Mrs. Bennet, leaning forward with avid interest, inquired gently, “And where do you gentlemen call home?”
Mr. Denny answered first with cheerful directness. “I am from Farnham, Surrey, ma’am. I lost my mother when I was young, so I help my father look after my two younger sisters—Helen and Kate. Very sweet girls, though quite a handful. Whenever I can obtain leave for a few days, I hurry home to see them.”
Mrs. Bennet beamed at this. “How very dutiful! Your sisters must be delighted to have such an attentive brother.”
Mr. Wickham, lounging back a little more carefully, gave a polished smile. “As for myself—I was born in Lincolnshire, grew up largely in Derbyshire, studied for a time at Cambridge, liveda while between London and Lincolnshire—and now find myself here in your lovely county.”
Mr. Bennet regarded him over his spectacles with dry interest. “With such an education, I should have thought you might secure a post more settled than that of a Militia officer.”
Wickham’s smile tightened just a fraction. “Indeed, sir. But those who might have offered me protection or advancement soon withdrew their support. Such is life, more often than not.”
Elizabeth’s eyes sharpened thoughtfully. She leaned forward slightly. “Or perhaps,” she suggested lightly but pointedly, “you gave them reason to behave so unkindly?”
Wickham’s fingers tightened minutely on the stem of his glass. He managed to keep his voice polite, though there was a spark in his eyes. “Miss Elizabeth, you are frank indeed.”
Jane, trying to smooth over the charged silence, asked Wickham gently, “Did you know Derbyshire well, sir?”
Wickham’s face altered just a fraction—his pleasant mask tightening before settling back.
“Very well, Miss Bennet,” he replied carefully. “Though not as a landowner, I assure you. My station there was... somewhat dependent on the generosity of others.”
Elizabeth caught it. The pause. The faint edge. She watched him, but he simply smiled at Jane with practiced amiability.
Mr. Bingley, ever eager to make things smooth, jumped in brightly. “I have always heard Derbyshire praised! A friend of mine speaks of Pemberley as if it were the jewel of the north.”
Wickham’s eyes flickered again. This time his smile was narrower.
“Pemberley is very fine, so I heard. Vaguely.”
Elizabeth felt her spine stiffen.
Mr. Bennet, though apparently reading his plate with great concentration, lifted one eyebrow in mild interest. He set down his spoon. “That is very cryptic of you, sir.”
Wickham’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “Best, I think, not to burden dinner with old disputes.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, studying him. Wickham turned his gaze aside, schooling his expression back to innocence.
Just then, Mr. Denny—determined to rescue the table—leaned forward and said warmly: “I have rarely enjoyed a broth so well prepared, Mrs. Bennet. Your cook deserves the highest praise.”
She beamed. “Yes, indeed,” she cried. “Our Hill is famous for her gravies. Anyway, we spare no trouble when entertaining gentlemen.”
Kitty and Lydia tittered at the emphasis.
But Elizabeth found her appetite dulled. She turned again to Wickham, determined to draw out what he so carefully hid—but just then, disaster intervened.
Sophocles, who had been slinking quietly under the chairs, made his move.
With one sudden, feline leap, he landed square on the edge of the table—right among the serving dishes.
There was a collective gasp.
“Good God!” Mr. Bennet shouted, half-rising.
Sophocles chose that precise moment to leap straight across Wickham’s path. He landed deftly, one front paw catching the edge of the soup dish and sending its contents splashing spectacularly into the young officer’s lap.
Wickham, who had been leaning forward suavely toward Elizabeth, received the brunt of it—hot broth sloshing into his lap.
“Damn—!” Wickham bit off the oath, springing back with a half-strangled yelp.
