Page 25 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“A dreadful business, Miss Bennet,” he said, after confirming that Jane’s recovery was progressing well.
“Were they spies?” That seemed farfetched.
“Two men were found, dead. I examined them, as did the constable. Whether they were spies, I cannot say. Nobody knew them, although it was hard to judge in their condition. They had encountered the Linfields’ worm, and one was burned savagely and killed outright, and the other seriously burned on his legs.”
“But he was not killed?”
“The second man was shot. My professional opinion was a pistol to the head, and very close. The constable speculated there was a third conspirator, who killed his wounded friend because he would have slowed escape.”
“How horrible. And the Linfield draca dead, as well. Was there…” This would sound strange, but I asked anyway. “Did you detect an odor? Like sour orange and bitter almond?”
“From the dead draca, you mean? No, nothing like that. It was shot. A good marksman, or lucky, for it was pierced through the eye.”
I thanked him and wandered to find Kitty and Lydia. At least this draca death was not part of a plague. But Napoleon sending spies into Hertfordshire was incredible. We were north of London, far from any sensible port for a French spy.
I spotted the red-and-gold-piping of uniforms and went in pursuit, rewarded by finding Lydia and Kitty with Denny and several friends, one of whom was Mr. Wickham. Lydia surrendered him with a glare.
He winced as he reached for my offered arm. Instead, he stepped around me to take the other.
“I burned myself on a kettle,” he explained with a rueful smile. “But injuries from tea are very respectable and English. Or so my fellow officers explained when they discovered the truth, to their loud amusement.” I laughed, for he was wry, and handsome in his modesty.
The mysterious draca deaths soon became a topic.
“Do you think they were Napoleon’s spies?” I asked.
“Bonaparte has offered tremendous sums to any man who delivers a living, bound draca. The French have none, and they fear the English will succeed in using them for war.”
“But what use is a lone draca? Especially one that has been bound.”
“You are right. Bonaparte is a fool. He seeks a bound animal because feral draca are no more than dangerous vermin. But a bound draca is also useless, as it will fight to return to its master.”
“You are well informed on draca.”
“As a child, I was a great friend to the Pemberley gamekeeper, who was as knowledgeable of draca as any man.”
“Pemberley!” I exclaimed.
He crooked a half-smile. “I gather you recognize Mr. Darcy’s estate. I grew up at Pemberley. My father was steward to Mr. Darcy’s father. Darcy and I were like brothers.” My shock must have been visible, for he added, “You must be surprised after our cold meeting yesterday. Do you know Mr. Darcy well?”
“As well as I ever wish to,” I said, a little heatedly. “I have spent four days in the same house with him, which was more than enough.”
“I had thought Darcy a friend, but I discovered otherwise after the death ofhis father. The late Mr. Darcy bequeathed to me a generous living as administrator of the primitive Britons who scrape out an existence in the Pemberley hills. But when the affairs were settled, Darcy gave the position to another.”
“Good heavens! He should be disgraced!”
“Wealth is powerful insulation against disgrace. I chose to make my own way in life. It was Darcy’s betrayal that set me on my path to the militia, and so, to walk with you today. I should thank him.” He bowed, and I tried not to color.
We strolled while I inserted this piece of despicable news into my mental puzzle of Mr. Darcy. For all that I disliked him, disregarding a father’s bequest seemed out of character. But with some bending and prying, I shoved the defect into place.
Mr. Wickham was also pensive. “It is ironic that three draca are lost when Bonaparte would pay so handsomely for one. A superior breed, such as your firedrake, is very desirable. I hazard you have the most valuable creature in Hertfordshire. Rumor says Bonaparte would pay fifty thousand pounds for a drake.”
“Goodness!” That sum would vault a family into wealth. But I was sure no gentry would part with their bound draca, and especially not to assist the French. “Perhaps the militia should set guards.”
“I have proposed it, but the military is slow to act. So, we must all be on our guard. I have done a little on my own, when idle. Patrolling for miscreants.” He gestured with self-mocking humor but winced when he flexed his burned arm.
And I had a ridiculous, but entertaining, thought—Lieutenant Wickham on secret patrol, thwarting a pair of French spies. Or three, or however many there were.
12
