Page 38 of Triumph at Pemberley

She said shakily, “Good Sparrow, you have reassured me. A week is a long time to be without my baby, but it is much better than years. So much better.”

Darcy tightened his arms around Elizabeth, his heart filling his throat. Yesterday he would have been horrified by the prospect of losing a week. Now it seemed like a gift.

And a gift it was. The fae had answered his questions without a price.

He freed up one hand and reached inside his coat for the cloth pocket pinned to the lining. “Elizabeth, can you help me with this?” he asked.

She gulped for breath, but then she joined in, reaching inside and undoing the pins until she could hand him the little bag.

He undid the drawstring and poured out three of the items, a silver coin, a tiny seashell from the collection in the library, and a shiny bit of banded fluorite. He held them out on an open palm. “Gentle Sparrow, you have been most generous with your answers. I would match your generosity. Would one of these give you pleasure?”

The little fae’s eyes widened and she made a little chirp that sounded like joy. She scampered to his side and studied each of the little treasures Georgiana’s fae had collected for just this purpose, picking up one after another with her pointed nails and holding it up for examination, making clicking noises with her tongue. She quickly abandoned the silver coin, apparently finding it without interest, but the other two clearly attracted her.

“Pray take both the shell and the stone, if they please you,” he said. Perhaps he should be saving his assets, but having their guard’s good will would serve them well.

“Both of them?” Sparrow squeaked. “For me?”

“You have been kind to my wife, whom I love very much. I would see you have some joy of your own,” he said solemnly. It was a good thing Granny had made him practice talking to Georgiana’s fae before he came, having them correct him on proper forms, even if he had chafed at the delay.

Sparrow bobbed up and down on her toes. “Sparrow is rich!” She turned and skittered back to the other side of the room, curling up on the three-legged stool and examining her newfound wealth with delight.

Was it significant that the little fae had stopped hiding herself from his view?

Then a voice spoke in the back of his mind. Like a sending, only not precisely – somehow more distant and not-quite-right. It sounded like Granny.

Look in the pocket of your tailcoat.

How had that message come through, when the wards blocked all sendings? And he never used his tailcoat pocket; it was devilish inconvenient to reach.

Especially with Elizabeth on his lap. He muttered an excuse to her so he could stand. Slipping his hand under his coat, he turned his body so he could find the pocket. Which really ought to be empty – except that now it contained a piece of paper. That was odd; had his valet put it there? He eased it out, hoping to avoid Sparrow’s attention.

He unfolded it to reveal his own handwriting, but he did not recognize the paper. A poem in Latin – really? And dated the previous day? Impossible! He had not written out Latin poetry since he was in school, and this ink was unfaded. It made no sense.

A chill went up his spine. It was impossible that he could have written this yesterday and then forgotten about it – unless someone had interfered with his memory. And it had been Granny’s voice telling him to look for it. But why would he have written out a Latin poem he had memorized as a boy and hid it?

He scanned through the well-remembered lines. Arma virumque cano… What was the point of this?

Then his eyes stumbled across the fifth line, the one which should have read “multa quoque et bello passus.” Instead he had written “ferrum in cauda amicti.” What in heaven’s name did that mean? Well, he supposed literally it meant there was iron in the tail of the cloak, which made no sense at all. Cloaks did not have tails, unlike modern coats… Modern coats. He caught his breath.

The message was clear now. He half-rose and reached back to tuck his tails under him, exactly as he had been taught never to do. Now when he sat back, he could feel the odd lumps where the lining met the superfine wool, uneven lumps that seemed to move under his weight.

Ferrum in cauda amicti. Iron filings. Someone had sewn iron filings into his coat, knowing they could be used against the fae to strip them temporarily of their magic. Even the High King himself. If he could retrieve the filings, he would have a potent weapon.

But why had it been done in such a mysterious manner? But as soon as he wondered it, he knew. If he had been aware of it when the Wicked King had invaded his mind, the coat would have been taken from him. Somehow they must have concocted this plan, Granny and the dragons, to set this up and take the memory from him. He must have agreed to it, since he had written the misleading poem, but it was still a disturbing thought that he had allowed a dragon to interfere with his memory.

What else could he not recall?

It was yet another twist to this nightmare of powerlessness.

Chapter 16

It took all of Jack’s focus to keep his emotions under control as he was escorted through the War Office. The land was already too agitated.

Finally he was shown into Colonel Fitzwilliam’s office. “Good Lord, Jack, you terrified the guards!” Richard exclaimed. “Give us a little warning the next time you decide to arrive in Whitehall on dragonback. The whole place is on alert!”

“There was no time to waste,” Jack said. He collapsed into a chair without waiting to be invited. “They have landed. Over there.” He pointed to his left.

“What?” Richard, who had started to sit, shot back to his feet. “The French?”