Page 133 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“What has happened to my driver?” I saw no sign of our coach.
“Detained, and less gently than yourself. Although that may change. I have not decided what to do with you.”
That chilled me. Stop asking every question that pops to mind. This man likely shot Mr. Rabb in cold blood.
I remembered that cold sensation on the nape of my neck. Pretending to be overcome, I closed my eyes and opened my mind. Everywhere around me was empty of draca, but toward the lake, darkness churned.
I opened my eyes. “Is Lydia here?”
“Of course.” Wickham said it like a threat. “Now, answer me. Are you here for Darcy?”
Broken furniture. Burned portraits. Wickham’s hatred for the Darcys was flaunted in every muddy boot print and broken dish.
“I am to meet Mr. Bingley and Jane,” I invented. “Tomorrow. For a tour of the Peak District.”
“And yet, your first question was for Darcy.”
“It is his house.”
Wickham laughed mockingly. “No longer.”
“What do you want of me?” We were alone in his bedroom. My muscles tensed.
“That is the question, isn’t it? Answer me this, Elizabeth. Lydia returned from her visit to Longbourn with her tail tucked firmly between her legs. She was furious with you. What happened?”
“Lydia’s scheme to steal Longbourn failed.”
“How? My wyfe’s schemes are formidable. As are her talents. I expected your firedrake to grovel at her feet like that disgusting ferretworm.”
His tone was distrustful and angry. But Wickham had aspired to be bound gentry his entire life and achieved his goal by marrying Lydia. Something had gone wrong.
“Your wyfe’s talents are less impressive than you think,” I said.
“That does not explain why she cursedyou. Why she ranted about sister Lizzy’s ‘draca tricks.’?” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Listen, dear Elizabeth. You have stumbled into the war. Tomorrow, I am bound for France, so I do not care what you see or say. But there are men here who would cut your throat in a heartbeat, and others who would do worse. If you live out the day, it will be thanks to me. And I may require payment before the day is done.”
“You disgust me,” I said.
“You misunderstand my terms. I shall explain later. First, it is time to visit my wyfe.”
He grabbed my arm and hauled me through the manor. On my first trip, I had been stunned and disbelieving. Now, I was terrified but angry and alert. I counted the men we passed in the house: nine. I listened. Those in uniforms gave nods to Wickham and spoke English, although of the lowest class. Those without uniforms stayed apart, ignored us, and I caught a few words of fluent French.
A barouche with the Darcy crest waited in front, incorrectly harnessed with a single pair of horses. The driver was an obese, grimy man bulging from an army uniform much too small. He eyed me. “Who’s this crumpet, then?”
“Keep your bloody eyes to yourself,” Wickham snapped. He pushed me into the back and sat beside me. The driver snapped the reins. We started down beside the coursing stream.
Maybe a naïve question would encourage explanations. “Are these your militia soldiers?”
Wickham’s lip twisted. “The militia are gentry fools who pay for the privilege of bad food and parading in circles. I have my own force. Men with goodreason to hate the army, nothing to lose, and much to gain. We are privateers, Elizabeth, but on land. Acting with an Emperor’s letter of marque.” He barked a laugh. “You should call me daring Captain Wickham.”
I did not know how much I believed, but only one man was called emperor. Napoleon Bonaparte.
Ahead, activity had erupted on the lakeshore. At least two dozen armed men in laborer’s clothes were milling around a large wagon. Some were erecting three modest-sized canvas tents, each about six feet square. Four others were lugging a small wooden chest to the edge of the water. The chest, not much bigger than a hatbox, was suspended on poles like a sedan chair, one straining man holding each corner.
Farther ahead, two carts filled with men dressed as English militia were climbing the road to town.
We stopped near the wagon. Wickham jumped down, then with exaggerated civility, offered his hand. I took it, hiding my distaste. If holding hands encouraged the pretense of gentlemanly behavior, I would let him touch my fingers.
A clean-shaven man with a commanding bearing strode over. He wore common worker’s clothes, but his belt held a pistol and gilded sword. Two men attended him with military precision. This was a senior officer.
