Page 60 of A Debt Inherited

“They sent word,” she said, her voice low and sharp. “I am dismissed. They will have my name before every household in London. I might as well go to France.” She glanced once at Wickham. “There was to be no scandal. Miss Darcy was willing.” She took in a deep breath. “Thirty thousand pounds was in our hands.” She turned to Wickham. “This ruin is your doing.”

Wickham opened one eye, winced, and said nothing.

Kerr rose slowly, feeling the pull of every bruise. “You should leave now. If they find you here, they’ll make an example of you as well.”

She did not look at him. Her eyes remained on Wickham. “I know what was written. I know what was answered. I know who carried the notes and which door was to be left unlocked.”

Wickham’s smile failed before it formed.

Mrs Younge drew her cloak tighter. “If I am ruined, Wickham, I shall not be ruined alone.”

She turned and went out, the door closing with a neat, final click.

Wickham shifted, drawing a long breath. “A charming woman. Loyal as long as the money holds.”

Kerr looked at him. “You are lucky you are not dead.”

“Darcy has too much pride for a public charge,” Wickham said, touching the swelling at his jaw.

Kerr took his coat from the chair. “Is Colonel Fitzwilliam as careful?”

Wickham swallowed. For one instant, nothing of charm remained. Then the smile returned, thin and bloodied. “And we begin again. You and I.”

Roark came to Kerr then—not his face, but his ledger. Names. Sums. Dates. Consequence. Fitzwilliam had done in scarlet what Roark did in plain wool: taught a debt with the hand and left the injured man to understand the account.

Kerr looked at the smear of blood on the floor, then at Wickham. Darcy and Fitzwilliam could not be reached by that road.

He still had one more name remaining.

“Gower Street, then.”

Chapter 23

The Strand, June 1811

Kerr sat at the same table, hunched over the same drink, staring at the door. He blew out his breath when Griggs entered, then felt his eyebrows lift when his friend stopped to speak with the proprietor. The man pointed towards the stairs; Griggs beckoned Kerr after him.

Kerr took up his drink and followed Griggs into a small room under the stairs.

“Privacy, Kerr. It pays to be cautious.”

Griggs closed the door behind them and dropped into a chair. “You set me a task, Kerr. Three names, all tangled in one another, and none easy to chase. But I’ve done my bit.”

Kerr sat in a straight-backed chair. Griggs settled in and rubbed the side of his nose.

“Fitzwilliam first,” Griggs said. “David Fitzwilliam. Matlock’s second son. Army. India. Dead by ’84 and buried like a saint. Whatever he knew went into the ground with honours.”

Kerr’s mouth tightened. “Not the colonel.”

“No. An earlier son. Dead before your scarlet friend earned whatever reputation follows him.”

“Darcy?” Kerr asked.

“Edmund Darcy. Pemberley connexion, as expected. Younger son though.” Griggs tapped his pipe against his boot. “He is dead too, if that is the one you mean. Ice, fever, accident—depends who tells it. Either way, no one seems eager to tell it twice.”

“Pemberley,” Kerr said.

Griggs looked at him. “You know it?”