Page 169 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“You might want to take your lady away,” the constable suggested to Darcy above my head.
“Mrs. Darcy is resilient,” Darcy said. He offered me his hand with a lift of his eyebrow, and I rose, very satisfied with my choice of husband.
Mr. Knightley gave me a refined bow at odds with his disheveled collars from tussling on the floor. He frowned at the man by our feet. “This fellow has consumed my entire reserve of string.”
“String?” I asked, looking at the fine coils around the man’s wrists.
“Mr. Knightley is a violinist,” Darcy explained. Mr. Knightley’s and my introduction had been rather rushed. “He is a founder of the Royal Philharmonic Society.”
“I know these two ruffians,” Mr. Knightley said. “They have caused trouble at meetings of the Freedom Society.”
“What is the Freedom Society?” I asked. It did not sound musical.
“We assist refugees from slavery who wish to settle in England,” Mr. Knightley answered.
“Would you be an abolitionist, ma’am?” asked the constable. “These two were with those pro-slavers. That might be the cause.”
“I support abolition, but not in a public manner.” If they wished to hurt an abolitionist, Mary would be their target. She was positively strident. I cast a worried glance to where she stood by the pianoforte, speaking to Georgiana. She seemed unshaken. Mary had become very steadfast in the past year.
Darcy indicated a vacant corner, and he and I moved to speak privately.
“That man sought you by name,” he said. “It is not hard to guess his motive. You are bound to a creature that could destroy the French army. Napoleon sought to raise a legendary dragon and failed. An informer could have reported that you succeeded.”
I snorted. “Except the Council of War insists we keep Yuánchi secret.”
After Lord Wellington told the Council that Yuánchi had risen, they sent a delegation to Pemberley. Three pompous cabinet ministers had lectured a bemused Darcy, saying that dragons did not exist and he had likely seen a distant wyvern—which reached seventy pounds or so. They thoroughly ignored me.
I led them to the shore of Pemberley lake where Yuánchi’s arrival shook the stone beneath our feet. One minister, blanched and trembling, extended a gold-sealed proclamation. Yuánchi nosed the ribbon, informed me silently he was as unimpressed as I, then departed in a storm of wind.
I noticed Darcy was developing a frustrated glower. To head him off, I added, “Whether Yuánchi is secret or not, I have no intention of being drawn into the war.”
“The French do not know that.”
“You are being dramatic. I cannot imagine an emperor sending a man to kill me. Even if I am bound to a dragon.”
Darcy took my hand. “Elizabeth, you wield power that Napoleon covets. You are dangerous to his empire. More dangerous than Lord Wellington, for all the armies he commands. And you are far more vulnerable.”
“I am not so vulnerable.” I flicked at the ash on my shoulder but only ground it into the light blue cloth.
“Any idiot can aim a pistol at a person’s back. Prime Minister Perceval was killed this spring.”
Mary and Georgiana had crossed the room to join us, and they heard our last exchange. Georgiana looked alarmed, Mary thoughtful. Both knew of Yuánchi. Georgiana was present when he destroyed Wickham’s rebel army and killed Wickham, and Mary was so close to Georgiana that excluding her would be silly.
Darcy’s explanation did not sit right. “Then why have a pro-slaver attack me? Why not a French spy? Any well-dressed man could approach me on the street without raising an iota of alarm.”
“I do not know,” Darcy admitted. “I cannot even understand how they knew you would attend today.”
“ThatI understand,” I said, casting a glance at Mary, author of provocative programs. She looked abashed.
“I am concerned for Miss Woodhouse,” Darcy said abruptly.
The salon was almost empty, the excited ladies having reluctantly departed at the urging of the constables. But Emma remained, sitting on the floor, her back propped against a wall and her arms hugging her knees. Her friend Harriet was kneeling beside her, evidently worried.
“Was she hurt?” I asked.
“She fainted,” Darcy said, and he strode in her direction. I followed, surprised by his attention. They had barely spoken.
Even in a crowd of London ladies, Emma had shone with her coiled gold hair and a bright gown and bonnet of saffron silk. With the room emptied and darkened by smoke and soot, her clothes were even more striking, but her pose was fragile. She sat curled and staring at the ash-stained floor. The hems of her gown and petticoat formed immaculate curves on the floor, each point of lace precise. Fastidious. I thought of her habit of straightening her friends’ clothes.
