Page 4 of A Debt Inherited

“I must marry,” Ashby said. “I have never pretended otherwise. But I will not be bred back into Scotland like a horse returned to stud. If I am to carry the title, I shall carry it with a countess of my choosing.”

“And Miss Pember is that choice?” Bennet asked.

“She is.”

“Why her?” Bennet asked.

Ashby looked towards the window. His eyes softened as his lips curled a fraction.

“Because she speaks to Julian rather than Viscount Glenbride.”

* * *

Trinity College, Sunday, November 11, 1781

The Michaelmas rain had eased—not ceased—before dusk and mist gathered in the hollows of the court. The hour was late; the air smelt of wet stone and horse. Every hoof scrape and buckle click found Bennet through the stillness. The glistening college walls caught what little light the lanterns gave. Bennet watched a droplet slide from the brim of his hat and fall to the cobbles, lost among a hundred others.

The post-chaise waited just beyond the Great Gate, its lamps hooded, the horses shifting under the traces. A faint steam rose from their flanks, catching the dim lantern-light. The driver kept his seat, hat pulled down, hunched like a beetle above the dark box. Nothing about the equipage invited notice; everything about it deserved it.

At the carriage door, Ashby tugged at his gloves, his smile coming and going. Above them, the dark windows of the College gave back no face, yet Bennet felt each pane as a possible witness.

Darcy’s purse lay heavy in Bennet’s coat. Fitzwilliam’s folded leave-paper sat inside his waistcoat. They had given what prudence allowed and rank might later deny. The gate itself belonged to Bennet.

He caught Ashby lightly by the sleeve. “You are certain of this?”

“Entirely,” Ashby said, too quickly.

“You could wait until morning. Speak first with Pember—”

“And give him time to lock me in my chamber? No.” Ashby’s smile vanished. “You mistake me. It is not the lady’s father who would bar the way, but my own.” He drew a short breath, almost a laugh. “You three, as second sons, have freedoms I do not.”

Bennet knew the truth of it. He might be overlooked; Darcy, forgiven; Fitzwilliam, protected. Each had some door through which to pass.

Ashby had none. He turned back to the carriage and drew the door open.

Only the pale shape of her gloved hand showed against the darkness. She shifted once, and the carriage leather answered softly.

“Are you well?” he asked softly.

“Very well, Julian. Pray be done with good-byes.” Her Cambridge vowels made the command sound softer than it was.

Bennet handed Ashby the purse, the leave-paper, and the itinerary. “From Cambridge through Huntingdon and Stilton. After that, take the northern road. Keep moving. Do not linger longer than the horses demand.”

He lowered his voice. “You were seen at chapel this morning, and that is your grace. Her absence will not be noted until after the first meal of the day. By then, you’ll be beyond Stamford if the roads hold.”

Ashby nodded and tucked the folded paper away.

Bennet glanced towards the coach. “And if they ask who she is?”

Ashby adjusted his gloves. “My widowed cousin, lately come south for her health. The veil spares her notice, not vanity.”

“A story worth remembering if the postmaster proves curious.”

Ashby accepted it and met Bennet’s eyes. “And you? What shall you claim?”

“I have been at Hall, arguing Cicero until the candles drowned. Nothing else happened tonight.”

Ashby breathed out, a thin sound between laughter and prayer. “God keep you, then.”