Darcy opened his mouth, but this time, I was quicker. “That sounds very settled. You proposed using Yuánchi in war. My reply expressed my reservations. I should say, my disagreement. How did the Council respond?”
“The Council addressed their request to Mr. Darcy,” Lord Wellington said. “I judged it unwise to present a reply penned by his wyfe.” I drew a big breath, but he raised a finger and continued, “Instead, I insisted that you be invited to this meeting. I have respected your privacy about the events at Pemberley, but my discretion has left the gentlemen of the Council with… conventional expectations.”
Lord Wellington had witnessed me controlling draca and summoning Yuánchi—and the destruction that followed. Afterward, Darcy extracted his promise to conceal my abilities. Darcy feared they would be irresistibly tempting to the military.
However, pretending to be a wide-eyed innocent was irritating in situations like this. I plucked a fold of my skirt. “I should think the ‘conventional expectation’ is that thewyfewho bound a dragon isMrs.Darcy.”
Lord Wellington studied me with no hint of humor, but a glint in his eye. He almost seemed pleased. Then he knocked twice and opened the door.
We entered an office like a large gentleman’s study. The walls were panels of quarter-sawn oak dulled by decades of beeswax polish. A rack of shelves held thick legal volumes. A square window faced the walled yard. The sill had a hole, mouse-sized and distinctly nibbled.
A massive walnut desk dominated the room, each chunky leg carved with a lion’s head and clawed foot. One corner held cut-glass decanters of whisky and port. Beside a pen and blotter, an empty glass tumbler weighed down several sheets of paper. Four armchairs upholstered in ruby velvet formed an arc in front.
Two gentlemen were waiting. They rose as we entered.
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 thebarest 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 HMSDapper, 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. TheDapperwas 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.
