I closed my eyes, found the tykeworm’s bright awareness, and imagined Georgiana as she appeared to draca senses—her lithe posture and the golden aura that surrounded her. This was suggestion, not the brute force of command, but the tyke scrambled happily into the coach to follow her.
The large coach pulled away. Behind, the other driver clucked his tongue to start his horses but reined in when Darcy hailed him. Darcy helped me up, then gave directions before closing the door.
In the privacy of the coach, my curiosity came to a boil. “I trust you appreciate that only an exceptionally tolerant wyfe would stand meekly while you pay such attention to Miss Woodhouse.”
The corner of Darcy’s lip twitched. “I do not recall marrying you on a blessed Beltane eve for your exceptional tolerance. But you are right that she has my attention. I am curious about Miss Woodhouse’s ailment.”
“I see that. I am wondering why.”
The tip of his thumb brushed my cheek, then traced the crescent of my ear, the fine weave of his glove trailing a tingling frisson. His fingers landed lightly on the nape of my neck.
“You are distracting me,” I said sternly while fighting a blush.
Darcy had been smiling, but his smile faded. His hand cupped my neck in a far more businesslike manner. “You are very warm. Are you well?”
I pulled his hand away. “You arestilldistracting me. What of Emma?”
Now I was distracting him. Bursts of fever had struck me several times in the last few weeks. This latest one had crept in unnoticed, pricking a damp lineup my spine. But the attacks left me energetic, not ill, so the last thing I needed was my over-protective husband worrying.
Darcy’s gaze was thoughtful. “I have seen an ailment like Miss Woodhouse’s before. I may have advice on treatment. Does that satisfy you, for now?”
I nodded and assumed the dutiful expression of a generous and understanding wyfe.
Darcy laughed out loud. He took my hand. “Elizabeth, the Secretary of War awaits. Do not exhaust your exceptional tolerance on your husband. You may require it soon.”
The coach swayed and bounced over London’s rough streets while fever prickled my neck.
The carriage letus out on Margaret’s Street. While Darcy paid the driver, I walked past the cab, then stopped short.
Westminster Palace sprawled before me, home to the House of Lords and House of Commons. I had seen engravings inThe Times, but in life, it filled one’s eyes—a vast mass of rambling gray stone streaked with black soot from London’s smoky rain. The structure ranged from three to five stories with no discernable plan and fronted at least two hundred yards of the Thames. The lack of planning extended to the jumbled architecture. Crenelated towers suited for a ruined Scottish castle abutted modern, sloped roofs and shining glass windows. Still, the effects combined to create an air of age and importance.
“The seat of governance for Great Britain,” I said as Darcy joined me. “How remarkable.”
“Do not be overly impressed,” he said. “It is notorious for mice and rotting sills.”
“Which of us is intolerant?” I asked innocently and took his arm.
The large yard in front of the building was hidden behind a twenty-foot stone wall. We followed the perimeter to an iron-railed gate where a guard dispatched a runner to announce Mr. Darcy. Then he stared down his nose at me. “Have you arranged for the lady to wait?”
“Mrs. Darcy will accompany us,” Darcy said before I could open my mouth.
The guard’s pointy chin thrust forward, then left and right before settling dubiously in the center.
Was it unexpected for a lady to enter, or improper? There had been atremendous scandal when Lady Caroline Lamb stole into the Commons gallery to observe her husband’s speech, achieving her feat by dressing as a teenage boy. Of course, the London newspapers implied that Lady Caroline performed many outrageous feats, usually accompanied by Lord Byron, who was not her husband.
With relief, I recognized a figure striding across the yard in a scarlet coat and shining gold epaulets. Darcy greeted him with a bow. “Lord Wellington.”
Lord Wellington shook Darcy’s hand warmly. “Save your ‘Lords’ for when I thrash you in our next bout.” My husband and Lord Wellington were fencing partners, a discovery I still found bemusing. Lord Wellington commanded England’s forces in the long-running war with France. There was hardly a more famous or admired figure in the kingdom.
My hand was swept up next, and with not much more formality. “Mrs. Darcy. I am delighted that a charming wyfe is visiting this dreary pile of stone. Do you not agree, Hicks?” he added, directing the last to the guard.
The guard, who had assumed the rigidity of a flagpole when Lord Wellington appeared, inclined his head a half inch.
We crossed the yard to enter a set of broad doors, climbed a wide staircase with fading red carpet, then wound through a series of dark-paneled rooms. A scent of stale tobacco and spilled port grew. Darcy and Lord Wellington seemed comfortable and chatted cordially, but I found it off-putting, as if I had stumbled into the gentlemen’s parlor after dinner.
We stopped outside a heavy, elaborately carved oak door.
“This meeting is, of course, unprecedented,” Lord Wellington said, speaking in a soft voice that would not penetrate the closed door. “This has become more urgent, and more secret, in the last week. Only two members of the Council will join us.” He hesitated, his eyes on mine. “The Council of War has voted to implement the policy described in my letter.”
