Page 26 of The Cat Who Loved Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

“As a result, I have not invited Mr. Wickham to the upcoming ball,” Bingley added, “nor do I intend to.

I hope Mr. Darcy arrives beforehand—I wrote to him last night—but in the meantime, I thought it best to speak to you directly.

I know nothing of Wickham's past, but if there is danger in trusting too soon, I could not remain silent.”

There was a pause, heavy but not strained.

Mr. Bennet’s reply, when it came, was firm. “I thank you, Mr. Bingley. It speaks well of you to speak so plainly—especially when it goes against your amiable nature. I shall take your warning seriously. I, too, have noted something behind the man’s charm that gives me pause.”

Bingley nodded with relief, rising from his seat. “I am glad, sir. It may be nothing, but I would rather err on the side of caution than regret silence.”

“And I am glad,” Mr. Bennet replied, standing as well, “that there are still gentlemen willing to name impropriety when they see it—however well-dressed it may be.”

With a courteous bow, Bingley took his leave. As he stepped into his carriage and gave the signal to his driver, he felt a measure of quiet resolve settle over him. He had done what he could. The rest, for now, was in wiser hands.

***

The morning was fine, and Mr. Bennet found himself once more on the road to Meryton, having set out to attend a minor legal matter at his brother-in-law Mr. Phillips’s office. His tolerance for gossip and quill-work being limited, he had no intention of lingering longer than necessary.

Yet just as he was crossing the narrow thoroughfare near the market stalls, something caught his eye.

Across the square, not fifteen yards distant, stood Mr. Wickham, his red coat unbuttoned at the collar in a display of casual defiance against military decorum.

The officer was engaged in quiet conversation with a young maid—a girl Mr. Bennet recognised as belonging to the King household, judging by her neat apron and the familiar cap trimmed in green ribbon worn by Miss King’s servants.

There was nothing overtly scandalous in their stance, but Mr. Bennet, long accustomed to observing silently and drawing his own conclusions, noted with disapproval the sly way in which Mr. Wickham passed the girl a folded note—swiftly tucked beneath her apron and into a concealed pocket in her skirt.

When the two parted, the girl crossed the square with steady purpose, weaving through the crowd until she turned up Rose Lane—where the King residence stood, just beyond the draper’s. Mr. Bennet, frowning, followed at a measured pace.

He reached the front steps of the modest but respectable townhouse just as the girl was about to lift the knocker. “A moment, if you please,” he said, his tone brisk but civil.

Startled, the maid dropped her hand. “Yes, sir?”

“I should like to speak to Mr. Richard King. You may announce Mr. Bennet of Longbourn. Also, I must request that you remain nearby until I am done.”

The girl hesitated but obeyed. Within moments, the butler had admitted him, and Mr. King—a spare man with thinning hair and a somewhat anxious brow—appeared in the front parlour.

“Mr. Bennet,” he said, offering a bow. “A pleasure. It has been some time.”

“My condolences, Mr. King,” said Mr. Bennet gravely, inclining his head. “I had the honour of knowing your late father, and I regret his loss. He was a most sensible man.”

“Thank you,” replied Mr. King with some warmth. “He is much missed. Please, do sit down.”

“I shall be brief,” said Mr. Bennet, politely declining the chair. “This is, I fear, not a social call. I came today on another matter entirely, but while in town I observed something that gave me pause—enough, I felt, to bring it to your attention.”

The maid was now back in the room, her eyes flicking nervously between the two gentlemen.

Mr. Bennet turned to her, his voice gentler. “You are not in trouble, my girl, if you speak plainly. I saw you conversing with an officer of the militia—Mr. Wickham. And I saw him pass you something. A note, was it not?”

The maid faltered. “Sir, he only asked me to deliver it to Miss King. He said it was urgent. I thought it no harm.”

Mr. King’s face darkened. “Deliver what? Show it here at once.”

Reluctantly, the girl reached beneath her apron and retrieved the folded paper. Mr. King opened it with trembling fingers and read in silence. His expression changed from surprise to fury.

“The scoundrel!” he exclaimed at last. “He dares suggest an elopement—tonight, no less! My niece—my late brother’s daughter!”

Mr. Bennet gave a solemn nod. “That is precisely why I intervened. The man has a smooth tongue and a fine coat, but I do not trust him. I have daughters myself, sir, and I hope you will take this as a sign of neighbourly concern, not intrusion.”

“You have done me a service,” said Mr. King, his jaw clenched. He turned to the maid. “You are fortunate Mr. Bennet interceded before this letter reached its destination. You are dismissed from your duties—”

“Sir, please!” the girl cried. “I swear, I did not know what was in it. He said it was a message about music books. I only meant to do a kindness!”

Mr. Bennet raised a hand. “If I may—she did not appear bribed, nor evasive. I believe she acted in good conscience, Mr. King.”

There was a pause. Mr. King exhaled sharply and relented. “Very well. You shall remain for now, but I expect strict conduct. Leave us.”

When the maid had gone, Mr. King turned back. “What now, do you suppose? Shall I lock my niece indoors?”

“Not quite,” Mr. Bennet replied. “But you might consider sending her to stay with your brother in Liverpool, if taking prompt measures remains your intention. Somewhere away from the reach of uniforms and flatterers would be preferable. I would also suggest informing Colonel Forster of Mr. Wickham’s outrageous attempt.

He has command over the regiment; I believe he would take such conduct seriously. ”

“He shall hear of it from me personally this very day,” said Mr. King. “I thank you, Mr. Bennet. You have spared my family a disgrace.”

Mr. Bennet offered a brief bow. “I trust no further entanglement will arise. Good day to you, sir.”

And with that, he took his leave, stepping into the crisp autumn air with a mingled sense of quiet triumph and justified concern.

Resuming his way toward the attorney’s office, Mr. Bennet resolved to make prudent use of Mr. Phillips’s connections—seeking, with all due discretion, any trace of debts, indiscretions, or unsavoury rumours tied to Mr. Wickham, whether in the neighbouring counties or farther afield in London.

Some men might see him as inattentive, but when it came to his daughters—or the dignity of his neighbours—Mr. Bennet missed nothing.

***

Colonel Forster stood by the window of his quarters, arms folded behind his back, the faint light of the overcast afternoon catching on the brass trim of his epaulettes.

Mr. Richard King’s written complaint lay open on the desk behind him, weighted by the infamous note—a folded square of paper that had nearly undone a young woman’s reputation.

He turned only when the door opened to admit Mr. Wickham, who entered with his customary elegance, though the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed unease.

“Colonel Forster, sir,” Wickham said with a bow, “you requested my attendance?”

“I did, Mr. Wickham,” the colonel replied coldly. “You may close the door behind you. Mr. Denny, kindly remain as witness.”

Denny, already present and leaning against the mantelpiece with folded arms, inclined his head but said nothing. He had not addressed Wickham since the day’s gossip had reached him.

“Mr. Wickham,” the colonel began, his voice measured but unmistakably severe, “it is with reluctance that I find myself addressing an offence of this nature. You should know that Mr. King, a respected gentleman of Meryton, has lodged a formal complaint against you. This complaint is accompanied by written proof—your note to Miss Mary King, proposing elopement this very night. Have you lost your mind, Wickham?”

The officer’s brow furrowed in a performance of concern. “Sir, if I may—”

“You may not,” the colonel cut in. “You will listen first. This is no idle scolding. I should also inform you that Miss King has been removed from the county by her family, and I am told she is now safely in Liverpool, out of the reach of your attentions. You have endangered her name and embarrassed this regiment. What you have done is despicable, Wickham—and it leaves you scarcely a shadow of honour to stand upon.”

“Sir, if I may, I never intended—”

“You intended precisely what your letter outlined,” the colonel snapped, striking the folded note with the back of his hand. “What excuse can you possibly offer for such ignoble conduct?”

Wickham hesitated. He was pale beneath the healthy colour of his complexion, and his hands twitched slightly behind his back.

“I confess,” he said slowly, “that my judgment was… clouded. I had come to believe Miss King returned my affections, and I—well, I imagined we might find happiness in our own way, away from interference.”

Denny scoffed quietly, but the colonel’s gaze did not waver.

“Happiness?” Forster repeated. “By tricking an orphan girl into leaving her guardian’s house in the dead of night? That is not happiness, sir. That is exploitation. And in light of other matters, your claims of affection are poor defence indeed.”

Wickham shifted uneasily. “Other matters, sir?”

“You know of what I speak—or at least you should, Wickham. Debts. Money owed to your fellow officers—Denny among them, I believe. Dice, cards, wagers. You have behaved, sir, not as a gentleman, but as a rake in uniform.”

Denny straightened. “He owes me thirty pounds, Colonel. Promised me twice he would settle it. That was three weeks ago.”

“I have every intention of repaying—”