Page 75 of A Debt Inherited

He turned before the small cracked glass. “Well? Do I pass inspection?”

“You always do,” Kerr said.

“Then the cause is just.” Wickham caught up his gloves. “Come, will you walk with me? The hour’s near, and the street below already hums like a fair.”

Kerr nodded. “I have no other road.”

“That’s the spirit.” Wickham brushed a sleeve against his cuff and looked satisfied. “We’ll dance, drink, and forget the day’s drills. A harmless night, unless fortune tires of us first.”

He went out, humming. The sound of his boots on the stair faded into the street below.

Kerr remained. In the mirror, the scar upon his forehead showed when his hair moved the wrong way. He shifted it back, but the mark stayed—a thin, pale crescent that caught the candle’s tremor. On the table lay a folded paper, its edge warped from damp: Roark will have his due. He turned it face-down.

From the street rose the steady rhythm of hooves on cobble, laughter already ripe with anticipation. He took his hat, the brim clean though the lining frayed, and went down.

Wickham waited at the door, grinning. “A sight, is it not? Every window alight, every face expectant. I’m told there are four and twenty families, most with eligible dance partners. Time to charm one or two.”

Kerr fastened his cloak. “I should hate to see any young lady sit due to lack of a partner.”

“The duties of a militia officer are many and varied.” Wickham checked his cuffs and stepped into the night.

The air smelt of lamp oil and the first cold breath of autumn. Wickham set his stride towards the square, light and certain. Kerr followed, the tread of his boots slow, deliberate—each step the sound of a man walking deeper into what he already knew.

At the corner near the square, a small knot of officers gathered beneath the lamplight. Their laughter rose above the rattle of carriages—young men in polished boots, their nerves disguised as cheer. Captain Townsend stood at the centre, his red coat bright even in the dusk.

“Ah, there you are,” he called as Wickham approached. “We were taking odds whether you’d arrive late, Wickham, or not at all.”

“Never late where beauty waits, Captain,” Wickham replied easily. “Have you reconnoitred the enemy?”

Townsend laughed. “A sound question. I can confirm the Bennet family fields two daughters to-night—one all beauty, the other all eyes and wit, if rumour has not lied outright. Gaining a set from either will be quite the competition.”

“Then the campaign begins,” Wickham said, touching his hat. “I may have to divide my forces.”

Kerr stood a little apart. He had meant to smile, but the name struck him before he could master it. “Bennet?” he asked. The word came quieter than he intended. “Are you certain?”

“As surely as I am standing here,” Townsend said. “I attended the colonel on his call. Their father’s a gentleman of the parish. You’ll meet him anon. Fine old family, by what I hear.”

Wickham turned, his smile crooked. “Does that sound familiar, Kerr?”

The tone was light, but the eyes searched.

Kerr felt the blood rise beneath his skin. The scar at his brow seemed to burn. “Every shire has its old families,” he said. “They multiply like sermons.”

Townsend laughed again, seemingly unoffended. “Then we are blessed indeed.” He gestured towards the square. “Come, gentlemen, let us test their hospitality. I’d not have Hertfordshire think the militia indifferent to beauty.”

The men moved off in twos and threes. Wickham fell in beside Kerr, his manner easy again.

“Touchy, are we?” he murmured. “I was only asking.”

Kerr kept his gaze ahead. “Ask less.”

Wickham chuckled. “As you like. But if the goddess or the wit take notice of me, I shall consider it Providence.”

“Then pray it’s mercy, not Providence,” Kerr said.

They reached the Assembly Rooms. Light spilt across the pavement, music already quickening within. Wickham straightened his coat and strode forward; Kerr followed in his wake.

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