He lowered his voice to a whisper. “We cannot locate the dragon. The Pemberley staff display such perfect ignorance that the lair must be elsewhere. If I were privately advised of the creature’s location, I could reassure the War Secretary. The Darcys would be undisturbed, and their creature guarded.” He smiled shrewdly. “His Majesty’s government would be indebted for that information. A debt worthy of an introduction to Mr. Debrett.”
It was so simple. I could tell him Yuánchi’s location with my next breath. But would he deliver his promise? His claim of helping the Darcys was transparent manipulation. Still, Lizzy spoke of him as an ally.
His eyes narrowed. “Youdoknow something. Miss Woodhouse, I meet Mr. Debrett tomorrow. This offer ends tonight. Help your friend while you still can.”
Mr. Tinsdale’s pressure was eroding my precarious calm. The flickering trickles of miasma thickened. I searched the room for a reprieve, spotted a friendly profile, and stared hopefully. I was rewarded when Mr. Knightley turned and caught my gaze. He smiled and began walking over.
Relieved, I returned my attention to Mr. Tinsdale, then realized my blunder just as Mr. Knightley arrived.
“Miss Woodhouse,” he said, bowing, then he froze when he saw Mr. Tinsdale, whose eyes had hardened.
“Uh… are you acquainted?” I said desperately. “One discovers the most unexpected connections at a ball.”
The two men glared at each other in deadly silence.
I seized the explanation that saved me with Mary. “I believe Mr. Knightley is an acquaintance of Miss Darcy.” The silence thickened, and I babbled on, frightened that I had ruined Harriet’s chance. “A musician, is it? Have you come to entertain us?”
Mr. Knightley turned to me, his posture impeccable, his neckcloth a cascade of silk between velvet lapels. “Your pardon. I mistook you for a friend.” He inclined his head and strode away.
“Callow and rude,” Mr. Tinsdale declared very loudly. “Proof that dressing in fine clothes cannot make an Englishman of… that.”
“Excuse me. I am unwell.” I staggered aside, then dove between strangers, my vision blurring with shame for how I had treated my friend. Whatever hope Mr. Tinsdale offered for Harriet, I could not proceed like this. Tears heated my throat and spilled on my cheeks. With shaking fingers, I groped at the drawstrings of my reticule. If I soiled my gloves, the evening was lost.
A gentleman’s hand appeared before me, presenting a handkerchief with a discreet D embroidered on the corner. Mr. Darcy said, “May I assist you, Miss Woodhouse?”
Unable to speak, I took his handkerchief and wiped my eyes. The miasma raged like a sea, churning higher and higher from my emotions. Then the storm vanished behind Mr. Darcy’s perfect ivory waistcoat, each decorated button aligned, and a starched neckcloth with fifteen symmetric lobes.
I forced my gaze up to his eyes. He was standing overly close to block my view of the room. Relief shattered my last pretense of strength, and I whispered, “I must touch you.”
His brow furrowed. “I do not see how that can be accomplished.”
Despite my turmoil, his propriety made me laugh. I shut my eyes, pulled offmy gloves, and fumbled them onto the floor. By the time I opened my eyes, Mr. Darcy had retrieved them. I accepted them in my left hand, said “Thank you,” and offered my bare right hand.
No gentleman took a lady’s ungloved hand without removing his own glove. That reflex of etiquette bared his skin, then our fingers met.
Scarlet roared up my arm. The thickening miasma vanished like a popping soap bubble. My senses exploded—the vital warmth of guests around us, the staircase glows of candelabra, the feathery swansdown on my cuffs.
This health and clarity of perception was astonishing. My pathetic rituals of distraction were a toy by comparison.
I realized our fingers still touched. I opened my hand. “Thank you for my gloves, sir.” I drew them on, watching how the yellow cloth filled unevenly and wondering at my lack of distress.
“Miss Woodhouse,” he said. I looked up into wondering eyes. “We must decide how to manage this.”
“Has no lady fooled you into a touch before?” That sounded silly, but I was giddy with relief. Then I remembered Mr. Knightley striding away, and my relief became shame. “I do not mean to joke. You have saved me this evening. I am grateful.”
He bowed with utmost formality and said, “You are welcome. I beg your pardon. I must speak with Elizabeth.” He vanished into the crowd.
Was he affronted? Furious? I swallowed through a tight throat. I had offended two upstanding men in as many minutes. And I had not even left the foyer.
I moved to the next room, hoping to spy Mr. Knightley, or Harriet, or anyone I knew. Not Mr. Tinsdale, though. Not yet.
This was an exhibit hall, with suits of armor and weapons around the perimeter, each collecting chattering admirers. Near the back was a roped off six-by-six square with a small pedestal. A black, curved dagger rested in purple velvet. Gramr.
An elegantly dressed lady in her early twenties stopped beside me. She wore white silk, an extravagant jeweled gold necklace, and ostentatiously styled yellow curls. She inspected me heels to hair, then wrinkled her nose in grudging approval. “How delightful to have an addition to our winter society. May I assist you with an introduction?”
The simplicity of social ritual made me smile in gratitude. “I am MissEmma Woodhouse. You are quite right. This is my first ball in London. I reside in Surrey.”
“I am Miss Caroline Bingley.”
