I noticed Darcy was developing a frustrated glower. To head him off, I added, “Whether Yuánchi is secret or not, I have no intention of being drawn into the war.”
“The French do not know that.”
“You are being dramatic. I cannot imagine an emperor sending a man to kill me. Even if I am bound to a dragon.”
Darcy took my hand. “Elizabeth, you wield power that Napoleon covets. You are dangerous to his empire. More dangerous than Lord Wellington, for all the armies he commands. And you are far more vulnerable.”
“I am not so vulnerable.” I flicked at the ash on my shoulder but only ground it into the light blue cloth.
“Any idiot can aim a pistol at a person’s back. Prime Minister Perceval was killed this spring.”
Mary and Georgiana had crossed the room to join us, and they heard our last exchange. Georgiana looked alarmed, Mary thoughtful. Both knew of Yuánchi. Georgiana was present when he destroyed Wickham’s rebel army and killed Wickham, and Mary was so close to Georgiana that excluding her would be silly.
Darcy’s explanation did not sit right. “Then why have a pro-slaver attack me? Why not a French spy? Any well-dressed man could approach me on the street without raising an iota of alarm.”
“I do not know,” Darcy admitted. “I cannot even understand how they knew you would attend today.”
“ThatI understand,” I said, casting a glance at Mary, author of provocative programs. She looked abashed.
“I am concerned for Miss Woodhouse,” Darcy said abruptly.
The salon was almost empty, the excited ladies having reluctantly departedat the urging of the constables. But Emma remained, sitting on the floor, her back propped against a wall and her arms hugging her knees. Her friend Harriet was kneeling beside her, evidently worried.
“Was she hurt?” I asked.
“She fainted,” Darcy said, and he strode in her direction. I followed, surprised by his attention. They had barely spoken.
Even in a crowd of London ladies, Emma had shone with her coiled gold hair and a bright gown and bonnet of saffron silk. With the room emptied and darkened by smoke and soot, her clothes were even more striking, but her pose was fragile. She sat curled and staring at the ash-stained floor. The hems of her gown and petticoat formed immaculate curves on the floor, each point of lace precise. Fastidious. I thought of her habit of straightening her friends’ clothes.
“Miss Woodhouse,” Darcy said, bending stiffly to address her on the floor. “Are you well?”
“She is hurt. She is hurt.” Emma whispered the words to her knees. Her fingers hugged her shins so tightly that her arms quivered.
“She is very worried about the maid, sir,” Harriet said. “The one who hit her head.”
“I am sure she will be well,” I said.
That was the accepted response in matters of health, but it seemed the wrong thing to say.
“No!” Emma gasped, twisting. “She is hurt!” She began panting with distress.
I opened my mouth to offer more reassurances but stopped when Darcy crouched beside Emma, the tails of his coat brushing the floor.
“Miss Woodhouse,” he said. “The maid has been taken to a physician. If her injury is serious, she will be treated. Whether that succeeds or not, her health is out of your hands. There is nothing for you to do.”
That seemed a strange sort of comfort, but Emma looked at him and nodded, her eyes wide. One hand released her knees and reached out. Her fingers fumbled at his waistcoat buttons.
“What?” I said. Darcy caught my eye and gave a reassuring nod.
Mystified, I watched as her shaking fingers touched each of his buttons in turn.
Mary’s head cocked. She knelt by Emma’s other side and laid two fingers on Emma’s wrist, then untied Emma’s gold bonnet, touched her temples, andprobed gently in her hair. All that time, Emma’s fingertips traced Darcy’s waistcoat buttons.
“There is no evident injury,” Mary said. “I wondered if she struck her head.” Mary had been studying medicine for several months, as much as was possible for a lady. She assisted a prominent and suitably radical London physician.
Emma’s fingers had reached Darcy’s bottom button. She began again from the top. “A scarlet draca,” she murmured. That was strange. Yuánchi was scarlet, but regular draca were not.
The room’s door had been left open for the constables. From the stairway beyond, voices rose in disagreement. I heard a shouted question.
