“Perhaps he wishes to congratulate me on teaching his insolent officer a lesson,” Bennet replied with a short laugh. He picked up the bottle.
“You never said what happened in town.” Darcy had not appreciated hearing that Bennet had ridden back to Meryton without him or Fitzwilliam along. After Mr. Todd’s sabotage, he did not believe it wise.
“I went back because I recalled I had an order to pick up at the bookseller’s,” Bennet replied. “Ran into Wickham, who was less than pleased at the success of our mission to Mrs. Hobart’s. Evidently the other officers blame him for losing their invitations and having to close out their accounts.”
“He struck you?” Darcy asked. The general could protect himself, but the disrespect Wickham had shown appalled him.
“He tried.” Bennet grinned. “Did me some good, truthfully. One to the nose and the other to the . . .” He cleared his throat and glanced at the door, which was not closed. “To the other nose. Left him lying there in front of the tavern, gurgling out his threats and nonsense.”
Fitzwilliam’s laugh was short but loud. “I would have given a great deal to have seen it.”
Darcy shrugged. “We knew he was a fool. He has only confirmed it. Still, I cannot like that he was issuing threats.”
“Let him bluster,” Bennet said, waving a hand.
They fell silent and considered the cognac on his desk.
“It is odd,” Darcy said, “to have it directed to you with neither a note nor a return direction.”
“I say we make a wager,” Bennet said wryly. “Tomorrow morning, we each take a shot from fifty feet. If one of us hits it, he is the winner. If we all miss it, we move it to forty feet and try again.”
Fitzwilliam rubbed his hands together. “What shall we wager for?”
Darcy shook his head. “I suppose for the pleasure of declaring oneself the winner would not be enough?”
Bennet chuckled. “How about five pounds? ’Tis significant enough to make the competition interesting but not enough to harm the losers.”
“Done!” Fitzwilliam cried.
“Do not be so hasty,” Darcy said. “The last time you held a gun in your hands, you used too much powder.”
Bennet laughed.
Fitzwilliam scowled. “I will not be drinking tonight, cousin. Have your money ready.”
“Perhaps we ought to invite Bingley,” Bennet said. “Make this more interesting.”
“We may as well,” Darcy said. Fitzwilliam usually won these sorts of contests, but Bingley was an excellent shot.
“Fine,” Fitzwilliam said nonchalantly. “I shall win fifteen pounds instead of ten.”
“Mr. Bingley is here to see you, Mr. Bennet,” Mr. Hill informed them.
“Ah, excellent timing. Send him in, Mr. Hill.”
Bingley stopped short when he saw that Bennet had company.
“Come in, Bingley,” Bennet said. “We were just speaking of you.”
“You were?” Bingley asked. He tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves.
Fitzwilliam stepped up and offered Bingley a glass of port. “Yes, we have a little wager to settle tomorrow and thought you would like to take part.”
Bingley nodded. “Of course.” His eyes were trained to the floor until he looked up at Bennet.
“You have not heard what it is yet,” Bennet said, and then met Bingley’s gaze. Bennet’s eyes narrowed. “Darcy, Fitzwilliam,” he barked suddenly, “leave us.”
Darcy’s shock mirrored that on Fitzwilliam’s face, and they hastened to obey Bennet’s command.