“Without a doubt.” Pemberley had plenty of grooms and manservants who would be glad to take a trip for extra pay, and the brownies were keeping the stables clean. “But would it not be simpler to send the messages through the Gate?”
“Many Nests do not have Gates, and it takes time and enormous energy each time we must change the direction of the Gate. We have already exhausted our Gate dragons with sending out word of Rana Akshaya’s arrival.”
She nodded, though she had almost no understanding of the Gates, or even how many Nests there might be. “How many riders will you need?”
“Perhaps three, if you can spare them. Cerridwen will give them their instructions.” The Eldest settled back on her haunches. “I will be frank with you, Companion Elizabeth. Our Nest has never hosted even a minor Conclave. We are one of the smallest Nests, since we are so close to the lowlands, but these events have forced us into the forefront of dragon affairs. We may need your help again if many companions arrive. We do not have enough Kith to manage more than a few guests at our Companions’ House, nor have they any experience in doing so.”
At last, a problem she could actually solve! “My housekeeper at Pemberley was rescued by dragons as a child. She is accustomed to running a large household and would be greatly honored to provide advice on the needs of managing the Companions House. She could help with providing supplies and servants if needed.”
“If you think she would agree, that would be a burden off my shoulders.”
“I will speak to her, then.” Not that she had any doubts of Mrs. Reynolds’ answer.
But what would Darcy think? He had left a calm, well-managed estate. Now they were overwhelmed with lesser fae, not to mention Rana Akshaya and her entourage taking over the state rooms, Quickthorn in residence in the ballroom, and now Elizabeth was loaning staff to the Nest right and left.
She swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that came so easily these days. Darcy could be as angry as he liked about the changes, as long as he came home to her.
Chapter 22
Darcy left thediligencein a small town, choosing that over a city where there might be soldiers stationed. A nearby baker pointed him to a house that let out rooms to travelers, and Darcy bought several sugary pastries for use if he overextended his Talent.
After a cursory examination of his papers, a room was deemed to be available, and Darcy took his purchases there. He closed the door and settled himself to wait for the moment the dragon scale would come to life. Then he drew even more power than he had earlier, far beyond what he had ever used, to try to send word to Elizabeth. Sending so much over a great distance was unheard of – and beyond risky – but he had no choice. Chances were good he would be caught long before he reached the Channel, and getting word to England that Napoleon was a dragon was critical.
Without that, his entire mission was worse than a failure. It had made matters worse. Beyond the people no doubt killed in the fire, attacks on British troops would be redoubled.
The room was spinning around him by the time he was done. He choked down the pastries, hoping it would be enough to recover his life forces. Afterwards, he spent half the night lying awake and praying that Elizabeth had received his message. For all he knew, he might have exhausted his strength on an impossible sending that went nowhere.
In the morning, he had just finished dressing when the old man who had rented him the room burst in without even knocking. “What is it, my good fellow?” Darcy asked.
“Get out of my house!” the man spat, shaking with fury. “I will not have an Englishman under my roof, not after you tried to kill our emperor.”
Shock rushed through him. How had he been discovered? Then he realized it was not a personal accusation, but one that would be leveled at anyone from Britain. He tried to sound confused. “What is this nonsense about killing Napoleon?”
“One of your countrymen tried, but our emperor was too clever for him, and all of you can rot in hell for all I care! Out of here, you son of a whore, or I will bloody your nose for you!”
As if this decrepit old man could lay a hand on him! But Darcy could not blame him; he would be equally incensed if a Frenchman had tried to kill the King. He slung his satchel over his shoulder and strode out of the house.
He would have to be even more careful now, when his very nationality made him a target. If only he could pretend to be Flemish or Austrian – but his papers would put the lie to that. Fortunately, the sleepy ostler at the stable where thediligencestopped either had not heard the news or did not care, for he sold Darcy a ticket.
Now he was on a different coachingroute, an indirect, minor one where there would be fewer soldiers watching the road. In the afternoon, Darcy swung out of the small diligence, his legs aching. The seats were not designed for someone of his height, and on top of that he had tried to hunch down to avoid drawing attention and kept his nose buried in a book – a French book he had no interest in – to avoid conversation. Now his neck was stiff, too.
His muscles protested as his boots struck the pavement. Rolling his shoulders to loosen them, he followed the other passengers into the inn with more eagerness than the unprepossessing building deserved. He was parched enough to enjoy even the cheapest wine. But he also kept a hold on his tie to Pemberley’s power, in case trouble arose.
But first, the necessary. He made his requests to the host and then followed his directions from the crowded taproom to the back of the inn, winding through a narrow brick passageway that could use a good cleaning.
A few minutes later, he turned back, his stomach grumbling. At least that would be easy to fix; the food had been good even in the poorest auberges in France. No wonder everyone hired French chefs in England.
An excited voice in the taproom caught his attention. “An Englishman? On thediligence? Mon ami, we can avenge the attack on the emperor – and our fortune is made!”
Were they talking about him? Darcy pressed himself back against the rough wall.
“What do you mean?” Was that the coach driver?
“Look at this! Five thousand gold napoleons for the capture of an Englishman, last seen in Paris. Another five hundred francs to anyone who assists his capture! Tall and dark-haired, just like this one, might be traveling under the name of Harcourt or Darcy. It must be the blackguard who tried to kill the emperor!”
“Hah! We’ll teach him a lesson he won’t forget!” another man cried.
Good God! He had expected a price on his head, but five thousand gold napoleons was a fortune beyond belief. Anyone would turn him in at the mere hope of it. What smuggler would carry him to England when they could sell them for a thousand times more than his fare?
