After all I had been through with Lord Wellington, I refused to pretend ignorance, but neither would I cast her into this madness. “I have no permission to reveal her identity.”
He considered me with narrow eyes. “Mrs. Darcy, I count you as a friend. I do not know the Council’s plans, but do not delude yourself. England’s survival is at stake. They will insist you deliver Yuánchi. Your husband may support them.”
What if Darcy asked me to fight? Could I deny everyone?
I closed my eyes and reached out. London, usually a constellation of glowing draca minds, was a woolly void. Was I shielded? Or had I been permanently neutered, my skills burned away forever?
No, I still sensed one thing. My binding to Yuánchi, silver and shining.
Even if I could speak to Yuánchi—convince him or command him to fight—the thought of unleashing destruction on the French army was like sinking my fingers into a rotten carcass, abhorrent and revolting. And frightening. It would corrupt me. I would become worse than the monster we already faced.
“There must be another way,” I whispered.
27
THE KING’S BENCH
LIZZY
Lord Wellington saida few words to a guard, and the iron gates of Westminster Palace yard swung wide. Cobblestones rattled the wheels as we passed through a dark, arched tunnel into a courtyard. Soldiers rushed to open the carriage and let down the step.
Lord Wellington descended first. He offered me his hand while asking an aide, “Will we meet in the Secretary’s office?”
“The summons is to the King’s Bench, my lord,” the aide answered. Lord Wellington’s grip on my fingers stiffened.
“What is the King’s Bench?” I asked.
“The high court of England and her monarch. Currently, the Prince Regent, although he rarely attends. This way.” He set off, fortunately at a fast pace so I could burn off nervous energy.
Like my last visit, we passed through antechambers and halls, but instead of gowned, frowning lawyers, we saw hurrying officers with grave faces. I was accompanied by the commander of England’s armies, so every man bowed, sometimes with a hand at their brow in the formal military salute.
We reached an oversized pair of doors. Two guards in braid-trimmed uniforms swung them wide to reveal an even more imposing courtroom.
The War Secretary sat at the elevated judges’ bench. He was dressed in his usual conservative day attire, but he was flanked by two judges in robes andwigs. Twenty other gentlemen, sporting a selection of graying whiskers and straining waistcoats, were scattered in the area for counsel and court staff, some standing, some sitting.
Loud, bickering voices halted when the doors swung open. Heads turned to us.
Lord Wellington did not move. He remained two paces from the threshold, studying the assembly. My heart beat a half-dozen times before he said softly, “Remember that I am with you.”
“Is that intended to reassure me?” I whispered back.
He walked in without answering. I followed, lagging while I searched the room for Darcy. I looked twice. He was not here.
The gentlemen scurried aside as if we were contagious, but Lord Wellington took no notice. He stopped in the center of the court and addressed the War Secretary. “You requested our presence.”
The War Secretary nodded. “Lord Wellington. The full War Council is assembling, and His Royal Highness will grace us as well. Please take a seat. Our interest is in your companion.” He looked at me and sprouted an immense smile. “Mrs. Darcy. We appreciate you attending.”
“I was summoned,” I said. For the first time since I woke, my sea of bleak guilt mixed with hotter emotions. Distrust. Suspicion. “I expected my husband to be present. Where is Mr. Darcy?”
The War Secretary gave a magisterial chuckle. “Ah. We get right to it, then. That is for the best.”
The crowd of gentlemen settled into chairs with creaks from aged wood and arthritic knees. Lord Wellington stayed standing beside me, but I could read nothing in his posture.
“Where is Mr. Darcy?” I asked again.
“Your husband is nearby,” the War Secretary replied. “But the news I must reveal is shocking.” His over-broad smile folded into stern concern. “Please sit, Mrs. Darcy. Fainting or hysterics would be natural.”
The next time Mary stomped into Chathford House muttering about the male establishment, I would sympathize more. But for now, my distrust sharpened. “Say your news. If you are overcome by hysterics, I shall sit while you recover.”
