Page 57 of A Debt Inherited

The gentleman near the mantel spoke first.

“My father fed you, educated you, trusted you, and remembered you in his will.”

Wickham’s smile steadied by effort. “Darcy, surely you do not mean to rehearse old grievances before strangers.”

“There are no strangers here,” Darcy said. “Only men concerned in your conduct.”

“Concerned?” Wickham gave a faint laugh. “Mr Kerr is a tradesman in inconvenience. He has no interest in family sentiment.”

Fitzwilliam’s hand tightened in Wickham’s collar. Wickham’s chin lifted a fraction.

Darcy did not look at Kerr. “You sold your claim, spent the price, returned for more, and when that failed, contrived to reach my sister.”

“Contrived?” Wickham said. “A harsh word for mutual affection.”

Darcy’s face did not alter. “She is sixteen.”

“And not without understanding.”

The blow came so quickly Kerr scarcely saw the hand move.

Wickham’s head snapped aside. The chair legs scraped hard against the boards, but the officer’s grip held him upright.

“Speak of her again,” Fitzwilliam said, “and I shall break your jaw before you form another word.”

Only then did Darcy turn to Kerr.

“Now, sir,” he said. “You.”

Kerr drew himself up. “I am a guest at this inn.”

“No,” Darcy said. “You are the man engaged to arrange the carriage.”

Kerr’s eyes moved to Wickham.

“Do not look to him,” Fitzwilliam said. “He has sold you already.”

Wickham’s mouth tightened. “I said only that Mr Kerr was misled.”

“A distinction you may enjoy later,” Darcy said.

Kerr kept his voice even. “I collect debts, sir. That is all.”

“So does every gaoler in England.” Darcy stepped away from the mantel. “Whose debt brought you to my sister’s door?”

Kerr did not answer.

Fitzwilliam shifted his grip and struck Wickham once in the ribs. Wickham folded forward as far as the hold allowed, breath leaving him in a broken sound.

Darcy did not look away from Kerr. “Whose debt?”

“Mine,” Wickham gasped.

“He did not ask you,” Fitzwilliam said.

The room pressed closer: the June heat, the needless fire, Wickham’s shallow breathing, the two soldiers beyond the door. Kerr looked at Darcy and saw no anger he might answer, no vanity he might prick, no opening at all.

“Roark’s.”