Page 109 of A Debt Inherited

“Sir, I cannot answer for what may follow if you make sport of this.”

“You mistake me in your turn, Mr Wickham.” Bennet inclined his chin. “I have never been less amused.”

A muscle moved in Wickham’s cheek. His eyes went once towards Hill, then back.

“There are men,” he said, slowly now, “who will not be crossed. They are not gentlemen. They will not be moved by appeals to feeling. If they think themselves exposed, if they suppose you have raised alarm, they may act before anyone can prevent it.”

“How well you know them.”

Wickham drew breath too quickly.

“I know enough to warn you.”

“And too little to answer. We have established your position.”

Wickham’s hand tightened upon the message.

Bennet looked at the crease. “You damage your commission.”

For an instant Wickham’s eyes flashed. The neat mask slipped, and Bennet saw, not guilt entire, but vanity wounded past prudence. Wickham had come prepared to be necessary to a frightened father. He had not expected to be reduced to a clerk reading another man’s threat.

“If I read it,” Wickham said, “you will listen.”

“I shall hear.”

“And answer?”

“When I have determined whether the message deserves answer or the messenger deserves irons.”

Hill stirred by the door. Wickham heard it.

“Irons,” he repeated, and the word came out without its polish.

“A plain word. Useful in plain matters.”

“You would not dare.”

Bennet stepped nearer the desk, leaving only its corner between them. “Mr Wickham, my daughter has been taken from a lane within reach of my own fields. Her bonnet was found in a hedge before dawn. There were cart marks, two men’s prints, and the sign of a struggle. You arrive this morning carrying a concealed message concerning her, yet cannot name the hand that gave it you. Do not mistake gentility for shelter.”

Wickham’s gaze shifted again, this time not to the door but to the window, as if measuring distance. Bennet marked it.

“Shall I call John from the yard?” Bennet asked.

“No.” Wickham recovered the word too quickly. “No, sir. There is no need.”

“Then read.”

Wickham broke the seal with his thumb.

Chapter 41

Wickham unfolded the paper with more care than the act deserved.

Bennet watched the delay. Each neat movement gave Wickham another instant in which to recover himself. The fold opened, the page settled, and still Wickham did not speak.

Hill remained at the door. Bennet heard no movement from him, but the room had changed since the seal gave way. Three men now stood inside the same danger, and one of them still hoped to pass through it unstained.

Wickham lowered his eyes to the page.