Using Wickham’s momentum against him, Mr. Bennet threw the wastrel into the wall, headfirst, then delivered a strong blow to his nose. “You are as worthless a fighter as you are a gentleman. I shall either see you married before ten a.m., or dead at first light. Which shall it be?”
Wickham spat out the blood from his broken nose onto the floor, splashing Mr. Bennet’s breeches. “I believe, sir, that I have a better chance of making her an orphan than a husband. I have my pistol here, the finest available to officers in his majesty’s army.”
“So be it. I shall see you at Chalk Farm Tavern at dawn.”
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