Page 123 of A Debt Inherited

“No, sir. I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, son of the late George Darcy, and nephew to Edmund Darcy.”

Mr Bennet’s hand tightened upon the head of his cane. “Then where is he?”

“My uncle died two-and-twenty years ago,” Darcy said. “A fall upon the moor above Pemberley. It was sudden.”

For a moment, Mr Bennet said nothing. The lamps in the hall threw his shadow long against the stair.

“Then the world is poorer for it.” His voice had lost none of its control. “My condolences, Mr Darcy.”

Darcy bowed.

“I summoned a dead man,” Mr Bennet said.

“You called upon his honour.”

Mr Bennet’s eyes lifted to his. Something passed across his face, too quickly to name. Then he stepped back from the hall.

“Come in, Mr Darcy. I would not have summoned anyone for a lesser cause.”

Darcy followed him towards the study.

“My daughter Elizabeth was taken yesterday afternoon,” Mr Bennet said. “She is held for ransom.”

The study was already warm. The curtains had been drawn; a tray stood ready—coffee, bread, and cold meat, and a single candle, though early morning light filled the room. Darcy entered behind Mr Bennet and took in the room in one glance: map upon the desk, papers weighted at the corners, a volume in worn blue calf set beside the inkwell, and chairs drawn near the hearth rather than arranged for comfort.

Mr Bennet had not been waiting. He had been working.

Darcy stopped beside the chair offered him. “When?”

“Yesterday afternoon. Between Oakham Mount and the lower lane.”

“Witnesses?”

“None who saw the taking. One boy saw a covered cart by the mill lane.”

Darcy’s gaze moved to the map. “And the demand?”

Mr Bennet crossed to the desk, took up a folded paper, and held it out. “Ten thousand pounds. To be delivered by my hand.”

Darcy unfolded it. The demand was brief and practical. Whoever had composed it understood both fear and time.

“Who brought this?”

“A militia lieutenant.”

Darcy looked up.

“Mr George Wickham,” Mr Bennet said.

The name struck where no fatigue could dull it. Darcy’s hand closed upon the paper until the edge bit into his glove.

Wickham.

Ramsgate returned entire: the white glare of the sea, Georgiana’s face emptied of colour, Wickham’s smile when deceit could no longer serve him. Darcy folded the paper with care. If his hand betrayed him, Mr Bennet gave no sign of having seen it.

“You know him,” Mr Bennet said.

“Yes.”