Page 59 of A Debt Inherited

The old names rose before Kerr could master them.

“Ashby.”

Darcy looked at Fitzwilliam, who shook his head. He turned back to Kerr. “What of Ashby?”

“Lord Julian Ashby. Miss Arabella Pember. Cambridge.”

He paused. “Stamford. 1781.”

Fitzwilliam’s mouth hardened. “What has that to do with my cousin?”

“Your names were there.” Kerr looked from Fitzwilliam to Darcy. “Fitzwilliam. Darcy. Near enough to know. High enough to be spared.”

Darcy’s expression did not change, but something colder entered his eyes. “My sister had no part in those events.”

“No.” Kerr’s voice roughened. “She had only the fortune Wickham promised would reach Pemberley.”

Fitzwilliam took one step nearer. “Take care where you lay that filth.”

“I found it already laid, Colonel. In magistrates’ papers, sealed letters, and family silence.”

Darcy’s voice cut through the heat. “You came to Ramsgate to purchase justice with my sister’s ruin?”

Kerr’s jaw tightened. “I came for an account.”

“No,” Darcy said. “You came with Wickham.”

Darcy held his gaze until the silence became answer enough.

“You will leave Ramsgate by morning. You will not look upon my family again. Do you understand me?”

Kerr’s throat tightened, but he managed a nod.

“Good.” Darcy turned away. “Come, cousin.”

Kerr exhaled.

Darcy had not reached the door before Fitzwilliam turned back. His hand shot out, catching Kerr by the lapel. The first blow took Kerr across the jaw; the second found his stomach and drove the air from him. Kerr hit the floor beside Wickham, his vision clouding white.

Fitzwilliam looked down. “If I find you within ten miles at dawn, I shall have you horsewhipped through the street.”

They left without another word. The door banged wide, and cold sea air rushed in after them.

Kerr lay still. The taste of iron filled his mouth. Beside him, Wickham gave a strangled laugh, blood running from his split lip.

“Welcome to society, Scotsman.”

Kerr spat blood on the floor. “You said Pemberley would make us rich.”

“It will,” Wickham whispered. “Just not tonight.”

* * *

The inn was still half-dark, the fire sunk to its heart. A candle guttered on the sideboard, its light catching the smear of blood on the floor that no one had cleaned.

Kerr had reached the wall and no farther. He sat there, shirt torn, one sleeve stiff where it had dried against his arm. Wickham lay on the bench opposite, eyes closed, the cut at his lip crusted brown. The silence between them was heavy with the smell of salt and smoke.

Through the open door came a quick, hard tread. Mrs Younge appeared in her cloak, her bonnet askew, a carpetbag in her hand. Her face was white with rage.