Chapter 3 The Council of War #2
Lord Wellington introduced the man behind the desk, War Secretary Lord Henry Castlehurst, a viscount.
He was an older man with short, gray hair and a mustache so thin it could have been cut from a strip of felt.
His full title was Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, a powerful role that consolidated England’s foreign interests.
I curtsied, and he bowed, then turned to greet Darcy.
The other gentleman rose from an armchair. He was about forty, robust, tall and barrel-chested with a confident stance. He greeted Lord Wellington with a chuckle about some prior disagreement, then met me with a genuine smile.
“Mrs. Darcy.” He bowed over my hand, his straw hair thick and wavy. “Mr. Tinsdale, at your service. It is an honor to meet such an exceptional lady and wyfe. You have done England proud with your binding. Who would have thought a modern wyfe could raise a dragon—a true creature of legend.”
The War Secretary flicked a hand toward the armchairs.
Silently, Darcy adjusted my chair, then sat precisely in the adjacent seat.
When Darcy conducted business at Pemberley, he was decisive, friendly, and matter-of-fact.
Here, he had answered the introductions with formality and the barest minimum of words.
I recognized this stiff, taciturn Darcy from when we first met in Hertfordshire—my husband in an unfamiliar setting with unknown rules.
Darcy caught my eye, and he gave a nod, his eyes alert. Taciturn, but not intimidated.
The War Secretary began. “Mr. Darcy. Mrs. Darcy. I second Tinsdale’s congratulation.
” He said that grudgingly, as if anything uttered by Mr. Tinsdale was suspect.
“You have secured a great treasure for England. King and country are grateful.” To Darcy, he added, “I knew George Darcy, your father. An honorable man. Fate chose a worthy house for this service.”
I answered that. “Draca choose the wyfe they bind. I do not believe in fate.”
The War Secretary eyed me. “Wellington, this meeting was your idea. I suggest you explain.”
Lord Wellington nodded. The silence lengthened before he spoke.
“Six days ago, the HMS Dapper, a fourteen-gun brig, was patrolling the blockade off the French coast. Their lookout spotted a schooner several miles distant. It did not match their guns and they had the wind, so the captain was not alarmed. Then the lookout saw a large bird approaching—a bird with the wingspan of an albatross, ribbed wings, and shining bronze scales.”
“A firedrake,” I said, stunned. My mother and father had bound a drake when they married—a point of pride for Mamma, as drakes were one of the few winged breeds of draca. There were fewer than three dozen bound drakes in all of England.
Lord Wellington nodded. “The lookout was an ordinary seaman. He had never seen a winged draca, but he learned soon enough. The creature threw blue flame as it passed, setting a topsail afire.
“The crew cut down the burning sail, and the captain improvised a defense. He issued muskets, and they loaded the deck swivel cannons with grapeshot. When the drake circled back, they fired a fusillade. The drake was struck—visibly jarred in midair. It fell.”
I breathed an involuntary, dismayed gasp. Draca are protected by their scales, so they are rarely hurt, let alone killed. But drakes are few and long-lived, so the loss was a terrible thing.
The War Secretary frowned at my reaction. Lord Wellington hesitated before he resumed.
“Whatever injury the drake took, it was not disabled. It caught itself before striking the water—the lookout heard the snap of its wings opening, like a sail filling. Then he saw that the first assault was only a probe. The drake attacked ferociously, weaving and spinning. The deck was raked repeatedly with flame. The lookout leaped from the burning foremast into the sea, then the ship’s powder magazine exploded.
The Dapper was lost with fifty men. The lookout, clinging to a piece of flotsam, was the sole survivor. ”
Lord Wellington stopped. The War Secretary exhaled a long breath.
Darcy spoke. “How could the French have a firedrake? There are no draca in France.”
“We think the drake was English. Last month, in Lowestoft, a newly wed wyfe went missing. Her cloak was recovered on a beach, so she was presumed drowned by a sudden wave. Especially since her bound draca, a firedrake, vanished.”
Draca depart if their bound wyfe dies, so the drake’s disappearance would seem confirmation of her death.
“You think she was abducted?” I said.
“Abducted, or a traitor, or she was killed, and her drake taken.”
I shook my head. “A newly married wyfe turned traitor seems unlikely.”
Lord Wellington gave me a level stare, and I realized how foolish I sounded. My own dead sister, Lydia, had been precisely that. Although Lydia had been manipulated and drugged. And mad.
But Lydia was no random wyfe. She had extraordinary power over draca.
“Whether the wyfe lived or not,” I said, “the mystery is why the drake attacked. Draca cannot be trained to fight. They are not war horses or hounds.”
The War Secretary’s eyes narrowed, and he gave an annoyed grunt. I was not sure if that was due to my words or because I had dared to speak at all. I folded my arms and stared back.
Lord Wellington resumed. “Grim as this news is, it grows worse. After the Dapper was lost, the enemy sailed close. The lookout saw two flags. One was French. The other was unfamiliar to him—blue with a white crescent. We know that flag. It is raised by privateers who smuggle African slaves to the plantations of Spanish Florida and Texas.”
“A slave ship?” Darcy said. “Why would slavers visit France?”
Mr. Tinsdale answered, each word deliberate.
“Nine years ago, when Bonaparte needed funds for his war, he attempted to reacquire Louisiana for French slave plantations. Nelson foiled that plan by routing the French navy at Trafalgar. Now, Bonaparte has allied directly with the American slave states. They provide ships for France’s war, and the French territories pay in slaves. ”
“An evil alliance,” Darcy said and caught my eye. Napoleon allied with slavers, like the men who tried to kill me.
“A powerful alliance,” the War Secretary said.
“One that shifts the balance of the war. The American cutters are light ships, but fast. And, somehow, this pact has enabled our enemies to field an English draca as a weapon. We must strike before there are greater losses. The time has come for England to bring her great power to bear. The Darcy dragon must join the war.”
“No!” I exclaimed. Yuánchi had fought for me once, and dozens had died. The scars of his fury still stained a meadow above Pemberley.
The War Secretary dismissed me with an insulting sniff and addressed my husband. “Mr. Darcy. This is not a matter for debate. This is a matter of duty.”
“Darcy, you must see—” began Lord Wellington.
“Mr. Darcy has no duty,” Mr. Tinsdale boomed.
He cleared his throat and continued more mildly.
“There is nothing he must do. Mr. Darcy, understand that the Council is not unanimous in this request. I oppose this escalation. The loss of the Dapper is tragic, but she was caught unawares, and she was a small vessel, not a ship-of-the-line. We are discussing the response to a single firedrake. Bonaparte is a dangerous and capable man. Send a dragon to burn his ships, and what horrors will he unleash in return?”
Darcy was so still that I suspended my anger and turned to him. His hands were gripping the arms of his chair.
When he did not speak, I said, “I quite agree with Mr. Tinsdale.”
“Bonaparte will not hesitate to perform any horror,” Lord Wellington said. “Our restraint will not slow him.”
“I care less for his horrors than ours,” I said, “I do not support war.”
The War Secretary’s face flushed. “Mrs. Darcy, when Lord Wellington insisted on your presence—”
“How did they convince the drake to attack?” I interrupted. “That should be our concern. Draca do not fight on command.”
The War Secretary barked a frustrated laugh. “Mr. Darcy, you are very quiet. It was you who advised this Council not to attempt the use of draca in war. You declared it impossible to command draca.”
Darcy finally spoke. “I did.”
“And then, your new wyfe bound an extraordinary draca thought to be legend. Has that altered your opinion?” Darcy did not answer.
The War Secretary jabbed his finger into the papers on his desk, crumpling them against the tumbler.
“When the Dapper was sunk, Lord Wellington sent me this report. I have read it, and I am no longer surprised that a dragon was bound at Pemberley.”
Darcy stiffened in his seat. “I know nothing of his report. But Lord Wellington himself informed the Council of Mrs. Darcy’s binding. We did not conceal it.”
“Your wyfe is not the subject of this report,” the War Secretary said. “It discusses your young sister, Miss Georgiana Darcy.”
Darcy’s chair skidded as he rose to face Lord Wellington. “What have you done?”
From his chair, Lord Wellington raised an eyebrow. “Last year, Miss Darcy demonstrated her ability to control draca in a room full of soldiers. I gathered those soldiers’ testimony for the Secretary.”
“Georgiana saved wyves and draca,” Darcy said. “I asked for her help, and she trusted my discretion. You asked no permission, even though you swore to respect our privacy. You have contrived to avoid your oath.” His lip curled. “That is ungentlemanly.”
Lord Wellington’s calm vanished. He shot to his feet, a slighter man than Darcy and inches shorter, but whip-taut and dangerous. “Watch your words.”
Mr. Tinsdale stood and landed a beefy hand on each man’s back. “Gentlemen. We are all honorable men—and women,” he added, glancing at me. “Do not quarrel over actions in defense of England.”
The tension stretched, then Lord Wellington nodded. He settled into his chair, crossing one polished Hussar boot over his trousered knee.
Darcy did not sit. He stood with fists clenched. I grasped his wrist and tugged, then harder. At last, he sat, his shoulders square.
It was time for a cooler head. Unexpectedly, that appeared to be me.
“Whatever skills Miss Darcy has, they do not include commanding draca to fight,” I said. Darcy’s hand caught my forearm, but I ignored him. “Georgiana is a gentle soul, not even married and bound. It is not her you want.”
“Then who?” Lord Wellington said, his gray eyes bright. Perhaps this had been his ploy all along—the master strategist forcing Darcy to reveal either Georgiana or me without breaking the letter of his promise.
“I am the one who commands draca,” I said. “If you are gathering ‘testimony,’ your agents will tell you soon enough. I did so before a room of witnesses, no more than an hour ago. I am a great wyfe. My skills far outstrip Miss Darcy’s.”
That last part was flatly untrue, as Miss Darcy was a great wyfe in her own, different way. But her skills were certainly unsuited to war.
Lord Wellington slapped his boot with a fierce grin. “Mrs. Darcy, your country will thank you.”
“Thanks are premature,” I said. “I will not assist a war.”
The War Secretary had watched with relief. “So it is Mrs. Darcy that we require? Only her?”
“Yes,” Lord Wellington said.
“Well, that is much better. A pair of ladies seemed like trouble.” The War Secretary gave me an encouraging smile. “Overcome your feminine anxiety, Mrs. Darcy. You need only deliver the dragon and ensure it is compliant. Wellington will manage the messy part.”
“Compliant?” I laughed in disbelief. “Your arrogance is astonishing. First, the dragon has a name—”
Darcy rose, abruptly as poised and disciplined as an ambassador at a royal ball. “Mrs. Darcy will not assist a war because I have forbidden it.” He offered me his hand. After a moment of surprise, I put my fingers in his and rose as well.
Darcy gave a slight bow to the War Secretary. “Your trust in sharing this information is appreciated. In turn, you may trust that any information I withheld was in service to solemn vows. I have never compromised England’s security, nor will I do so while I draw breath. I swear this on my honor.”
“Well, certainly.” The War Secretary was flustered. “I thought nothing else.”
“The situation is grave,” Darcy continued. “I must study your request. Three days would suffice.”
Lord Wellington’s eyes narrowed, but the War Secretary nodded. “Of course.”
Darcy bowed deeply, and I curtsied. We turned to go, but Mr. Tinsdale’s solid hand caught mine, and he bowed to me. “Mrs. Darcy. Your counsel was heard today. And valued.”
I nodded silently, then Darcy and I left.
“Why three days?” I whispered as we hurried toward the exit. I was trotting to keep up with his long strides, but the motion was a relief. I blazed with energy.
“I wished to speak with you,” he said as he held the door to the yard. “And it is better that I deny the Council than you. Women have few rights under the law. The choice of three days was arbitrary.”
“Arbitrary? What has happened to my precise husband?”
Darcy stopped in the center of the yard. He took my hands and pulled me close. I had to throw back my head to look into his eyes.
“Elizabeth, do not joke. When you bound Yuánchi, he… challenged you.”
“I have not forgotten,” I said. “He asked if I was the wyfe of war.”
“More than asked. He threatened. He said he could not bind the wyfe of war.”
“But we do not even know what ‘wyfe of war’ means. And if that is your concern, there is no need. I refuse to be involved in war.”
His fingers tightened. “What if England’s survival were at stake?”
I laughed. “You cannot be serious. Lord Wellington is handily winning the war.”
“You know this from the newspapers?”
“Well. Yes. I suppose so.”
“The papers print what they are told.” His jaw worked.
“I know Wellington. He manipulated you—and me—to reveal your ability to the Council. He has a soldier’s pragmatism, but even so, he would not do that lightly.
He is worried.” Darcy exhaled through pursed lips.
“I wish he had spoken to me instead. Asked.”
“Love, this will shock you, but your friends find you difficult to influence.” Darcy smiled crookedly, and I continued, “I am glad the Council knows. It will end the ridiculous secrecy about Yuánchi.”
“You wish that? You will become ‘the lady with the dragon.’ ”
“I am the lady with the dragon. Pemberley’s staff knows, and half of Lambton town. For all their discretion, word will spread. Secrecy is hopeless and frustrating.”
Darcy’s lips compressed thoughtfully. Then he looked up at the sky.
The air had chilled. Sparse flakes of snow danced around us, so weightless they might have been ash rising or snow falling. Then the wind hushed, and their dance died. Ice from the darkening clouds kissed my cheek, deliciously cold.