Chapter 17 The Council, Denied
THE COUNCIL, DENIED
LIZZY
It was three days after our first, contentious meeting with the Council of War.
The oaken town coach delivered Darcy and me to the street outside Westminster Palace, then rattled off. I stood unmoving, my gaze tracing the jagged stone walls and rough-topped towers. The rock and mortar were ponderous with history.
After a minute, Darcy said dryly, “Has it done anything yet?”
“I know the theme of our ball,” I announced.
He looked at me in surprise. “I was unaware we were having a ball.”
“You agreed,” I pointed out. “Or were about to, at least. To collect politicians, or important personages, or whatever it was.”
“That sounds more vague than my usual agreements.” His eyes were stern, which I thought handsome, but a corner of his mouth twitched, quite ruining the effect.
“We will host the ball at the British Museum,” I explained. “That requires we invite Lady Catherine, which requires the affair be extravagant or she will decline. Do you mind if I invite Mamma, Kitty, and the Bingleys? That will level the playing field.”
He abandoned sternness and snorted. “I cannot imagine why you require permission for them when you are inviting my scurrilous aunt.”
“The theme,” I continued firmly, “will be a new exhibit: the legendary dagger Gramr. Somebody killed a dragon with it, then it was stolen by Queen Mary to…” I toyed with phrasings.
“How does this sound: to raise the Dragon Queen of Seraphim! Is that too much? It should be impressive.” I looked up for his reaction.
His dark eyes were thoughtful. “You believe that whoever stole the Pendant of Fiery Justice sought to raise a dragon.”
“You are quick,” I said, impressed.
“And with the pendant destroyed, they will attend your ball, attempt to steal the dagger, and be captured.”
“Exactly!” I felt a rush of happiness. These effortless agreements were a true joy of my marriage.
“That is a contrived and foolish plan,” Darcy said dismissively. “Now, may we tell the War Secretary that he will not have his dragon?”
“What? It is not foolish!”
He drew a long breath. “Why would the thief steal the dagger at a ball when they could choose a dull day at the museum and avoid witnesses?”
I tapped my toe. “The dagger will be restored to the royal vault after the event. It is far too potent to leave in a dusty drawer.”
“Why not an exhibit without a ball?”
“Because you need influence to fend off the powerful gentlemen you are about to infuriate. And because a ball will publicize itself. We will not have to wander London shouting about magic daggers and hoping to be overheard.” In the spirit of spousal honesty, I admitted, “And I would enjoy a ball. We have been married six months without hosting more than dinner.”
Darcy scowled, having to think this time. “What if your culprit is unable to secure an invitation?”
“The culprit is an aristocrat.” Darcy arched an eyebrow. Stubbornly, I said, “I am certain. This person seeks power, not wealth. They have allies and resources. They are cruel.”
“A cutthroat in an alley is cruel.”
“Not like this. This is the cruelty of entitlement.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. If he were a Watt engine, he would be puffing steam. “The culprit is Bonaparte.”
I sighed. “Not that again.”
“Elizabeth, it is evident and obvious. There is a scheme to raise a dragon, a scheme to attack the English navy, and a scheme to kill the sole English wyfe bound to a dragon. Our enemy even used crawler venom, which was the tool of Bonaparte’s last agent, Wickham.”
Even now, with Wickham horribly killed, Darcy spoke his name like a curse.
Well, another joy of marriage was knowing one’s spouse.
“Will you agree to the ball if I admit you are right?” Darcy’s eyebrows soared, and I pressed my advantage.
“Napoleon will not attend, but his agent will. Then, one way or another, we will know.” On the last word, I hooked my arm through his and set off toward the iron gate.
I had expected to return to the War Secretary’s office, but a page escorted us on a trek through endless anterooms and halls. We passed lawyers garbed in formal robes and wigs. They cast interested glances at Darcy and narrow stares at me.
“Where are we going?” I whispered to Darcy. He shook his head, unsure.
We entered a large, empty room—a courtroom. The judge’s bench was empty, the rows of seats abandoned, and the staring galleries vacant. The War Secretary, Lord Wellington, and Mr. Tinsdale were seated around a table near the front.
The page left us at the door with a bow.
“I do not like this,” I whispered. “They seek to intimidate.”
“Remember that I must deny them, not you,” Darcy said. This was our strategy, and a sound one, at least for Darcy’s goals of law and honor. For myself, I would have been content to inquire politely how the government intended to conscript an unwilling creature who flew.
We walked forward, our steps echoey, and the gentlemen greeted us. The War Secretary was smilingly eager. Lord Wellington was watchful. Mr. Tinsdale was notably friendly, and I returned his smile.
“Well, Mr. Darcy,” the War Secretary said at last, rubbing his hands as we arranged ourselves in chairs. “Let us get to it! How will this proceed?”
Darcy bowed slightly from his seat, acknowledging the transition to business. “First, I thank you, the Council, and the King’s government for the confidence you have shown in our advice. I have reviewed relevant precedents of law…”
While he spoke, I watched their reactions.
Any attentive person would already discern that Darcy’s answer was no.
Lord Wellington, Darcy’s close friend, clearly had.
He slouched back in his chair, eyes hooded like a chess player pondering a difficult position.
Mr. Tinsdale also knew. A smile played on his lips. This was the outcome he wished.
The War Secretary was beaming and enthused. He was an experienced politician, so that could only mean he had not imagined the possibility of rejection.
Darcy concluded, “…we must, respectfully, decline to offer our support.”
“Decline!” the War Secretary repeated, his graying eyebrows compressing in shock. “You cannot decline!”
“I am certain this is the correct path for England,” Darcy said. He added pointedly, “Irrespective of that, even if Yuánchi were our property—which he is not, being a creature with his own will—it is our right to decline.”
“You shirk your duty to England,” the War Secretary said.
Darcy’s cheeks hollowed. He said nothing, but I was angry on his behalf.
Privately—so privately that he had not voiced it even to me—the claim of duty gnawed at him.
One evening when Lord Wellington was visiting Pemberley, Darcy had shared his guilt over not volunteering as an officer.
Lord Wellington dismissed that as idiocy given the other roles Darcy played, but Darcy’s heart could not banish the fear that he had unjustly avoided personal sacrifice.
Mr. Tinsdale spoke next. “I support Mr. Darcy. The firedrake that attacked the Dapper is lost. Would you have us burn French troops like straw rather than engage in civilized conflict? History would judge us, and England, unkindly.”
The War Secretary pushed to his feet, his lip curling. He seemed more angry with Mr. Tinsdale than he had been with Darcy. “You are the last person who should judge England.”
Mr. Tinsdale stood, chest thrust out with affront. “I claimed no such authority.”
The War Secretary scoffed and turned, fists on hips, to scowl down at Darcy. Darcy rose in silent response, his motion measured.
I was beginning to feel very short. I stole a glance at the slouched Lord Wellington and found him watching me. He raised an eyebrow.
“Your legal niceties are well studied,” the War Secretary said to Darcy. “But they mean nothing if the Crown orders it.”
I bristled at that, and Darcy whitened, but the tension along his jaw was anger, not fear. His answer was exact. “The law is no nicety, nor does the Prince have carte blanche. Even in war, ethics and morality—”
“Spare me your lily-livered morals,” the War Secretary said scathingly.
I shot to my feet. “That is enough! You have repeatedly insulted my husband. In the face of disreputable behavior, he shows gentlemanly restraint and honors the institution you represent. Where is your respect for the rights and honor of a loyal Englishman?”
The table became still. The War Secretary glared at me, chewing his bottom lip in furious silence.
Lord Wellington rose and wrapped my forearm in his.
“Mrs. Darcy, let us step aside.” I spun to him, furious at dismissal, but he whispered, “Your point is scored. Come with me.” Unruffled, and with my arm firmly clamped, he led us across the room and murmured, “The Secretary has overstepped, and you have called him out. Darcy will prevail. It would be wise not to focus more of the Secretary’s attention on yourself. ”
At an infuriatingly relaxed stroll, we reached a distant bench of the gallery. Lord Wellington released my arm and bent to examine some words scraped into a wooden armrest. He shook his head. “How crude.”
Seething, I watched the three gentlemen converse, their tones now muted and polite. My whole being was alight with fury. With shaking fingers, I stripped off my overheated spencer and threw it past Lord Wellington’s nose onto the bench. He straightened reproachfully.
“You support us, then,” I said tightly.
“Do not call it support, exactly,” he said.
“I am tempted by a weapon that would end the war in days and save English lives. If England’s sovereignty were at stake, I would wield it in an instant.
But the Secretary has never seen a ship burn, nor a cannon cut down a row of friends enfilade, nor a dragon pour flame like the Almighty’s wrath.
If France no longer has a firedrake, I cannot unleash unmitigated destruction.
England would emerge a victorious pariah. ”
“Darcy could have used your support.”
“Darcy had you.” He said that with such simple regard that a flicker of gratitude cooled my anger. Of course, that was likely his intent. I eyed him, then turned back to the conference, lifting the back of my hair to cool a sheen of sweat on the nape of my neck.
Darcy listened gravely to Mr. Tinsdale, then answered deliberately. Everyone was stiffly proper, and Darcy was calm and confident. He was satisfied.
The courthouse windows were a long row of shining rectangles high on our left.
A shift of cloud brightened them, then the space filled with reverberating silver so intense that it needled my eyes and raised a spasm in my throat.
Surreal gleams raced across the lacquered rails and molding, each shimmer haloed with brilliant colors as if the room had filled with rainbows.
The effect faded. I rubbed my clammy temples, feeling the bite of a headache. Strange colors still flickered in the corners. I muttered, “The sun is too bright,” and Lord Wellington gave me a mystified look.