Chapter Fifteen
Jasper had sent a message to the Duke of Findlater giving their expected time of arrival and asking that the garden by his tower be empty when they arrived.
“I do not want a whole group of relatives, mages, and government officials asking us questions before we have time to even be reunited with our own clothing,” he had told Delia.
Either his grace had taken no notice of his request, or a higher authority had overruled him, for the garden was full.
Jasper had no time to examine the crowd, however, for he could feel Delia falling from his back, and his attention was absorbed in catching her with his power and lowering her gently to the ground.
In front of him, so that he could place his forelegs on each side of her, and glare at those who attempted to rush forward. They stopped.
What was wrong? Had the translocation damaged her in some way? He lowered his head to examine her more closely, just as she stirred and opened her eyes. “Are we here?” she asked.
Yes. And we have a reception committee. Are you hurt?
“I do not feel any wounds,” she said, uncertainly. “Let me up, Jasper.”
“Lady Catalyst,” said one of the bystanders. “Dragon Lord. Welcome. Is all well?”
It was a voice Jasper knew. He lifted his head to examine the speaker. It was, indeed, someone who outranked Findlater. The Prince of Wales regarded him thoughtfully.
With his head out of the way, Delia had stood, leaning against one of his massive forepaws to balance her as she regained her feet. “We are well,” she said, but Jasper didn’t believe her. Her face was white and her eyes strained.
“Is the Dragon Lord… that is, can he change back to Jasper Thornton?” the prince asked Delia.
“If everyone turns their back, sir,” said Delia.
“He leaves his clothing behind when he becomes a dragon and has none when he returns to human form.” She spoke with difficulty, as if she was having trouble breathing.
Jasper was ready to change immediately, and be damned to those who had come to gawk at him. He needed to see to his lady.
However, the prince looked imperiously at the people who’d come to see Jasper arrive and made a twirling gesture with a finger.
Obediently, everyone turned to face away.
Delia took a step closer to the prince and Jasper’s uncle, her own head turned resolutely away.
She probably had her eyes screwed shut, too.
Jasper sent a thought into the tower to fetch his favorite banyan and left it hovering in the air next to him while he initiated the transformation. There. He pulled his banyan on, tied it, and said, “I am in human form and decent, your highness, my lords and ladies.”
More or less. He fetched a pair of slippers with a flick of his mind, and stepped into them on his way to offer his arm to Delia.
His transformation appeared to have silenced even the prince.
What was the man doing here, anyway? “My lady,” he said to Delia, who was now clinging to his arm as if she needed its support, “may I make known to you His Royal Highness Prince Arthur of England, and also my uncle, the Duke of Findlater. Your highness, your grace, Lady Cordelia, the Lady Catalyst.”
He ignored the others, for he had no intention of overwhelming his lady, and her eyes were wide enough at having the heir of Britain and a duke presented to her.
It was the correct etiquette, though, as she no doubt knew from her reading.
The Lady Catalyst was second only to a queen regnant as the foremost lady of the realm.
His highness and the duke knew, for they both gave her a full court bow, and she curtseyed in return, the formal curtsey according poorly with the humble peasant garments that he’d stolen for her. She wobbled slightly, and he did his best to steady her. Is she ill? What is wrong?
“Our United Kingdoms are blest that a catalyst has been given to us, Lady Cordelia,” said the prince. “Especially at this time.”
Was the war going badly? Jasper had been away from London for three months, but in that time his uncle the duke seemed to have aged, the craggy lines of his face more granite and bleaker than ever before.
In that time, also, something had happened to draw new lines on the face of the Prince of Wales.
Jasper had been out of touch with the news for less than three weeks, but when he looked around at the prince’s court, he saw the same concern in the eyes of others, the same worry written in the corners of eyes and lips.
“I shall do my best to serve my country,” said Delia. She sounded as strained as she looked. Perhaps it was the translocation. Was it too sudden? Too far all at once? He had thought that a single step would be easier for her, but had that been a mistake?
“It is good of your highness to spare the time to come and meet us,” Jasper said, in lieu of a polite way to say, now get lost.
“Not at all,” said the prince. “A dragon lord and a lady catalyst? In this time of national crisis, with Napoleon preparing for invasion and my father’s condition, our people need the hope that the two of you represent.
Dragon lord, you are confirmed as Findlater’s heir and are now the Marquess of Baradine.
As for you, my lady, the title of Lady Catalyst is already the highest but one in the kingdom. ”
A bow was the only answer Jasper could summon, since it would be impolite to tell the prince to shove his title and let Jasper see to his lady.
However, the prince went on to say, “But I can see the lady is tired from her journey. Lady Cordelia, his grace has arranged a chaperone for you, and rooms in the main house.”
The dragon part of Jasper roared. Take Delia away from him? Not happening! He covered her hand on her arm with his own hand. “We stay together,” he said.
“Hardly, dear boy,” said Findlater. “Lady Cordelia is your catalyst, of course. We know the histories. But she is also an unmarried lady. The proprieties must be observed.”
Someone muttered, “Bolting horses and stable doors.” Jasper had met her.
Lady Margate was not only a powerful enchanter, but also a gossip and one of Society’s most respected gatekeepers.
If she took it into her head to make a scandal out of Delia’s relationship to Jasper, Delia would suffer for it.
Jasper addressed his next remark to Findlater, but he meant it for Lady Margate, “I assure you that Lady Cordelia and I have observed every possible propriety in the past few weeks, your grace. I did not mean together, precisely, but I must be close. Within ear shot, certainly.” Or mental voice range, at least. “My precognition tells me she is in danger, and only I can protect her.”
Even as he said it, Jasper realized it was true.
“Marcus,” said Findlater to his steward, who stood—as always—at the duke’s shoulder, “organize a bedchamber for our dragon lord in the same wing as Lady Cordelia and Lady Margate. My dear, this is Lady Margate.” He beamed at Delia and waved at the lady in question.
“Lady Margate has kindly agreed to stay as your chaperone until we can arrange your wedding.”
Oh, horse dung. Why did Jasper’s uncle have to put his large ducal boot into that particular mess?
As Jasper could have predicted, Delia bristled. But she must have been sicker than Jasper realized, for she shook her head as if in exasperation and then turned to Lady Margate. “Thank you for coming to look after me, my lady. Will you please show me to my bed?”
Jasper took a closer “look” at her with his magical senses and realized that the cloud of her catalystic power looked sparse and tattered, as if something had torn it. “Delia, your cloud!”
She turned to look at him, swaying on her feet. He sensed her consciousness leave her and was just in time to catch her as she fell.
“Get a healer,” he snapped to the crowd in general, and then to Lady Margate, “Show me my lady’s bedchamber.” Her affronted glare got through the panic over Delia’s condition and he added, “Please.”
The prince said, “Do as the dragon lord asks,” and matched Jasper’s steps as he followed Lady Margate toward Findlater’s mansion.
It was only a three or four minute walk, but it seemed endless.
Then there were stairs to climb and a long passage before at last he could set her on a bed, take her limp hand, and stare into her pale face.
Her pulse was strong, and she was breathing easily, but in the shadowed light of the bedchamber, the damage to the cloud was more obvious—not just the torn edges, but both smell and taste now had a bitter tang.
“Young man,” said Lady Margate, “out you go. You should not be in the room of an unmarried lady.”
Jasper didn’t bother to look at the annoying female. “No,” he said. “I stay.”
“Here is the healer,” said the prince, and Jasper turned his head to note that it was the queen’s personal physician.
“Lady Bright,” said the prince. “Lady Cordelia fainted.”
“Your highness, your grace, my lords and ladies,” said the healer. “Let me examine her, please.” She approached the space Jasper was already occupying, and he moved out of the way, but still hovered close, his hand now resting on Delia’s shoulder.
“Hmm,” said the healer, using her fingers to feel the pulse under Delia’s jaw, and then lifting her eyelids to peer into her eyes. Delia stirred, but did not wake.
“Is it possible that she is with child?” Lady Margate asked.
“Lady Cordelia is still a maiden,” Jasper declared, indignantly.
“She is not with child,” Lady Bright confirmed. “She appears to be exhausted. And wounded in some way. To find where, I must examine her more closely, which I cannot do with you gentlemen in the room.”
“It is her cloud,” Jasper said. “I think it must have been when I translocated us. It tore her cloud.”
“What nonsense is this?” Lady Margate scoffed, but the healer studied Jasper’s face for a moment and said, “You will need to explain. What cloud?”