Page 162 of A Debt Inherited

“I do not believe I shall.” Darcy turned to his cousin. “But what of Wickham?”

Fitzwilliam smiled. The expression showed too many teeth and no amusement.

“He is secured to the largest oak in the woods.”

Darcy turned towards the tree line.

“Alive?”

“For now.” Fitzwilliam glanced towards Harris and Simms.

“Those two will keep him upon the tree until we are ready to move.”

“And then?”

“They will deliver him to the militia provost. His colonel may answer to the magistrates for what remains of him.”

Fitzwilliam offered his hand. Darcy took it, boots scraping against the grit as he rose. His cousin’s grip was firm, his own balance uncertain, but pride forbade any falter. The air struck cool upon the sweat of his neck. He lifted a hand to his face; it came away red.

Kerr’s blood, not his own.

He looked at it a moment, then wiped it against his coat.

Goliath stamped and tossed his head; Perseus waited nearby, broad-shouldered and patient as ever.

The air lightened by degrees, enough now to show the churned ground beneath their boots.

They walked towards the horses. “Glad to see you had sense enough to drop when that hammer came through the window,” Fitzwilliam said. “I thought you might still be fool enough to stand and fight.”

Darcy managed a thin smile. “I remember our youth well enough. You always preferred a diversion before mischief turned earnest.”

“Distraction is a weapon.”

Fitzwilliam swung into the saddle, the faintest trace of satisfaction about his eyes. He adjusted the bridle until every strap lay straight.

“By the by, cousin, you owe my man a hammer. He was rather attached to the one he sent through the window.”

“I shall replace it with all due haste.

“See that you do. Something better balanced—Harris has expensive tastes, now that he has added rescue work to his repertoire.”

“You spend my money rather freely, cousin.”

“You may mock when you have stopped bleeding upon my boots.”

Darcy glanced at his sleeve. The torn cloth clung darkly from shoulder to cuff. His arm had begun to throb in earnest now that necessity no longer held it still. The fingers of his right hand answered only reluctantly. He closed them once, then again.

“A scratch,” Darcy said.

“Naturally. A gentleman may be half dead, provided he remains exact in his descriptions.”

Darcy gave him a look. “You have ever taken too much pleasure in my discomfort.”

“Only when it is self-inflicted.” Fitzwilliam’s expression altered by a hair. “You came alone.”

Darcy did not answer at once. “Miss Bennet was here.”

“Yes.”