Page 41 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
“I am sure Miss Smith would welcome you. And my impression is the Bingleys welcome everyone.”
“Let us not,” I said softly. “I prefer that she asks first.”
I expected him to press, but his reply was distracted. “As you wish.” He seemed to be working through some other thought. What emerged was, “Then we might reach Chelsea today. I could show you my home.”
That surprised me.
It was certainly a brave offer—touring a gentlewoman through a loft, or whatever lodging a musician could afford on the fringe of London. But I knew Mr. Knightley was brave. He routinely risked his life to aid others. Social awkwardness likely seemed trivial.
However, it was a significant offer. It was not improper to visit a gentleman’s home. The Pemberley footman would accompany us; he had come for just such situations. But touring a single man’s home provided insight into his living. The ritual implied a… practical interest. Or was this a display of concern? Mr. Knightley might not believe I could recover Hartfield. Was this a prelude to repeating his prior offer?
That flustered me, and my fingers tangled in my lap. But I was reading too much into it. We joked constantly about madcap musicians. Doubtless he regularly invited gentlemen to drink brandy and opine on music. Why not a lady? Or ladies. Or might a handsome musician meet actresses?
“Perhaps it is better to press on,” Mr. Knightley amended. “Surrey will only grow more dangerous. Haste is wise.”
By this point, I had mentally assembled a bacchanal of dancing beauties, sloshing brandy, and swirling pipe smoke.
“It is,” I agreed, relieved.
The other couple rose to depart and walked toward our table. Mr. Knightley straightened again—he looked positively grim—but they passed without a word.
After breakfast,I went for a stroll in the inn’s modest garden alongside the lane. Mr. Knightley had been out here before breakfast for his exercise, a strenuous routine of rolls and fierce athletic poses. I had watched him once at Pemberley, but not since. For all the dance-like precision, the motions summoned memories of the short and lethal fight I had witnessed between him and a repulsive American slaver in Pemberley’s hills.
Having circled the little path twice and peered down the lane, I accepted the innkeeper’s suggestion and took a seat by a garden table that he toweled dry. The plants were prettily raindrop-jeweled, although the hail had broken twigs and stripped spring blossoms of their petals. The older couple from breakfast emerged and sat at the other garden table, and we exchanged pleasant nods.
Distantly, I could hear Mr. Knightley practicing his violin—his travel violin, as his good instrument was safe in its cherrywood case at his home. His diligence made me feel idle, but a traveling lady has few options for productivity. Once I reclaimed Hartfield, there would be fifty tasks to do.
A young man strode down the cottage lane. He spied us, slowed, and entered the inn’s garden. He was cleanshaven and well-dressed, a respectable working man on an errand. He eyed the older couple, then to my astonishment, he walked directly to me with a smile.
“For you, ma’am,” he said, holding out a sheet of paper.
I took it in blank confusion. Had Harriet hired a messenger for her letter? No, of course not. This was printed. It had the smeared, cheap look of the advertising sheets posted in London. But people did not wander through the countryside handing advertisements to ladies.
Our incredible movement stands STRONGER than ever!
Help us fight the lies!
KING ROSDAN calls all Pure Men…
The rest was even more bizarre.
“A donation would be appreciated, ma’am,” the man said. “A penny. Perhaps a shilling…”
“Who is King Rosdan?” I asked. Was that one of those Scandinavian royal families who kept switching sides in the war?
“TherightfulKing.” I looked more puzzled, and the man switched to a broad, understanding smile. “Mr. Rosdan Tinsdale.”
With a cold start, I understood. “We have a King. And a Prince Regent.”
“No, ma’am. That’s the lies, you see. The royal family died in the fire from those dragons. A sad end, but it was God’s retribution for their betrayal of England’s True Faith. Now, Parliament is refusing to crown the rightful heir—”
“IsawPrince George,” I insisted.
“An imposter,” he said smoothly.
“I do not think so. I had coffee with him.” I did not say it was at Pemberley; that might still be secret. But this was ludicrous.
“Get out of here, you filth!” The older gentleman had stormed over. Ramrod straight, he confronted the young man. “We have no use for rawgabbits! Take your nonsense away.”
