officer, “that he might be under a lady’s skirts in the twinkling of an eye.”

“An affable nature is hardly an indictment,” replied Finn, casually taking a sip from his tankard.

“Mr Bingley,” asserted the officer, “was so particular to the eldest Miss Bennet, a beauty of local repute, that her family expected an open declaration of courtship at the Netherfield ball, which never came. Instead, Mr Bingley and his friend fled Hertfordshire the day after the ball, while Miss Bennet was spirited away to London the day after her father’s funeral. Or perhaps she has gone to some distant farmhouse to cover her shame? As to her sister and Mr Darcy, the rumours were rife, and I have it on good authority that their mother requested he offer her daughter marriage on the basis of the incident. Now, the second sister has also gone away, some two months after the ball. One can only come to the obvious conclusion.”

“You should be careful what you say, sir,” Finn ventured mildly. “To destroy a gentleman’s character on the basis of rumour—some might call that slander.”

“I do not speak anything but the facts, sir. You will not find Mr Darcy spoken well of by anyone in Hertfordshire,” retorted the officer. “Everybody was disgusted with his pride from the time he first made himself known in the town. But it was not until the ball that his licentious nature revealed itself. You will not find him favourably spoken of by anyone here.”

“And what was the nature of his indiscretion at the ball?” enquired Finn.

“His attempt to seduce Miss Elizabeth Bennet on the terrace resulted in them both falling off the balcony.”

“And you actually saw this happen?” asked Finn with a glance at the barman to check his reaction to the officer’s assertion.

“I did not, sir. For I only joined the militia here in Hertfordshire after the ball. But you could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information regarding Mr Darcy than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy.”

Finn frowned, thinking there was something vaguely familiar about this man. “So, you are well acquainted with Mr Darcy?”

“Indeed, I grew up on his ancestral estate. The greatest part of our youth was passed together: inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. My father gave up a lucrative career in London to be of use to Mr Darcy’s father and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by the late Mr Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Old Mr Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligations to my father’s active superintendence, and when, immediately before my father’s death, Mr Darcy senior gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to him, as of his affection to myself. He intended me for the church and thus I studied at Cambridge, but when the living that was meant for me became vacant, it was given elsewhere by his son, leaving me with no way to support myself as a gentleman.”

During this speech, Finn had, of course, recognised the speaker as George Wickham. Mr Wickham had left Pemberley by the time Finn joined Mr Darcy at Cambridge as his valet, but Finn knew that he had intruded on the young master’s notice several times since and never under good circumstances. The first incident had come shortly after old Mr Darcy’s death, when Mr Wickham had petitioned the master for money to study law. A second, most scandalous episode was when he had tried to abscond from Ramsgate with the master’s sister, Miss Georgiana. Finn knew the master had been within an inch of calling Mr Wickham out on that occasion. Now, here the impudent fellow was, trying to tar Mr Darcy with his own brush.

“But if you were not about, how came you by this story of what occurred at the ball?” asked Finn.

“I have it on good authority from Miss Elizabeth’s sisters,” asserted Wickham. “Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty have given me their confidence.”

Finn recognised the names of Miss Elizabeth’s youngest sisters from Miss Bingley’s frequent tirades.

“If I could give you some friendly advice,” said Finn, all amiability. “It would be to not repeat such second-hand stories.”

Mr Wickham seemed inclined to argue, but he was prevented from doing so when he was hailed by a group of officers who had just come into the tap.

“Wickham, you scoundrel!” laughed one of them. “How did you beat us here. I thought you were on watch?”

“I traded with Phelps so that he might go to church on Sunday,” said Wickham casually. Then, saluting Finn with his tankard, he joined the officers at a prime table near the fire that was obviously reserved for them. A hefty barmaid who had just carried in wood for the fire, brushed down her skirts and scurried over to take their orders.

“Well!” said the barman, shaking his head. “That would be very sad if it was true. Both the eldest Miss Bennets are lovely ladies. I hope with all my heart they have not been compromised.”

“I would take everything that fellow says with a grain of salt,” offered Finn dismissively.

“Do you know Lieutenant Wickham?”

“Not personally. He lived until recently under the auspices of a rich widow near St James. He was pointed out to me by a tradesman as a man who owed him a lot of money. I can only wonder what has inspired him to pursue a military career at such an advanced age, which would give him at least three careers—in the church, law and army—for I know him to be about thirty years, although he looks younger. I would be cautious about allowing him to run up a large bar tab if I were you.”

And so saying, Finn swigged the dregs from his tankard, enquired when it would be suitable to seek breakfast in the morning, and retired to his room upstairs. Everything he had said in his last speech to undermine Wickham’s credibility was true, the tradesman in question being Finn’s tailor. As the barman knew Mr Wickham had indeed joined the militia after it was first stationed in Meryton and did have a large bar tab, he saw no reason to doubt the veracity of the furniture salesman’s words.

Despite having successfully completed his mission to unearth a rumour, which, thanks to Mr Wickham’s efforts, were likely rife in the town, Finn did not intend to immediately return to London. He was a man who paid attention to details, and for the purposes of authenticity, he deemed it necessary to make at least one call in the district under his assumed trade. This, of course, was to Sir William. He found the gentleman at home in his saloon, pondering a Wedgwood bust of Horace on a sideboard.

“Come in, come in, Mr Nobley!” greeted Sir William. “You are just the man I am in need of!”

Finn had not expected such an effusive welcome and wondered if the footman had possibly announced him incorrectly.