Netherfield_Rogue Dragon_A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 3

  “We also know this lindwurm desires secrecy—so he must not be especially aggressive. Moreover, knowing it can read and write, I expect we are dealing with a scholarly dragon, not one interested in dominating a territory. So we should be able to reason with it.”

  April hovered in front of Elizabeth’s nose. “You liked all those arguments with Chudleigh’s friends at her salon?”

  “They did get a mite heated to be sure, but I still find it preferable to discuss issues rather than worry about being eaten in a fit of pique.”

  “I suppose there is that.”

  Upon their return to the house, Nicholls met Elizabeth with household books in hand and invited her to the housekeeper’s office. Neat and snug, it resembled Hill’s office at Longbourn with shelves of linens and china lining one wall and stores of the more expensive food stuffs along another. Near the windows, a utilitarian table doubled as Nicholls’ writing desk. Plain, white walls made the space bright and emphasized the lack of decorations—and dragons—in the room. Unlike Darcy House whose staff was largely, if not exclusively Dragon Friends, it seemed the Netherfield servants were not.

  Nicholls opened her books and set to work, efficient and businesslike as the best housekeepers were. With Elizabeth in residence, meals must be considered. The regular laundry day was approaching; would the new Mrs. Bingley desire that schedule be kept, or would she rather the task wait until she returned? Would Miss Elizabeth prefer the maids cleaned the rooms as she inventoried them, or should they proceed on their own?

  The meeting required several hours and far more quick thinking than Elizabeth preferred. Running a household was her last priority, but since it was the guise she used for being here, somehow she had to find the wherewithal to pretend it was her only purpose. Exactly the sort of subterfuge Mr. Collins found distasteful.

  “What do you wish done with Miss Lydia’s things, Miss?” Nicholls shut her book—did that mean she was finally finished?—and looked at Elizabeth expectantly. “She left quite a bit in her chamber. I am surprised she did not take it all with her. Perhaps she was expecting to be back soon? Do you think she will want it sent along to her?”

  “I am not sure. Perhaps it would be best to let me pack it up. I should be able to sort out what to do with it.”

  “I will take you to her room.”

  Lydia had been ensconced in the guest wing, near a servants’ passage. Not a high-status room, but according to Nicholls, it was what she wanted. And of course, Lydia nearly always got what she wanted. But why would she deviate so far from her usual demand for the best?

  With a quick curtsey, Nicholls trundled off. April launched from Elizabeth’s shoulder and buzzed about the narrow chamber.

  Though relatively small, two windows brought sunshine into the bedroom, making it cheery and bright. Clearly it had been decorated with young female guests in mind. Gauzy blue drapes fluttered in the slight breeze that slipped through the edges of the windows. Dainty floral paper hangings matched the bed curtains and coverlet. Fairy dragons that looked a great deal like little birds hovered over the flowers on the paper hanging. Yet another landscape hung over the little bed. Subtle carvings of wyrms coiled around the legs of the oak dressing table. Even here, dragons influenced the décor.

  So much Lydia had left behind! That was not like her; she preferred to bring far more than she needed on any trip. Even if they were walking to town, she somehow contrived to bring an extra-large reticule with who-knew-what inside.

  Two trunks remained in the room. The closet was full of gowns—why did she think she would need a ball gown and an evening dress to manage the house whilst Jane was away? Several morning dresses and day dresses were there as well. It seemed she might have only taken one of each with her? How strange.

  Elizabeth opened the smaller of the two trunks. One stocking and one glove lay crumpled within. Careless girl! No doubt she would miss those. What chance their mates were tossed in the press near the closet? She tugged open the sticky drawers.

  Of course, with no one to watch over her, Lydia had not bothered to fold her body linen; it was shoved in the drawers. It would serve Lydia right if Elizabeth tossed it carelessly into the trunk, but no, she had been taught far too well. Mama would be lecturing in her head for weeks if she did such a thing.

  April cheeped a little laugh as Elizabeth roughly folded the linen and packed the trunk. Not as neat as Mama would have liked, but enough that she need not feel guilty about it. So very much left behind. What was Lydia doing without all her clothes?

  None of this made sense.

  What was that? Elizabeth withdrew a slim mustard-yellow book from between two petticoats. Did Lydia actually keep a commonplace book? She sat on the edge of the bed in a sliver of sunbeam and flipped it open. A journal? Who would have believed Lydia had the patience to record her thoughts in a journal?

  Once again Mary’s voice rang in her ears. She had no right to read Lydia’s private meditations. One more compromise of human courtesy in favor of dragonkind! But no, this was about more than the dragons; it was also about Lydia’s safety and protecting the family reputation. Those reasons demanded she read the journal.

  She tucked the nagging guilt into a relatively harmless corner of her mind and turned the page. Typical Lydiaesque ramblings, pages and pages of it. Much like her conversation—effusions of fancy which said very little. She skipped several pages.

  Wait, what was that? Suddenly everything was different. Lydia’s enthusiastic scrawl was replaced by an odd, cryptic mix of numbers, letters and symbols. A cipher? Why would Lydia be using a cipher in her journal?

  She turned back a few pages until she found the place where the writing had changed and read the entries just prior.

  A new game Wickham was teaching her: to play like British spies. In that way they could write letters to one another, and no one would know to accuse them of impropriety. Heavens, what subterfuge! What utter disrespect toward her parents, toward society in general!

  This was the sort of thing Mr. Collins should be concerned about, not judging the efforts of the Blue Order!

  Had Mr. Darcy not already disabused her compassion toward Mr. Wickham, these entries would surely have accomplished it. She forced her eyes back to the page. Apparently, learning the code was difficult for Lydia. Wickham became impatient with her mistakes. What better way than to practice in her journal? And so the gibberish began.

  She scanned the remaining pages, but no helpful key to the encryption existed. Perhaps it was elsewhere … the shelves and drawers, between the mattresses, under the bed, even the undersides of all the furniture and drawers. Nothing.

  Why? Why did the key have to be the one single thing the feather-pate would choose to bring with her? Elizabeth shut the trunks with a bit more force than necessary.

  At least she would have a puzzle to keep her occupied when she could not sleep—which seemed highly likely.

  Chapter 2

  Darcy pushed the sticky window open, its panes grimy and smudged. Another night spent in a roadside inn. At least this one was tolerable. Yesterday, they had billeted in an abandoned barn when Fitzwilliam deemed the inn unsafe. Given Fitzwilliam’s tolerance for uncivilized conditions, that pronouncement was one not to be ignored.

  Tonight’s room was little more than a closet, like the other inns, but a modicum cleaner. A bed shoved into one corner of the room bore linens that did not appear too stained. The two upholstered chairs and something that barely qualified as a table occupied most of the space near the fireplace. Barely enough space to walk between them, but it was an improvement over several of the places they had stayed.

  Walker should arrive soon. Hopefully he would bring better news than had come out of Brighton. For one as prone to talk as Wickham was, it was suspicious that none—human nor dragon—had any inkling of his intentions or his whereabouts. He always boasted of his plans and how he would never get caught. Always. How was this the only time he managed to keep his mouth shut? A man did
not change his stripes any more than a dragon changed his scales. What was afoot?

  Walker swooped in, bypassing the window sill altogether and alighting on the back of Fitzwilliam’s chair. He turned his back toward Darcy, a signal to release the satchel straps. Darcy quickly removed the bag and scratched between Walker’s wings as Elizabeth had taught him.

  Walker shot him an appreciative I-am-glad-you-finally-learned look.

  Fitzwilliam poured a small glass of brandy and placed it near a plate of cold meat on the table. “When you are ready.”

  Walker flapped to the table and swallowed the topmost piece of meat whole. Not an attractive sight, watching the large lump slide down his gullet.

  “You can stop to chew. We will not have to leave this place in haste. It is not like the last inn we tried to stop at.” Fitzwilliam slapped Darcy’s back.

  Walker glared, more for show than anything else, but chewed the next slice.

  “What has you so anxious?” Darcy poured two more glasses.

  Walker gulped his brandy without spilling a drop—quite an accomplishment for a creature with a sharp curved beak. “The minor dragons of the countryside have gotten word of a wandering rogue dragon, not governed by the Blue Order.”

  “How? From where?”

  “Who knows? It could have come direct from the Conclave—such news would be difficult to keep quiet. Even if the major dragons said nothing, all it would take is a single talkative fairy dragon or a wyrm of some sort.” Walker tossed a small slice of meat into the air, catching and swallowing it in a single movement. “The general unrest grows as word spreads, despite the Court’s assurances that the rogue was clearly limited to Hertfordshire. The major dragons I have encountered are reassuring their Keeps that the Blue Order still maintains the peace among dragonkind. But the disquiet among the minor dragons still unsettles them. If the major dragons lose faith that all the other large dragons will honor the peace established by the articles of the Pendragon Accords, I fear it may not be long before a botched greeting or an unexpected visitor sets off aggression that could escalate quickly.”

  “Bloody hell and damnation!” Fitzwilliam slapped the arm of his chair. “Sir Patrick, the Minister of International Dragon Relations, has been working with Vice Chancellor Torrington for the better part of a year to coordinate the visit from a representative of the Eastern Dragon Federation. They worked out the details of the travel three months ago. The envoy is traveling the underground tunnels, meeting our agents at designated checkpoints. So far all is well, but if there is anything certain about dealing with international politics—”

  “—and dragons— it is that nothing is simple.” Darcy dragged his hand down his face. “Dare I ask—how do you know this?”

  “Father thought with my army experience I might be of use to Sir Patrick. I think he is trying to groom me for the office eventually.” Fitzwilliam’s expression suggested there was a great deal remaining unsaid.

  Darcy blew out a breath through puffed cheeks. “A lovely, simple plan with so many possible wrong turns.”

  “In the literal sense.” Fitzwilliam clutched his temples. “I will write to Sir Patrick tonight.”

  “I will take it to him directly.” Walker paced along the edge of the table. “Only because these are unusual days, mind you. Do not get in the habit of thinking of me as some messenger bird.”

  “You saw Cait at Longbourn?” Darcy sat near Walker.

  “Yes, and she is as well as can be expected. I am sure Lady Elizabeth has said something to that effect in her letter. But the strain of dealing with that fool Collins is wearing on Cait’s temper. Longbourn is not helping either, cranky lizard. He tried to stop me from entering his territory.”

  Darcy winced. “Did you inflict too much damage?”

  “There was no blood shed, but you will find a few of his head scales in the satchel. Keep them in case you need to remind him of your dominance.”

  “You took his head scales?”

  Walker snorted something that sounded much like a snicker. “He was too angry to be in good form. Cait assisted me. She was delighted to take out her vexations on such an appropriate target.”

  Darcy covered his eyes with his hand and shook his head. “Everything is dominance with dragons.”

  “We are not unlike men in that. You simply choose to demonstrate it in a warm-blooded way. We are much quicker the point.” Walker smirked, no doubt still enjoying his supremacy over Longbourn. “Enough talk. I need to eat. Pour me more brandy and read your letters.”

  Fitzwilliam saluted and refilled Walker’s cup. Darcy sorted the messages and handed Fitzwilliam several, taking his own to a stained, overstuffed chair in the darkest corner of the room. It stank of the last sweat-soaked person who had sat there, but it was the closest thing to privacy to be had tonight.

  Best deal with Lord Matlock’s letter first.

  Lovely. Now, in addition to seeking out Wickham, the Chancellor of the Order expected him and Fitzwilliam to visit all the Dragon Estates along the way and quell rumors of rogue dragons attacking the countryside whilst quietly gathering news of any discontent regarding the recent Dragon Conclave. What were they? Blue Order spies? He pinched his temples hard. At least Matlock had not demanded they deviate from their planned journey to do his bidding. That was something.

  But why was he worried over the response to the Dragon Conclave? Was it Pemberley that caused him concern or Collins? Perhaps it was the test of the new marriage articles that resulted in two essentially ordered betrothals? Or something else entirely?

  Gah! Now was not the time to speculate on the state of the Dragon State. Focus on the task at hand and deal with the rest as it came.

  He cracked open the blue sealing wax on Elizabeth’s thick letter. The penmanship was firm and feminine, strong, but evocative of feeling. Just like her.

  My dear sir,

  No doubt you are aware that we have made it safely to Hertfordshire. Uncle Gardiner, Mary and Mr. Collins are welcome guests at Longbourn house, but I am not. I have taken up residence at Netherfield. Longbourn himself is displeased that I am in the area at all and continues to refuse to allow me in his territory, as is his right. My mother and Kitty have been successfully persuaded that it is right and proper that I take over at Netherfield for Lydia who is now visiting an ill relation.

  I never realized how convenient it might be to have a wealth of relatives in ill-health.

  He chuckled. She probably quirked a brow with a wry little smile as she wrote that.

  I was able to attend holy services on Sunday to hear Mary and Mr. Collins’ banns read. No objections were raised, thankfully, but after that, things became rather interesting.

  Apparently, Lord Matlock wrote to my father with instructions that our banns be read both at my family’s parish and at the Kympton parish near Pemberley. So, whether we were ready for it or not, our betrothal is now part of the public record. It took me entirely by surprise as my father had not deigned to warn me. April and Rustle are pleased with the turn of events though. I hope you are not too disquieted by them.

  Naturally, my mother was delighted at the announcement, though somewhat vexed that she only learned the news with the rest of the parish. She has taken every effort to enjoy her success as she has called upon her friends this week. Whether that means you will become her favorite son, I cannot say. She is very fond of Bingley, and Collins has the advantage of allowing her to live out her days at Longbourn. Still though, Netherfield is merely leased whilst Pemberley has been in your family for generations, and that is decidedly in your favor.

  Surely that provoked another arched eyebrow as she wrote it. Would that he could see it for himself.

  He dragged his hand down his face. Their betrothal—and he was not even there to hear it for himself, to sit beside her and see her blush as their names were called, to see Mrs. Bennet congratulated on the spectacular match made by her daughter when it was in fact he who had made the better match. It would be d
ifficult to forgive Matlock for his interference.

  But then again, it was a subtle way of announcing to any who had not attended the Conclave that all was well with Pemberley—both the dragon and the estate. Probably a necessary precaution considering the current climate.

  At least Elizabeth gave no indication she was put out by it all. Would she tell him, though, if she were? Probably. She did possess draconic directness in spades. Not that he would dare complain about it. It was one of her most remarkable, and even endearing, traits.

  Cait visits me regularly as much I think to get away from the chaos that is my ancestral home as for me to monitor her progress. Her gravidity is obvious now, and flying great distances is demanding for her, so the fact that she comes to see me speaks volumes.

  In addition to my other tasks, I have acquired, with my uncle’s help, a book from Papa’s library on eggs and egg laying, penned some one hundred years ago. It was tucked away on one of the upper shelves in a dark, cobwebby corner that Papa rarely consults. While old, it is the only thing I have, so I shall study it carefully. Do not tell Walker, but I also have arranged to talk to a nearby poulterer and a falconer to see what I might glean from them. I know he and Cait might be offended. I am aware they are not birds, but I am just searching for anything that might allow me to assist her most effectively when the time comes. There are, after all, no dragon midwives available.

  He guffawed—a dragon midwife! Had anyone ever considered such a profession for a species that laid eggs? But somehow it seemed only natural that she would. No wonder Walker wanted Cait to remain near her.

  Hopefully, I will have better success in that endeavor than I have had with the reasons I am here in the first place. The Netherfield dragon has kept steadfastly hidden from me although I have heard rustling in the cellars which I am certain is dragon-based. The local forest wyrms avoid all discussion of the creature, but they do not appear in fear of their lives which suggests the dragon is not unduly aggressive and has an ample supply of food. I am not sure what he is eating, though, which is no small source of concern.