Page 134 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
He greeted me with a European bow. “Mademoiselle Darcy.” His French accent stressed the last syllable of Darcy.
“This is Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Wickham interposed in an annoyed tone.
The French officer’s eyes narrowed. “Bennet?” He knew the name, but I could not imagine how. He glared at Wickham, who slouched in grudging deference. This Frenchman was in command.
“You have secured Monsieur Darcy?” he asked sharply. “And the household staff?”
“We are still searching for Darcy,” Wickham said tightly.
There was an angry exclamation in French. “With fifty men, you lost a degenerate English noble?”
“His horse is stabled. We will have him soon.”
The French officer shook his head in disgust and spoke a blur of French syllables. I caught onlyLambton, the town near Pemberley. If I was to continue meeting spies, I should practice my languages.
Wickham’s reply was as fast and indecipherable. It seemed everyone’s French was better than mine.
The officer stalked to where the chest rested on the gravel shore. The four men were now laboring to bring a second chest.
A cart arrived, carrying three young women dressed in white linen gowns, their hair elaborately styled. Their slippers were fabulous ball attire, embroidered with golden thread and tassels. As they walked to the chests, each gown dragged an arm’s length of elegant train across the rough stones and dirt.
The officer threw open the first chest. Even under the gray sky, it glittered. Gold coins. An unthinkable fortune.
Women in beautiful gowns. Gold. “They are attempting to bind draca,” I said.
“They are,” Wickham said. “And you must ensure they succeed.”
“What?”
“Even my sweet Lydia was impressed by your draca tricks, and I can attest that Lydia is not easily impressed. I think there is more to Elizabeth Bennet than raven hair and striking eyes. And if you want to survive this day, you must use those tricks to ensure that one of these women binds.”
“Even if I could, I would never assist a French woman in binding English draca.”
“If you don’t, Lydia achieves all she desires. That will go poorly for you. And for me as well.” He stiffened, looking over my shoulder. Steps were approaching on the stones. “Say nothing of this!” he whispered.
“What a laugh,” came Lydia’s voice behind me.
I turned to my sister. Lydia wore black, but not mourning dress. Her gown was elaborate and expensive, ornamented with sewn pearls and ivory beadwork. It was a dark counterpoint to the white gowns of the French women, and even more extravagant.
She had caked her face with white paint so thick that it cracked around her eyes and lips. Her cheeks were rouged, her lips bloodred. The effect was grotesque, like a French aristocrat of the last century or a poor-quality porcelain doll. But even through those heavy cosmetics, her veins were dark as purple ink, spiderish around her eyes and crawling across her cheeks.
“Are you unwell, Lydia?” I said.
She gave an irritated smile. “I did not think to find you here. Are you chasing Mr. Darcy? Or… is it anaffaire? Has perfect Lizzy at last loosened her skirts?”
Her coarseness silenced me. Finally, I said, “Why are you here?”
“Iam preparing for my coronation.” She made a moueof exaggerated pity at Wickham. “Do not be sad, Wickie. You can be captain of my guard and visit me every day. I am sure the Empress’s guard has handsome uniforms.” Her mocking smile turned cross. “But now I must talk to Lizzy alone.”
Wickham gave a short, uncomfortable nod and walked off.
“He is jealous,” Lydia said.
“Jealous of whom?” I asked.
“Emperor Napoleon.” Lydia lifted her eyebrows flirtatiously, as though we were giggling about a handsome officer in the local regiment. Flecks of white paint fell from her forehead onto her black dress.
“That is insanity. You are married, and sixteen. AndEnglish!He is married, and the emperor of France. You have never even seen him.”
