“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 cleancoat 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 proceededalong 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.
