Darcy scowled, having to think this time. “What if your culprit is unable to secure an invitation?”
“The culprit is an aristocrat.” Darcy arched an eyebrow. Stubbornly, I said, “I am certain. This person seeks power, not wealth. They have allies and resources. They are cruel.”
“A cutthroat in an alley is cruel.”
“Not like this. This is the cruelty of entitlement.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. If he were a Watt engine, he would be puffing steam. “The culprit is Bonaparte.”
I sighed. “Not that again.”
“Elizabeth, it is evident and obvious. There is a scheme to raise a dragon, a scheme to attack the English navy, and a scheme to kill the sole English wyfebound to a dragon. Our enemy even used crawler venom, which was the tool of Bonaparte’s last agent,Wickham.”
Even now, with Wickham horribly killed, Darcy spoke his name like a curse.
Well, another joy of marriage was knowing one’s spouse. “Will you agree to the ball if I admit you are right?” Darcy’s eyebrows soared, and I pressed my advantage. “Napoleon will not attend, but his agent will. Then, one way or another, we will know.” On the last word, I hooked my arm through his and set off toward the iron gate.
I had expectedto return to the War Secretary’s office, but a page escorted us on a trek through endless anterooms and halls. We passed lawyers garbed in formal robes and wigs. They cast interested glances at Darcy and narrow stares at me.
“Where are we going?” I whispered to Darcy. He shook his head, unsure.
We entered a large, empty room—a courtroom. The judge’s bench was empty, the rows of seats abandoned, and the staring galleries vacant. The War Secretary, Lord Wellington, and Mr. Tinsdale were seated around a table near the front.
The page left us at the door with a bow.
“I do not like this,” I whispered. “They seek to intimidate.”
“Remember that I must deny them, not you,” Darcy said. This was our strategy, and a sound one, at least for Darcy’s goals of law and honor. For myself, I would have been content to inquire politely how the government intended to conscript an unwilling creature who flew.
We walked forward, our steps echoey, and the gentlemen greeted us. The War Secretary was smilingly eager. Lord Wellington was watchful. Mr. Tinsdale was notably friendly, and I returned his smile.
“Well, Mr. Darcy,” the War Secretary said at last, rubbing his hands as we arranged ourselves in chairs. “Let us get to it! How will this proceed?”
Darcy bowed slightly from his seat, acknowledging the transition to business. “First, I thank you, the Council, and the King’s government for the confidence you have shown in our advice. I have reviewed relevant precedents of law…”
While he spoke, I watched their reactions. Any attentive person would already discern that Darcy’s answer was no. Lord Wellington, Darcy’s closefriend, clearly had. He slouched back in his chair, eyes hooded like a chess player pondering a difficult position. Mr. Tinsdale also knew. A smile played on his lips. This was the outcome he wished.
The War Secretary was beaming and enthused. He was an experienced politician, so that could only mean he had not imagined the possibility of rejection.
Darcy concluded, “…we must, respectfully, decline to offer our support.”
“Decline!” the War Secretary repeated, his graying eyebrows compressing in shock. “You cannot decline!”
“I am certain this is the correct path for England,” Darcy said. He added pointedly, “Irrespective of that, even if Yuánchi were our property—which he is not, being a creature with his own will—it is ourrightto decline.”
“You shirk your duty to England,” the War Secretary said.
Darcy’s cheeks hollowed. He said nothing, but I was angry on his behalf. Privately—so privately that he had not voiced it even to me—the claim of duty gnawed at him. One evening when Lord Wellington was visiting Pemberley, Darcy had shared his guilt over not volunteering as an officer. Lord Wellington dismissed that as idiocy given the other roles Darcy played, but Darcy’s heart could not banish the fear that he had unjustly avoided personal sacrifice.
Mr. Tinsdale spoke next. “I support Mr. Darcy. The firedrake that attacked theDapperis lost. Would you have us burn French troops like straw rather than engage in civilized conflict? History would judge us, and England, unkindly.”
The War Secretary pushed to his feet, his lip curling. He seemed more angry with Mr. Tinsdale than he had been with Darcy. “Youare the last person who should judge England.”
Mr. Tinsdale stood, chest thrust out with affront. “I claimed no such authority.”
The War Secretary scoffed and turned, fists on hips, to scowl down at Darcy. Darcy rose in silent response, his motion measured.
I was beginning to feel very short. I stole a glance at the slouched Lord Wellington and found him watching me. He raised an eyebrow.
