“Yes!” I exclaimed. This was no time for false delicacy.
His gaze was level, the line of his chin dark and decided against his starched collar. “I have been privileged with freedom my entire life. Until now, my help for others has been an easy task. A gentleman’s pastime. I must do my duty, or I could not live with myself.”
Miss Taylor, my governess—practically my mother—had left for her marriage two years ago. Then, I lost Papa. Now, my new sister chafed to leave, and Mr. Knightley aided her while planning to leave as well.
I tugged my glove into place, then held my hands side-by-side to check that the trim was identical. The ribbons were trembling. “Send someone else. Please.”
“I cannot. I would not, if I could. We all have duties, Emma. This is mine. Iwill travel south in a few days. But I will pass through Surrey. I could assist your return.”
Mr. Elton’s condemnations mocked me. What business had I holding hands with a gentleman? This was inevitable. This was for the best.
“Do your duty,” I said and left, my steps dragging as if through icy water.
32
THEDAGGER
MARY
Lord Wellington rosefrom 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 theytook 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?”
