Netherfield_Rogue Dragon_A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 4

  The Netherfield puck still remains shy and unwilling to talk to me despite the regular offerings I leave for her and her friends. While these sorts of meetings often require time and patience, I fear I may run short of both.

  Lydia left a great deal behind at Netherfield, which I find puzzling. But the greatest puzzle is her journal in which she has begun to write using a cipher provided by Mr. Wickham. I am having little luck deciphering it, but I have included a faithful copy of several pages in the hopes that you or perhaps F will have better success with it. I do not know that it will offer useful information, but for now it is the best that I have available.

  He pulled out the copied pages. It would be too much to ask for them to be immediately decipherable—nothing could be so easy. But she was right; Fitzwilliam might be able to make sense of them. At the very least, it would be something to do before they ran mad with all their failures.

  I hope your trust in me has not been misplaced as I have accomplished very little. I warn you, April has scolded several times about how she thinks you should be here—with us—instead of on the road so far away. When you make your way back to us, I fear your ears may be at risk, so you may want to consider investing in a hat with solid earflaps before you arrive.

  While I have assured her of the legitimacy of your travels, at times I think she is right. Your company would be very welcome.

  Ever yours, E

  She would welcome his company! He glanced over his shoulder. He was probably grinning like a fool, and neither of his companions would fail to notice and remark on it. No, it was not a declaration of deepest love, but it was certainly a positive sentiment, one he would appreciate and relish for what it was.

  “So what news have you? Is it too much to expect your betrothed has already subdued the rogue dragon and is bringing him into the Blue Order?” Fitzwilliam wandered over and leaned against the arm of Darcy’s chair.

  Walker snorted from the other side of the room. “I would have told you directly had that been the case.”

  “So then, what has your fair one to say?”

  Darcy refolded her letter. “As expected, our rogue is a shy creature and not yet ready to communicate openly. But there are signs that he is not looking for a territory battle, nor is he in danger of resorting to starvation hunting.”

  “Good news to be certain. I expect my father will be impatient for more than that, but it is a start.”

  “And she sends work for you to keep you out of trouble.” He handed Fitzwilliam the cryptic pages. “She found her sister’s journal. Recently Lydia began writing in a cipher that was given to her by Wickham. Probably to send her covert messages under the family’s noses. In any case, Elizabeth cannot make anything of it but thinks you might. There might be nothing there—”

  Fitzwilliam snatched up the pages and brought them to the closest candle. “But it is certainly worth investigating.” He rubbed his hands briskly, his expression shifting to a subtle relish. Even more than Darcy, Fitzwilliam hated, loathed, despised being idle, moreover he had been complaining bitterly of exactly that for several days.

  “So, oh great officer of the King’s army, what say you? Is all abundantly clear and easily revealed?”

  Fitzwilliam’s upper lip curled back. “It is similar to several ciphers that we used on the continent, but not exactly the same. I should be able to sort this out, given a little time. I cannot imagine Wickham would suggest something complicated to that Bennet sister.”

  “She is a silly bit of fluff, to be sure, but do not underestimate her intelligence.” Walker muttered through a large mouthful.

  “Indeed?” They both stared at the cockatrice.

  “Just because she did not demonstrate it to you does not mean she is unintelligent. Silliness and intelligence are not mutually exclusive. Remember, her family actively encouraged her ridiculous behavior. An intelligent girl could easily work that to her benefit—and I think she did.”

  Darcy scrubbed his face with his palms. “The last thing we need is a clever woman working with Wickham. He is bad enough on his own. With a crafty partner, I shudder to think what he might be able to accomplish.”

  Fitzwilliam turned from the ciphers and grunted under his breath. “This is not your fault, Darcy. A rogue dragon in Hertfordshire has nothing to do with you or what happened to Pemberley.”

  “I grant you that much, however—”

  Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  “Do not look at me that way! You know it is true. Had I been more diligent in dealing with Wickham’s treachery in the first place—”

  “How many times do we have to go over this? It is not your fault. You packed him into the militia just as my father told you, without hesitation. What more could you have done?”

  “I should have realized sooner what he was about.”

  “That would have meant you would have had to stand against your father who found Wickham entirely agreeable. Honestly, Darcy, neither you nor I have the fortitude to stand up to our fathers—both formidable men not prone to brooking opposition. Had you insisted your father give up Wickham, you might well have found yourself on very thin terms with him—banished to London, away from Georgiana. You might well have been unable to protect her from eloping with Wickham. Where would we be then? Torment yourself all you like. You will get no support from me in that endeavor. I am convinced that no man could have prevented the egg from being stolen, and no others but you and Miss Elizabeth could have managed to rescue an already-hatched drakling from the unthinkable.” Fitzwilliam harrumphed and turned his shoulder toward Darcy, focusing on the coded pages.

  Darcy leaned back in his chair and stifled a sigh. No point in giving Fitzwilliam more to critique. It was not that Fitzwilliam’s arguments were utterly baseless. He had made several excellent points, especially about the likelihood that Wickham’s elopement plans would have succeeded. But still …

  Little would make Fitzwilliam understand. Perhaps if he had a dragon to whom he was connected. Then he might—the connection changed the way the world looked in subtle but real ways.

  Perhaps he might befriend one of Cait’s clutch—if the timing could be worked out. If only he might be a Keeper though—he would make an excellent Keeper, far better than his brother who was already destined for the position.

  Although Darcy suspected Cownt Matlock preferred Fitzwilliam to his brother, that alone was not grounds to overthrow inheritance laws. There were many men—and women—who would make better Keepers than those who held the role—the image of Anne de Bourgh flashed in his mind—and would never have the opportunity. Perhaps England would be better off finding a way to intentionally assign Keepers to their Dragon, but not without disturbing the entire order of society. Inheriting their Keepers was a compromise the dragons made for the sake of peace.

  And none of this brought them any closer to finding Wickham and Lydia, or the rogue dragon, or reuniting him with Elizabeth. That could not happen any too soon.

  ∞∞∞

  Elizabeth pushed up from the narrow cellar steps. Sitting hunched on cramped stairs that offered no padding encouraged the damp cold to sink into her joints, leaving her bones aching like an old woman’s. How many hours had she stared at the boxes and barrels and trunks piled along the dark, dank walls, hoping the stubborn dragon would reveal himself? Far too many.

  Without April’s help in persuading Nicholls otherwise, the housekeeper would be thinking Elizabeth well on her way to becoming daft by now.

  Perhaps she was. Stubborn old lizard.

  She stretched her back and shoulders and trudged upstairs. Sleep. It was dark and late and sleep was the only thing left to do for now.

  At least her room was warm and the featherbeds were soft. She slipped under the blankets and dreamt of dragons.

  “Wake up, but be still,” a sweet voice whispered in her ear. Elizabeth stopped herself just in time and leaned into April just a little bit.

  “Open your eyes, but do not
move otherwise. On the dressing table, near the window.”

  Elizabeth’s heart raced, but she held her breath, trying to remain as still as possible. Slowly, carefully, she peeked her eyelids open, turning only her eyes toward the window.

  Silhouetted in the moonlight, a beagle-sized dragon stood on the dressing table between the mirror and water jug. Clearly female, the four-legged, long-tailed dragon sported a frilled hood, half-extended, ready to help her appear larger if startled. She turned her head this way and that, examining, considering the situation.

  April rested her chin on Elizabeth’s cheek, trilling softly. “You are welcome. Pray come in.” Sometimes her song had the same effect on dragons that it did on people.

  The puck’s hood relaxed a mite.

  “We have some dried meat you might share with us if you come closer.” April flitted to a closed box on the bedside table between the bed and the dressing table. She lifted the lid with her long toes.

  The puck raised her snout and took a deep breath. Her long tongue flashed out and licked her lips.

  “I would like to share with you.” Elizabeth pressed into the featherbed and turned her head just slightly toward the shy dragon, the bed linens rustling softly.

  The puck jumped back, her hood flaring to full spread. Moonlight shone through the thin membrane, giving the impression of a large lace veil.

  “You are quite lovely like that.” Elizabeth whispered, rolling to her shoulder, but keeping her head on the pillow.

  “Share with us.” April plucked up a sliver of dried meat and tossed it to the dressing table.

  The puck gobbled it up with a flick of her long tongue and smacked her lips.

  “There is more if you come closer.”

  She crept to the edge of the dressing table, and April threw her another sliver.

  “More?” What a soft, silky voice the puck had.

  April hopped a piece of meat to Elizabeth’s hand, and she tossed it, trying not to move too much or too suddenly. The treat bounced against the dressing table stool—the intended target—and hit the floor.

  The puck chased it down and swallowed it whole.

  Elizabeth threw another piece, closer to the bed and rose on her elbow.

  In a single movement, the puck scooped up the tidbit and scrambled onto the bedside table. Nearly eye-to-eye with Elizabeth, she jumped back hissing slightly, hood flaring again.

  April hopped to the table and handed a shard of meat directly to the puck. “I am April, Friend to Elizabeth. She has been leaving the plate for your furry friends and the silk twists for you. She is safe.”

  “I am not blind. I know.” The puck gobbled down another sliver of meat.

  “Would you tell us your name?” Elizabeth asked, April trilling softly in the background.

  Moonlight shimmered off the puck’s bright eyes. She sat and scratched a wing nub with her hind foot. “I am Talia.”

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Talia.” Elizabeth nodded, not enough to concede dominance, but sufficient to make clear she was no threat. “I understand you were once Friend to a seamstress who lived nearby.”

  “I was. She died.”

  April offered another shaving of meat, but Talia was slower to take it.

  “And she had no kin to take you in?”

  “Her daughters could not hear, and they did not like the furry hoppers she kept, either.”

  “So you took over their care—for your Friend?”

  Talia bobbed her head, her hood relaxing.

  “That is a very noble thing for you to do, worthy of a great Friend.”

  “I like them. They are warm and quiet and soft.”

  “Indeed they are. And their noses are very cute when they twitch. Do their whiskers tickle as much as they look like they do?” Elizabeth sat up very slowly.

  “Not so very much once one becomes used to them.”

  “You protect them, I imagine? There are many enemies about, dogs, foxes, stoats …”

  Talia shuddered. “Yes. Too many creatures find them satisfying to eat.”

  “Do you need to protect them from other dragons as well?”

  Talia leaned back and hissed. “You want to know if the blue one wants to eat them?”

  “Blue one? Is he a large dragon?” A blue lindwurm—those were rare in England, usually from the continent. But that made little sense.

  “Too large to be bothered with my furry hoppers.” Talia glanced toward the meat box.

  “That is good to hear. Has he been about for a long time?”

  “He does not like you very much.”

  April withdrew more meat and set it near Talia.

  “I had no idea. I have never met him. How can he already dislike me?” Elizabeth moderated her tone carefully. It would not do to have the puck think her angry.

  “Every dragon in the county knows you have made Longbourn very irritated.”

  “Longbourn has been very disagreeable?”

  Talia swallowed the meat with a little shiver. “Horrid. He has been taking his temper out on us all.”

  “I am very sorry to hear that. It is wrong of him to behave so.”

  “It is wrong of you to upset him. Anyone with sense would know that.”

  “Sometimes dragons are wrong.”

  Talia snorted, poking her nose into the box and pulled out a large piece of meat.

  “Is the blue one afraid of Longbourn?”

  “Don’t know.” Talia muttered through a mouthful. “The blue one does not like to fight, though. He has a special way to keep peace with an angry neighbor.”

  “When you see the blue one again, would you give him a message from me?”

  Talia skittered back, hood flaring a little. “I will not tell him anything that will make him angry with me.”

  “I would never ask you to do such a thing. I just hope you would tell him that I am not as terrible as Longbourn makes me out to be. I would very much like to have a conversation with him.”

  “I might.”

  “If I continue to put out plates for your furry hoppers and perhaps a little colorful twist for your hoard, might it be more likely?”

  Talia turned her back but cocked her head as though in thought. “Worsted wool.”

  “You want wool?”

  “To line my nest. It helps keep my hoppers warm.”

  “Then I shall endeavor to acquire you a whole ball of worsted wool.”

  “I might talk to him.”

  April laid another piece of meat at Talia’s feet. She gulped it down and scurried away into the darkness.

  “That was interesting.” Elizabeth wrapped her arms around her knees and laid her chin on them.

  They were dealing with a large blue lindwurm, possibly from the continent, who did not like to fight and was cowed by Longbourn’s temper, but was creative enough to find some way to placate him. Much of that was good news. She sighed—full-out dragon war was a little less likely, but she still needed to talk to the lindwurm. Perhaps little Talia would help. It would certainly be worth a trip into town later this morning for worsted wool.

  The next day after breakfast, she placed a plate heaped with vegetable trimmings, a ball of green worsted wool, and a bobbin of blue thread under the holly bush. Hopefully Talia would appreciate the offerings and would not become greedy at her good fortune. It was difficult to tell with pucks, but she seemed to be a largely retiring and agreeable sort, so that boded well.

  The garden and warm sunshine were a pleasant change of scenery. Far too many hours had been spent combing through dark, dusty rooms, servants’ passages, and sitting in the cellar. Not that those had been entirely unprofitable endeavors. She now had a wealth of paintings to study, some very modern-looking, a large scroll in rather messy dragon script to decipher, and a deeper appreciation for the draconic lineage of Netherfield itself.

  A book hidden away on the upper shelf in one of the small libraries had proven quite interesting. Apparently, the estate had been named i
n some of the original Pendragon documents that drew up the territory boundaries for the original English dragon population. A rather powerful drake had been the first Netherfield. He had served as the county’s leading dragon. But all traces and records of him disappeared about two hundred years ago. What had happened, and why had his duties never been transferred to another dragon but left to fall by the wayside? Perhaps one of Papa’s forefathers had recorded something in the Longbourn records about it. But it was not terribly likely, for only Papa and his father had been meticulous record keepers.

  She would need to talk to Papa, but he seemed indifferent to her presence. None of her family had paid her much notice. Mama and Kitty were easy enough to forgive, subject as they would be to Longbourn’s persuasions, but Mary and Papa were another matter.

  No, now was not the time to become maudlin. No point would be served by that.

  “Miss Bennet!”

  Elizabeth looked over her shoulder.

  One of the scullery maids scurried toward her. “Nicholls said you would want this directly.” She handed Elizabeth a thick folded letter, barely stopping as she rushed to her next task. Nicholls did not believe in allowing the girls free time to get into mischief.

  Was that her style of management or a suggestion from the lindwurm so as to reduce the likelihood of discovery? Likely as not, it was a combination of both. Embracing draconic suggestions happened far more readily when it was in line with one’s own inclinations.

  Mary’s precise and regular handwriting graced the neatly-folded missive. She closed her eyes and exhaled heavily. Was it wrong to feel a bit of dread? Mary’s unpleasantness was totally understandable, but it was exhausting. Staring at it was not going to make it any easier—may as well face the dragon quickly.

  The wedding is Monday, March 23 at 9 o’clock. Pray come.

  Walker asked that I send this along to you. He is with Cait right now but will see you before he returns to Darcy.

  M.

  She was invited to the wedding. That was more than she had expected. But did Mary actually want her there, or was it a matter of preventing questions as to why her sister, who was so close by, would not be at the wedding? Perhaps being at the wedding would make it easier to explain why she was not at the wedding breakfast. Oh, that definitely was uncharitable and not a worthy thought at all.