Chapter 32 The Dagger
THE DAGGER
MARY
Lord Wellington rose from his chair in the south sitting room. “Miss Bennet. I have been meaning to thank you for your care of Miss Bathurst. And to compliment you for your composure on the night of the ball. You were as steadfast as any army surgeon.”
That was untrue unless army surgeons wept when someone died in their lap. Perhaps they did. The Greek heroes all wept.
Pemberley, for all its size, was thoroughly familiar after spending July and August with Georgiana, but this room I had entered rarely.
Mr. Darcy favored it for private work, and it channeled his masculinity: thick-legged oaken furniture and a shelf of brandies and ports.
Lord Wellington had swamped the writing desk in papers and maps.
That mess looked more like Georgiana, who existed in a cyclone of manuscripts and disassembled keyboard mechanisms.
I muttered “Lord Wellington” and began: “Miss Bathurst is why I have come. She has remembered information from her captivity.”
Lord Wellington frowned and offered a chair before ringing for a servant and asking them to find Lizzy.
He strolled to the shelf of liquors, weighed a crystal glass, and raised it questioningly toward me.
I shook my head—was that a joke?—and watched him slosh in a half-inch of amber liquid that shot scents of oak and alcohol.
It was late morning, not even one o’clock.
He lounged into the desk chair, studying me, then sniffed the tumbler. “Darcy keeps Scotch whiskey. We use it to toast his Scottish gamekeeper, the poor fellow.” He sipped. “I am bracing myself for your news. Miss Bathurst’s stories are ghastly. You must agree, given your own work.”
I did not understand the purpose of his last sentence. “My work?”
“Condemning the establishment. Your cause is…”—he tapped a finger on his glass while he thought—“the right of all women to bind. I recall a spirited condemnation of England’s war effort as well.
” He pursed his lips for another sip, but the glass stopped an inch short.
“You know, they do not come any more establishment than I. Well, His Royal Highness, I suppose.”
I thought I understood him now. “Are you interviewing me to determine if I am a spy?”
Finally, he drank. His throat bobbed in a heavy swallow.
“If I thought you were a spy, you would not have joined our excursion. This is curiosity. The Bennet sisters are, without exception, remarkable. Mrs. Darcy, obviously. Mrs. Bingley has her wyvern. Your sister Lydia, frankly, was terrifying. What is your distinction?”
“You excluded Kitty,” I noted. “If you explain whatever innuendo or intimidation you are attempting, we could be done with it.”
He swirled his glass and raised it in a mock toast. “The efficient sister, then.” He slung his head back against the chair and rubbed his eyes. They had harsh shadows, dark as bruises. He was exhausted.
Lizzy arrived, changed from traveling clothes to promenade dress.
That was gaudy for at home but sensible when a prince or princess might lurk around any corner.
I doubted she had clothes for presentation to court, and if she did, Lizzy was too clever to wear them.
The formality would scream royalty if a stranger called.
Lizzy had worn this same gown, cheerful sky blue and cloud white, in the summer when we called upon homes in Lambton. It hung too loose, now.
There were niceties and shifts of chairs, then Lord Wellington said, “Miss Bennet has news from Miss Bathurst.”
Lizzy looked at me, her eyes wider and her expression sadder. Reminders of the ball stoked her guilt. I wished that trauma would mend, and that I was not one of those reminders.
I fiddled with the binding of my book, organizing thoughts.
“Miss Bathurst recalled several details about why and how the captive wyves are taken.” I started my mental list: “When these criminals abduct a woman, they dose her with crawler venom. Immediately. It may be in the alley where they took her, or the garden. It is a test of tolerance. The dose is so strong that most do not survive. They leave those behind, to be ignored as victims of London’s random violence.
” I showed them the book I held, a thin, water-stained volume.
“Wickham and Lydia stole volumes of draca lore from the Pemberley library. Those are in Napoleon’s possession, but hundreds of references remain.
This is an old Briton pharmacopeia, and it lists lethalities of crawler venom.
One drop will kill a man. A bound wyfe survives four or five drops.
An unbound wyfe with strong affinity for draca can tolerate higher doses.
That is the purpose of the first venom test. The criminals abduct women of good family because, in England, only those families have public histories of binding.
So they select wyves whose mothers or grandmothers bound strongly. ”
“They are choosing strong wyves to control the black dragon,” Lord Wellington said.
“Correct,” I said, advancing one topic on my list, but he held out his hand for the book. Irritated by the delay, I passed it to him.
He flipped it open and squinted. “What on earth?”
“It is Scottish Gaelic,” I said. He passed it back with an elevated eyebrow, and I resumed, “Before preparing to control the dragon, their captives are tested on an easier task: controlling a common draca. That ‘testing’ is the brutality Miss Bathurst described to us: feigned rewards, vicious punishments, and drug-enforced stupor. Miss Rees was their strongest captive wyfe, so she was taught to use the dagger to control Fènnù. Miss Bathurst did not receive that training; she was sent to the ball to assault Lizzy and to cause panic. But she heard the instructions. The dagger’s blade has an inscription revealed when wetted by a wyfe’s blood.
A song that establishes a connection to the dragon. ”
Other than their revolted expressions, Lizzy and Lord Wellington offered no comment. I had a sour taste in my own throat and needed a steadying breath before advancing a topic. “To raise Fènnù, Miss Rees carried a huge dose of venom to swallow once she had the dagger in her possession.”
“The venom boosts a wyfe’s power,” Lizzy said. “That is how Lydia used it. Even with the dagger, I am sure they need it. A dragon’s mind is unimaginably strong.”
“You would know,” I acknowledged. “I deduced it was required because the dose inflicts a severe cost. Miss Bathurst said even the doses necessary to control common draca killed wyves in days. Her memories are clouded, but she believes this occurred twice, forcing the abduction of yet more women. I think that, once a wyfe takes the huge doses required to control Fènnù, she cannot survive long.”
“Lydia Bennet took the venom,” Lord Wellington said. “She did not die in days.”
Lizzy’s response was quiet. “Lydia was no ordinary wyfe. I battled both her and the wyves at the ball. Lydia was far stronger.”
“Because she was your sister,” Lord Wellington said. His gaze found mine. “Miss Bennet, you avoided my earlier question. I must ask directly. What is your strength?”
“Reading Gaelic,” I answered. “And irritating lords. It depends upon my mood.”
He grunted—perhaps he laughed—then he shrugged.
“If wyves do not survive long, that explains the gap in dragon attacks. After Fènnù rose, there were raids on the fleet, then on the royal residences. But in less than a day, the black dragon vanished. The French and American invaders at Brighton fought conventionally. Even with our regular army trapped in Spain, we had mustered the militia and could have cast them back. Then yesterday, the black dragon returned.” His jaw corded.
“I have an account from a militia lieutenant who survived. His first combat. It reads like the end of the world.” He squared the knuckles of his fist against the table, then pressed until his fingers turned white. “Can we rely on that gap each time?”
“It is impossible to predict,” I said. “This gap was due to insufficient strong wyves. They lost two at the ball, and their replacement wyfe was not yet… tested. She must have become ready. I do not know if they have others to follow her.”
Lord Wellington tapped a small, curled piece of paper, a message that had been carried by bird. “Yesterday, the enemy controlled Brighton, Canterbury, and Portsmouth. They could be halfway to London today. What if they collect wyves from those cities?”
My stomach twisted. “That is a vile thought. You may judge the French army’s morals, but the brutality of slavers has no limits. The man who punishes the captive wyves speaks like an American. You have seen the marks of his handiwork. It is rank torture.”
Lizzy was flushed. “We must get the dagger back. This is evil, and it is my fault. Think of the nightmare for those women.”
“For those women and many more,” Lord Wellington said.
“Without the dagger, England will lose this war, and swiftly. Tinsdale is an open traitor. Bonaparte has declared Tinsdale king of England—a vassal king who swears loyalty to France, and only for those regions he subdues. And even though Tinsdale is odious and dishonored, there are demonstrations supporting him in London. His agents post lies throughout the city: that England’s monarchs feed on the blood of infants, and that France’s war is a divine crusade to liberate Catholics imprisoned by English devil-worshippers.
I do not know who he expects to convince with such falsehoods. ”
“More will believe than you think,” I said. “England’s oppression fosters rebellion. Catholics are one of many minorities—”
“Mary, stop,” Lizzy muttered. I looked at her, surprised—less for being scolded than for the weakness of her reprimand.