Page 62 of A Debt Inherited

Kerr did not touch his drink. “Clean?”

Wickham’s grin thinned. “Cleaner than London.”

Denny laughed, uncertain, looking from one to the other. “It’s good service, sir. Honest work.”

Kerr’s gaze held on Wickham. “Honest men pay what they owe.”

For a moment Wickham said nothing. Then, loudly, “Ever the monk, I see. Nothing in the glass, no company but your sums. You’ll rot of respectability, Kerr.”

“I doubt it,” Kerr said.

Wickham smiled over the rim of his glass. “Our friend here forgets the true advantage of country life. Fewer creditors, slower gossip, and people who still mistake a red coat for character.”

The candle flared, catching the colour in his eyes. Denny laughed, a fraction late.

Kerr reached for his glass but did not drink. “You’ll run from one debt to another.”

“Better running than rotting.” Wickham set his empty glass down, precise, deliberate. “You should come. A fortnight in the provinces—clean air, simple folk, and no one to remind you whose ink you write with.”

Kerr’s hand tightened on the stem. “Roark remembers for both of us.”

The grin faltered. “You’ve grown dull, Kerr.”

Kerr looked at him.

Wickham’s voice softened. “London has a long memory. The country has none worth respecting.”

Denny shifted, glancing between them. “We’ve a coach at dawn. If you change your mind, there’s room.”

Kerr said nothing. The rain ticked against the shutters.

Wickham set his hat on, the brim still wet. “You’ll miss the march, and you’ll regret it.”

When the door shut, the room seemed smaller. The clock resumed its ticking, slower than before. Roark’s voice rose again, calm as ever: You’ve been useful, Kerr. Do not become inconvenient.

He sat again, drew the coins nearer, and counted. Twice, thrice, until the numbers blurred. Six guineas, four crowns, and a scattering of shillings. The house was his by inheritance, yet each month it demanded more—coal, candles, servants’ wages, and the endless toll of London itself. Repairs waited, tradesmen grumbled, and the roof leaked where he could not afford to mend it. Wealth, once imagined perpetual, had worn to the bone. The Forge might be distant, but want was not.

The candle sputtered low. He pressed thumb and forefinger to his eyes until stars burned there. The ledger beside him held nothing but fear set down in figures. When the flame died, he did not strike another.

* * *

Morning broke colourless, the light thin as water. Mrs Price had been whispering in the passage since eight, and Kerr had counted each whisper as if it were a creditor at the door.

A discreet tap came, followed by Mr Price’s voice.

“A card, sir.”

Kerr looked up. “Another tradesman?”

“No, sir.” The man crossed the room, holding out a silver tray upon which lay a single visiting-card. The name—neatly engraved—caught the light: Sir Montgomery Price.

Kerr’s brows rose. “Is this some jest of yours?”

“No jest, sir. The gentleman waits below.”

Kerr studied the card, its edges immaculate. “Show him up.”

Price bowed and withdrew. A moment later, measured steps came along the passage.