But pride—or defiance—overruled him.
“I do not take bribes.”
“No,” said Mr. Darcy. “You prefer allowances from young women.”
A flush rose on Wickham’s face.
In the midst of the discussion, the half-open door gave a faint creak—just enough to signal a new presence. Sophocles, the Longbourn cat, slipped into the room with his usual quietassurance. Unbothered by the tension in the air, he padded toward Mr. Darcy and, accustomed to remaining near him, leapt gracefully onto the sideboard. There he settled with dignified ease, tail curled neatly around his paws, observing the men with luminous, impartial eyes—as though appointed to bear witness with feline composure.
“Take the money,” Darcy said evenly. “And leave. Or refuse—and justice will take its course. I shall write to your commanding officer, your colonel, and half the county. Your reputation is already cracked. I have only to press.”
“Also,” said Mr. Bennet coldly, “you need my silence, Wickham. And I shall not keep it if you remain. The very day I see you again in Meryton, I shall speak to Colonel Forster—and if Mr. Darcy chooses discretion, I shall not. Ramsgate. Longbourn. The way you slink into young women’s affections like a fox into a henhouse. I will not permit you near my daughter again—nor anyone else’s.”
“You would wish to avoid a scandal, sir,” Wickham said, with a touch of bravado.
“Do not count on that, you reckless man,” Mr. Bennet snapped. “You have far more to lose. Take my advice—go!”
Wickham gave a dry laugh. He knew very well that proving anything concrete would be difficult. He leaned over the table to look Darcy in the eye and jabbed his finger hard against his chest.
“You, Darcy, are to blame for all of it. You need me to go. I do not need you to stay.”
But before Darcy could reply—or before Wickham could repeat the gesture—there was a sudden blur of motion.
Sophocles leapt from the sideboard to the table in one fluid movement and, with a second bound, launched himself at Wickham’s face. A flash of claws—silent but precise—and he was gone again, landing with remarkable poise atop a chair.
Three long, narrow claw-marks and a fourth, shorter one trailed across Wickham’s cheek—visible, stinging, and scarcely bleeding. It looked for all the world like the footnote of a feline insult.
“The cursed thing scratched me!” Wickham cried, clutching his face.
“Ugly scratches,” Mr. Bennet observed, not unsympathetically. “Here, take a handkerchief.”
“You’re in trouble now, friend,” said Mr. Denny darkly. “No one will convince Colonel Forster that those are not the marks of a lady defending herself from unwanted attentions.”
Wickham paled. His bravado cracked at last. Denny was right.
He cast a sideways, sullen glance at each man in turn, then turned sharply on his heel and left the room—without a word.
“You may keep the handkerchief as a farewell token, Wickham!” Mr. Bennet called after him, with a touch of theatrical cheer.
Sophocles, his mission complete, returned to his perch near Mr. Darcy and let out a single, measured meow—the calm declaration of a creature wholly satisfied with the restoration of justice.
“Well then,” said Mr. Bennet, dusting his hands and turning to Mr. Denny with a benevolent smile, “I believe it is time you came to the library and selected the books you wish to borrow.”
He gave a small nod of satisfaction in Darcy’s direction.
Mr. Bingley, still seated, blinked at the door through which Wickham had vanished, thoroughly perplexed by all that had just unfolded.
***
Wickham presented himself at the appointed hour, outside Colonel Forster’s quarters, collar straight, face stiff, and the faintred streaks of a healing scratch visible across his left cheek. He had done what he could to conceal them with powder, but the marks remained—three sharp lines and a shorter one beneath, like punctuation from some merciless editor.
Colonel Forster looked up from his writing desk and gave Wickham a long, unreadable glance. He did not ask him to sit.
“You were ordered to remain within the camp perimeter, officer,” the colonel began, voice clipped. “And to report to me daily.”
“I am here now, sir,” Wickham replied smoothly.
“Yes,” said the colonel, folding his hands. “But you were not here yesterday afternoon. Nor last evening. You were seen on the road to Longbourn. Care to explain?”
