His fingers tightened. “What if England’s survival were at stake?”
I laughed. “You cannot be serious. Lord Wellington is handily winning the war.”
“You know this from the newspapers?”
“Well. Yes. I suppose so.”
“The papers print what they are told.” His jaw worked. “I know Wellington. He manipulated you—and me—to reveal your ability to the Council. He has a soldier’s pragmatism, but even so, he would not do that lightly. He is worried.” Darcy exhaled through pursed lips. “I wish he had spoken to me instead. Asked.”
“Love, this will shock you, but your friends find you difficult to influence.” Darcy smiled crookedly, and I continued, “I am glad the Council knows. It will end the ridiculous secrecy about Yuánchi.”
“You wish that? You will become ‘the lady with the dragon.’?”
“Iamthe lady with the dragon. Pemberley’s staff knows, and half of Lambton town. For all their discretion, word will spread. Secrecy is hopeless and frustrating.”
Darcy’s lips compressed thoughtfully. Then he looked up at the sky.
The air had chilled. Sparse flakes of snow danced around us, so weightless they might have been ash rising or snow falling. Then the wind hushed, and their dance died. Ice from the darkening clouds kissed my cheek, deliciously cold.
4
CHATHFORD HOUSE
EMMA
Blackness fell awayto reveal golden wood wainscoting and white plaster. I was lying on my back, suspended in space. My knees, bent and draped in yellow silk, hung level with my eyes.
I floated up a hallway—a stairway. Slanted rectangles of winter light passed on the wall. The ceiling was a fresco, a spiral of serpentine seraphim that were winged and fiery. They spun as I turned on a landing, seeming to ascend to Heaven. The hem of my dress tugged on a banister, then pulled free. I rose again in steady steps.
When my father died, I collapsed for a day and a night. When I woke, there had been this same calm. Freedom from the false images that overran my mind. Freedom from the itch of compulsion.
With some surprise, I realized I was floating because I was in a man’s arms. His ebony chin was inches from my nose, close shaven and framed by a starched white neckcloth. Mr. Knightley, the Black gentleman from the salon.
Politely, I said, “Were we introduced?”
His eyes went wide. He took two driving steps—we fairly leaped up the stairs—then I was dropped on my feet. Rather suddenly and solidly.
The landing filled as Harriet, Mary Bennet, and Georgiana Darcy rushed up. Harriet took a two-handed grip on my upper arm while the other ladies peered with concern.
The gentleman had backed to the far banister. He raised his hands, fingers spread in tense apology.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said in a roughened tenor. “Miss Smith and Miss Bennet insisted we bring you inside. I asked several times, but you did not answer.”
“Have I given you a fright? I fear the excitement made me faint.” I produced a delicate laugh while I looked around. How long was I unaware? “May I ask where we are?”
“This is Chathford, our London house,” Georgiana said. “It was closed six years ago. It is as new to me as to you, almost. I have… forgotten it.” Her voice faltered at the end.
“Are you better?” Harriet asked me.
“I feel perfectly well,” I said. Her grip on my arm eased a fraction.
The gentleman maintained his exaggerated, unthreatening pose. His fingers were very long and elegant.
Harriet whispered in my ear, “Some ladies are offended if a man of color touches them.”
Oh. “I am very thankful, sir,” I told him. “Is it Mr. Knightley?”
“It is. At your service, madam.” He bowed, one arm sketching a subtle flourish. Like an actor might bow, if an actor had good taste.
