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“But I am afraid you cannot go in.” Mr. Pennington grinned. “You will have to suffer my company while you wait.”

“Truly?” Uncle Philips would never schedule an appointment when he knew she was coming. “He is with someone?”

“A gentleman arrived a short time ago and insisted on seeing Mr. Phillips. Some sort of Bow Street Runner.”

Kitty’s heart sped. “A Bow Street Runner?”

Mr. Pennington nodded. “I cannot imagine why. Your uncle never even goes to London.”

“A Mr. Fletcher?” Kitty pressed.

With a frown, Mr. Pennington nodded. “How do you know that?”

“I have met him.” Mr. Fletcher was here, in Meryton, on the other side of that door? Did he mean for her to know? Would he call on Longbourn before returning to London? Why had he never come back ere now?

“What cause would you have to know a Bow Street Runner?” Mr. Pennington asked, his expression wary.

Kitty almost smiled. If the very idea that she might have put a foot wrong caused Mr. Pennington so much consternation, Kitty was definitely not the sister for him. “I met him last autumn during that strange incident with the Archers.”

“Ah, that.” Relief filled Mr. Pennington, and his smile returned.

On the other side of the door to Uncle Phillip’s office, voices rose. One was definitely Mr. Fletcher’s, and it sounded as if he said, ‘K. B. Hert.’ “Did Mr. Fletcher say why he required Uncle Phillips?”

“Something about an offence to the Crown.” Mr. Pennington shrugged. “Certainly a misunderstanding. As I said, your uncle never even goes to London.”

“Oh dear.” Even though none of the papers would publish it, had Prince George somehow learned of her mocking caricature? “I should go in there.”

“Certainly not.” Mr. Pennington sounded offended.

“I may be able to help.”

“You?” His expression turned indulgent. “A young miss such as you can be of no assistance to your uncle, or to a Bow Street Runner. Why do you not go have tea with your aunt while you wait to see your uncle? That is an excellent occupation for a young lady, and you can bring me back some of her delicious cake, as a special favor to me.” He gave another wink.

Kitty marched up to her uncle’s door and threw it open.

“Miss Kitty,” Mr. Pennington squawked.

On the far side of his desk, Uncle Phillips’ eyes flew wide. “Kitty. Uh, now is not a good time. Decidedly not. You must leave.” He gave her a panicked, pleading look, almost as if he feared for her. “Now.”

“I am so sorry, Mr. Phillips.” Mr. Pennington came to hover at Kitty’s shoulder. “I have no notion why your niece became irrational. She was informed you are busy.”

“Your niece?” Mr. Fletcher said, the familiar resonance of his voice wrapping warmly about Kitty’s heart. He turned in the chair he occupied, studying her. “Your niece, Kitty Bennet. Kitty, with a K. Not Catherine.”

Uncle Phillips stood. “Kitty, please, go.”

“K. Bennet.” Mr. Fletcher continued to study her, his green eyes intent. “K. B.”

“Miss Kitty.” Mr. Pennington gave her arm a tentative tug, obviously uncertain to what lengths he should go to remove her.

“Is Mr. Fletcher tormenting you, Uncle?” Kitty asked, ignoring Mr. Pennington.

“He, ah, no. Nothing of the sort. We are, ah, speaking.” Uncle Phillips tugged at his cravat, beads of sweat on his brow.

“I heard raised voices.” Kitty pinned Mr. Fletcher with a hard stare.

“I posed a question to your uncle, on behalf of the Crown, that he refuses to answer,” Mr. Fletcher said quietly.

Kitty considered that, Mr. Pennington hovering beside her, wringing his hands. “Perhaps, Mr. Fletcher, you require some air? A moment outside to reconsider your question? It doesn’t do to torment my uncle.”