Page 29 of The Cat Who Loved Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

True to his newly declared principles, Mr. Bennet had taken to accompanying his daughters on their errands into town.

Though the novelty of such paternal devotion had raised eyebrows among the ladies of Meryton, Mr. Bennet conducted himself with an air of such deliberate indifference that it became difficult to determine whether he acted out of principle or mere curiosity.

In truth, he enjoyed observing the absurdities of his neighbours just as much in the market square as he had from the safety of his library.

It was during one such expedition—with Mary and Kitty in tow—that they encountered two officers walking at a steady pace down the main road, their uniforms neat and their hats at a respectful angle.

Mr. Bennet, upon recognising Mr. Denny, inclined his head politely. “Good day, sir. I see the military still maintains its discipline even when off duty.”

Mr. Travers bowed with quiet dignity. He was of a more reserved character than Denny, but there was an intelligence in his eyes and a composure in his bearing that instantly attracted Mary's notice—though she, being Mary, betrayed nothing of the sort beyond a faint narrowing of the gaze.

“And your other colleague—Wickford, is it?—does he not accompany you?” Mr. Bennet inquired.

“No, sir,” Denny replied. “Unfortunately, the Colonel has confined him to quarters for the time being. And it is Wickham, sir,” he added, feeling oddly honoured to be permitted the correction.

“Ah, my apologies. A pity to hear it,” said Mr. Bennet mildly. “Though I’ve no doubt Colonel Forster makes sound decisions. Prompt ones, too, I should add.”

After a few minutes of unhurried conversation, Mr. Denny cleared his throat and, with a respectful incline of the head, ventured, “Sir, I hope you will not find my request too forward. I have heard—through Miss Catherine—that your library is particularly well stocked. I wondered if you might allow me to call at Longbourn once or twice a month to borrow a book or two.”

Mr. Bennet raised a brow, his expression composed but touched with amusement. “A noble ambition. Tell me—are you preparing for Parliament?”

Denny smiled. “Not quite, sir. But the autumn nights grow long, and Mr. Travers and I have taken to reading in the evenings. Our arrangement is simple: each of us reads a book per week, then we exchange volumes the next. It keeps the mind engaged and the ink bottle untouched.”

Mr. Bennet looked between the two officers, his tone dry. “Two books per visit, then. That is quite the appetite. You are more ambitious than Lydia with her novels.”

Denny answered without offense, “Only in subject matter, I hope. We aim to read steadily, not sentimentally.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Bennet, folding his hands behind his back. “Well, it is no small thing when young men in uniform prefer Plutarch to parade. Mrs. Bennet would no doubt call you fine and studious gentlemen—if she were here to hear it. Mercifully, she is not.”

Travers gave a silent, grave nod of agreement, and Denny added with a hopeful glance, “Twice a month, sir—if that would not be an imposition?”

“Twice a month,” Mr. Bennet echoed, considering. “Two volumes per visit. I suppose I can spare a few from the clutches of my daughters. But I warn you, if you begin dog-earing pages or quoting from The Mysteries of Udolpho, the arrangement is off.”

With a short nod of approval, he gestured toward the hall.

“Come, gentlemen. Let us begin. Efficient and economical. I admire such practical scholarship.” Mr. Bennet glanced at Travers, who inclined his head gravely.

“And what sort of reading is in fashion among gentlemen of your stripe? Novels? Philosophy? French romances?”

Travers replied, quiet but clear, “History, sir. And a little moral philosophy, if it is not too dry.”

Mary looked as if she had heard poetry recited.

Mr. Bennet gave a thoughtful nod, evidently amused. “Well then, Mr. Denny, if your colonel consents to your intellectual pursuits, I should be delighted to lend you books while your regiment is stationed here.”

Denny’s face lit up. “In that case, might I call tomorrow? Around five o’clock, after drill?”

“You would be most welcome,” Mr. Bennet said. “You know the way.”

With a final bow and a tip of the hat, the officers took their leave, and the Bennet party continued toward the apothecary—though Mary, for the first time in many outings, seemed in no undue hurry to reach it.

***

By the following afternoon, Mr. Denny had made good on his word.

After completing the day’s exercises, he returned to his quarters with a sense of purpose not always observable among young officers.

He washed, exchanged his uniform for a clean coat and properly brushed boots, and took particular care with the fold of his cravat—not out of vanity, but from a wish to appear respectful in the house of a gentleman whose daughters were known to prefer books over bonnets.

He was tying the second loop when Wickham appeared at the door, lounging against the frame with his usual air of practiced indolence.

“You’re rather fine for a Thursday,” Wickham said, eyeing the polished boots.

“I’m calling at Longbourn,” Denny replied simply, adjusting a cuff. “Mr. Bennet was kind enough to offer the use of his library.”

Wickham’s brows lifted. “A library? And here I thought you had found a more charming reason to visit.”

Denny offered no comment, for Wickham’s voice already carried that familiar blend of amusement and insinuation.

“And what if I were to come along?” Wickham asked lightly. “I find myself at leisure, and Miss Lydia, I am told, never lacks for conversation.”

Denny turned with a frown. “You’re still under orders, Wickham. You’re not to leave the encampment without permission.”

Wickham shrugged. “And yet here you are, making house calls in the countryside. I doubt Colonel Forster would object to a companion on a scholarly errand.”

“He would,” Denny said curtly. “He made it quite clear. I requested permission and stated my reason.”

“Books,” Wickham echoed with a grin. “How noble.”

He turned away as if dismissing the conversation, but his eyes were bright with calculation.

Lydia Bennet—pretty, impressionable, and ever eager for mischief—was proving to be a far more malleable prospect than the faraway and guarded Miss King.

If Denny was to enter by the door, he himself would simply rely on less conventional routes.

“Enjoy your reading,” he said over his shoulder. “I shall take a different path.”

Denny said nothing more, but watched him with narrowed eyes—aware that the different path very likely included a hedge, a gate latch, and the kind of recklessness that rarely led to virtue.

And indeed, it was only a few minutes after Mr. Denny had departed by the proper gate that he found himself no longer alone.

With collar high and hat pulled low, Mr. Wickham emerged from the fields and fell into step beside him, all easy charm and surface confidence, though there was an edge of impatience in his movements.

The consequences of his last impromptu visit to Longbourn had not faded entirely from memory, but neither had they pierced the polished armour of his self-assurance.

“I shall walk beside you,” he said smoothly. “Two officers on a common path appear far less interesting to observers than one acting alone. I shall remain at Longbourn but a moment—just a quick word in the garden with Miss Lydia, and no one the wiser.”

Denny frowned. “You know the Colonel would have your skin for this, Wickham.”

Wickham smiled, with the old gleam returning to his eye. “Then let us hope the Colonel is not concealed in the shrubbery.”

“You never consider,” Denny added reproachfully, “that I might be punished as well—for being seen in your company.”

“Nonsense, my dear fellow,” Wickham replied with an airy wave. “The Colonel does not have eyes and ears in every hedgerow.”

Denny said no more—and perhaps could not, for Wickham had already turned from the path and melted into the orchard behind Longbourn, seeking what mischief he might, unaware that others had grown far more adept at anticipating his designs.

While Wickham was manoeuvring himself into the garden like a burglar with a flattering tongue, Mr. Denny proceeded along the front walk and knocked at the door with the respectable firmness of a man who had been expected.

The maid answered promptly, announcing with a curtsey that Mr. Bennet and his guests were in the parlour, and that he was most welcome.

Inside, Mr. Bennet, in a mood of mischievous hospitality, had already prepared a place near the fire. Mr. Bingley sat beside him with his usual genial air, while another gentleman—tall, serious, and unmistakably self-possessed—stood as Denny entered and was introduced.

“You may already know Mr. Bingley,” said Mr. Bennet. “Allow me to present Mr. Darcy of Derbyshire. Darcy, this is Lieutenant Denny of His Majesty’s militia.”

Darcy inclined his head with formal precision and rose in acknowledgment—but no sooner had he turned to offer a word of greeting, than his eyes drifted toward the window overlooking the garden.

There was a pause.

Then, with the calm clarity of a man who had seen enough duplicity to recognize its outline through a laurel hedge, Mr. Darcy said flatly:

“By Jove, Mr. Bennet… you have a Wickham in your garden.”

***

A startled silence followed in the parlour.

Mr. Bennet, who had just been pouring himself a modest glass of claret, paused mid-motion and turned his head toward the window with the slow theatricality of a man long accustomed to absurd revelations in his own household.

“Are you quite certain, Mr. Darcy?” he asked with a mixture of dryness and disbelief. “It is not every day one hears of a Wickham blooming among the petunias.”