Netherfield_Rogue Dragon_A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Maria Grace

  “So you used her for your own entertainment? That is despicable. Utterly despicable—and illegal.”

  Lydia grabbed for her arm. “You should not say such things, Lizzy!”

  “No, you should not.” Netherfield hissed, recovering his draconic bearing.

  “Did he entice you to come down into the cellar and talk?”

  Lydia refused to meet Elizabeth’s gaze. “He seemed friendly and lonesome at the time.”

  “So you invited Wickham to come meet your friend?”

  “I did not say my friend was a … monster! I was lonely, too and thought to make him a wee bit jealous. What is so terrible about that?”

  His long nose wrinkled into many folds. “She and the deaf one came of their own accord. I did not invite them.” He rustled his coils, a little defensive, a little uneasy.

  “They trespassed upon your lair without invitation.” Elizabeth covered her eyes with her hand. Dragon’s blood!

  “I had been told there were rules against such things. Dragons were not to be imposed upon in their lairs.” His lip and nostril curled back.

  “That is one of the Keeper’s responsibilities. But this estate has no Keeper at present.” Lydia should have known better, should have been taught better!

  “The deaf one wanted to be Keeper of this territory and use the tunnels running under it. He offered a business proposition. But men do not do business with dragons, not even here.” Netherfield wove from side to side. “He wanted to use me to his own advantage, to make me a slave.”

  “We know he is quite dragon-deaf. How could he use you if he could not even talk to you?”

  Lydia crumpled into a heap on the floor. How very courageous and useful of her.

  “She translated for him.”

  Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat. Lydia had committed high treason and had no idea of it. If only Papa had paid more attention to her, he would have recognized the signs and intervened before she came fully into her hearing. Hopefully, the Blue Order would be lenient given the circumstances. If they were able to reach them at all.

  “When he resorted to threats to gain my cooperation, I had little choice but to detain them here. Why else would I take a babbling addlepate with no sense and fewer connections?”

  Lydia shrieked. “That horrible creature killed my Wickham! He will kill both of us, too!”

  “You killed Wickham?” A cold chill snaked down Elizabeth’s spine. Those yellow-gold eyes belonged to a killer. She had never looked into a killer’s eyes before.

  He turned his face aside. “I did what I had to do. I will do it again if I have to.”

  “We are both of Longbourn’s Keep. If you harm us, it will be a declaration of war against him.”

  “Longbourn? You mean there is another monster like this one? On our estate? In our cellars?” Lydia keened, rocking, arms tight around her knees.

  “I will explain it all to you. I promise. But not now.”

  “You betrayed Longbourn. He will be glad to see you punished.” Netherfield turned up his nose and tossed his head, a little like Lydia was apt to.

  “We have made up since I realized you attempted those persuasions upon me, not him.”

  Netherfield snatched her up and dangled her over the fire. The brute! “Do not tempt me.”

  It was difficult to maintain one’s grace and composure hanging like a ragdoll. “I am the only leverage you have over the Dragon Slayer. He has experience with your kind. Do you really want to force a confrontation?”

  Netherfield cast her aside, just hard enough to send her stumbling into Lydia, but not enough to slam her into the wall which he could easily have done. “No more talk.”

  Elizabeth huddled near Lydia while Netherfield arranged his coils to effectively block both ends of the tunnel.

  In a very few minutes, Lydia sagged heavily against her with the deep breaths of sleep. Netherfield snored softly as dragons were wont to do. With a lindwurm’s keen hearing and the encompassing darkness beyond the little fire, there was no point in trying to effect an escape. She leaned back against the cold, damp stone.

  What kind of creature was this lindwurm? Unlike any dragon she had ever known: cold, cruel, hard. Ancient dragon lore, written before the Pendragon Accords, chronicled such things. Modern dragons were not like this.

  Was it as Fitzwilliam said? Dragons of the continent, without the protections and restrictions of the Accords, lacked the civility of British dragons. Could he and the Order be right, that the sword was the only recourse when dealing with a calculated killer? A killer! Netherfield had killed Wickham. She clasped her knees to her chest and hooked her chin over them, making herself very small.

  It was not hard to justify the dragon’s actions, considering what Wickham had threatened Netherfield with. But a British dragon would have brought it to the courts. As a self-made deaf-speaker who had violated multiple Blue Order laws, Wickham would have been condemned, but it would have been a proper judicial action, not—she swallowed hard—a murder.

  Fitzwilliam was right. There was probably no other solution. And heavens above—Darcy was right, too. How bloody stubborn she was—as stubborn as any dragon—and now she was trapped in a strange dragon’s lair to show for it.

  At least she had found Lydia. That was something. As long as they both still breathed, there was hope, if only a very little bit.

  ∞∞∞

  Darcy paced the length of his chambers for—well, he had lost count by this point. Fitzwilliam had begun their decontamination efforts, soaking the maps in the antidote-laden steam. But it would take time for the cure to do its work. So they waited.

  Fitzwilliam had bathed thoroughly and fed Earl his next meal. The chick had refused to take it from Bennet’s hand which was saying a great deal considering the power of hatching-hunger. Earl did not appear to like Bennet very much. Who could blame him?

  What was more, feeding Earl seemed to do Fitzwilliam good. In just the short time he and his Friend had been together, Fitzwilliam was a changed man. It was difficult to put into words what it was, but it was there: the expression in his eyes; the way he carried himself; even the tone he used to address Walker. All had altered since Earl’s hatching. If only Fitzwilliam could have the freedom to relax and relish the relationship—bloody timing of it all!

  Impotent rays of dawn struggled to penetrate the heavy clouds and driving rain pelting the window pane. Blast it all—they would be hard-pressed to be able to get out at all today if this continued.

  Wait, what was that? The tapping was too regular to be raindrops. A bedraggled blue spot clung to the windowsill and pecked at the glass.

  He ran to the window and shoved it open. April fell in, tangling in the curtain. His hands shook so hard that sorting her out from the heavy fabric and fringe proved complicated.

  “Is it true? Is it true?” She squawked, flapping her wings, splashing rainwater on his face and chest. “I heard—we all did—that Elizabeth is missing!” Who knew that a fairy dragon could scream like an angry woman?

  Darcy shut the window and carried her to the washstand for a towel. “Who told you such a thing?” He dabbed her dripping face.

  “The wyrms—they all seem to know. By tomorrow every dragon in the county will know! So it is true?”

  “I fear so.”

  She dove for his right ear. “How could you let that happen to her? You were supposed to protect her.”

  He dodged and covered his ear. “She was angry with me and went off into the woods. We have not seen her since.”

  “Fitzwilliam has the Dragon Slayer? That is true as well?” She hovered drunkenly in front of his face.

  “By command of the Order.”

  She attacked his left ear. Her ire was so well-deserved that it was difficult to shoo her away. Finally, she stopped and perched on the washstand, panting for breath.

  He picked her up and cradled her in the crook of his arm. “We will find her. I promise you. We are cleansing the maps even now.
They will aid us in finding her soon. We will recover her.”

  “You must! You must.” She burrowed between his elbow and chest. “I will lay my eggs soon. She must be here with me. She must vet my chicks’ Friends and see to it that nothing goes wrong. I ... cannot do this without her!”

  Could fairy dragons cry? It certainly seemed so.

  Darcy stroked the back of her head, still damp and matted. “I need her at least as much as you do. We will not rest until she is home.”

  April stared up at him, tiny and miserable. “Is your promise enough?”

  “It will be, my little friend, it will be.”

  ∞∞∞

  Several hours later, fists pounded at Darcy’s door. The door flew open, slamming against the wall behind.

  “The maps are in the morning room along with a fresh pot of coffee.” Fitzwilliam staggered in, Earl nestled in the crook of his arm. Except for the cockatrice chick, he had the look of a man ejected from a pub after too much cheap gin.

  “Hatching hunger or wyvern poison?” Darcy scrubbed his eyes with his fists. When had he dozed off?

  April launched from Darcy’s shoulder and hovered near Fitzwilliam’s chest. “I do not smell poison, but the baby’s belly is full.”

  Earl stretched his long neck toward her, blinked, and cheeped. “Who?”

  His baby voice was high, even a little sweet, nothing like the sonorous tones Walker produced. But at the rate he was growing, it would not take very long for that to change. Was it possible he had grown noticeably since he hatched—yesterday? Was it only yesterday?

  Fitzwilliam offered his other hand as a perch for April and held her close to Earl. “April, may I present Earl, offspring of Cait and Walker. Earl, she is Elizabeth’s Friend.”

  “Who Elizabet?”

  April shrieked and zipped away to bury herself under the collar of Darcy’s rumpled coat. What was it Elizabeth did to comfort a distraught fairy dragon?

  “Someone you will meet very soon. Walker and Cait consider her a good friend as well.” Fitzwilliam scratched under Earl’s chin.

  April twittered—what did one call that sound?—and shuddered under the point of Darcy’s lapel.

  “Have we honey or jam in the morning room?” Darcy asked.

  “I want tea,” April chittered. “Chamomile.”

  “I will notify Nicholls.” Fitzwilliam bowed from his shoulders and closed the door behind him.

  Darcy pushed up to his feet. A fresh shirt would be nice, but that would involve dislodging April who was already quite upset enough. Best just get on with things. Clean clothes could be had later.

  Darcy’s throat knotted as he entered the morning room. The place was simply not right without Elizabeth’s bright smile to greet him. Instead, Bennet occupied the seat near the windows that Elizabeth usually used. Little good it did him. Heavy, dark clouds, and pounding rain obscured any useful sunlight as he fixated on a pile of maps littering the table. An abundance of candles had been brought in, filling the room with a vague scent of tallow.

  “Here is your tea.” Fitzwilliam tapped a teacup on the table near the chair where Walker perched.

  “Fairy dragons do not drink tea,” Bennet muttered, barely lifting his eyes from his maps.

  “Lairda April may have anything she desires,” Walker snapped back, wings half-raised.

  It was early to be so irate. Just how long had he been sitting here with Bennet?

  April peeked out from Darcy’s collar and launched herself at Walker with an off-key squawk. She landed just next to him. He covered her with his wing as he leaned down and whispered something to her in dragon tongue. Darcy took the chair beside Walker.

  Bennet gaped. Good, he needed to see the influence his “difficult” daughter had in bringing species who were often predator and prey into such deep friendship.

  Walker nudged April toward the teacup. She dipped her delicate beak in, but shook her head hard, slinging drops of tea across the table. “Needs sweet.”

  Fitzwilliam glanced at the dainty honey server but threw it aside and poured most of the honey pot into the tea. The gratitude in April’s eyes said everything. She plunged her face into the cup and drank noisily.

  When had the little thing last eaten?

  Earl chirruped on Fitzwilliam’s arm and was rewarded by a kipper from a nearby dish. When had he started looking so incredibly paternal?

  “Blast and botheration!” Fitzwilliam muttered a little more softly than he might otherwise have, probably out of deference to Earl’s sensitive hearing, and struck the pile of maps in front of him.

  “Dare I ask?” Darcy poured himself a cup of coffee. Strong, black, and bitter—hopefully, it would clear away some of the fog in his head.

  “Are you surprised that the maps are not giving up their secrets easily?” Fitzwilliam squeezed his temples.

  “Considering they were labeled with a warning symbol clearly declaring them poisoned—” Bennet mumbled, eyes down.

  “Just how ancient a rune was it? Are there more than two men alive who can decipher such a thing?” Darcy gulped a mouthful of barely-not-too-hot coffee.

  “If you and Elizabeth had not rushed headlong into searching the house but had consulted me on the matter, we would not be—”

  Darcy slapped the table. April and Earl jumped and squawked. “No, sir. You sent Elizabeth to Netherfield to search for maps in the first place. You have grown adept at passing blame to others when it should lie with you. Considering you were the one in the region with reason to suspect a rogue dragon, and you did absolutely nothing to alert the Order—”

  Bennet rose, but it seemed to make little difference as he remained hunched over the table. “It would behoove you to be careful with your accusations.”

  “And it would behoove you—”

  “Enough from both of you!” Fitzwilliam pounded the table with his fist while Walker screeched for emphasis. “None of this is getting us closer to answers. There is plenty of time to fight later.”

  “If you cannot conduct yourselves usefully,” Walker glared at Darcy, “then excuse yourself so those of us ready to work can continue without distraction.”

  Bennet sank back into his chair, grumbling under his breath. “What is wrong with those maps?”

  Fitzwilliam snatched up several and stalked to Bennet. “Look for yourself, and tell me what you make of them.”

  Darcy peered over Bennet’s shoulder as he turned the maps this way and that. “There is no legend, no marks at all, unless those faint bits are dragon script.” Darcy traced the lines with his fingertip.

  “I need to examine it more closely. The most ancient versions of dragon script can be difficult to identify.” Bennet adjusted his glasses. “I believe these two are renderings of the immediate area of Netherfield and Longbourn. I recognize a few of the landmarks, but I cannot be certain.”

  “So, what you are not saying is these are utterly useless to us.” Darcy scrubbed his face with his palms.

  “No, I am not ready to say that, yet. I think I can cross-reference these to a set of maps in my library made by a long-ago owner of Netherfield.”

  “I shall drive you to Longbourn immediately.” Darcy offered Bennet his walking stick.

  “I cannot.”

  “What do you mean you cannot?” Darcy rapped the walking stick on the floor.

  “The weather, it is too wet and slick. I cannot walk in this. The last time I tried, I fell. The surgeon cautioned me that if it happened again, it might well be fatal.”

  “Can you direct me to this useful volume?” Darcy enunciated slowly and carefully. Sarcasm would not serve his current purpose.

  “It is usually kept on the third shelf from the top near the window-side of my study. The maps are bound in green leather with gold lettering, about as thick as your thumb. It is possible that it has been moved, but I have no other book fitting that description.”

  “I will go immediately.” Darcy bowed and headed toward the door, biting
back snide words about the condition of Bennet’s study.

  “Leave Lairda April here with us.” Walker pointed to the snoring pile of blue fluff on the table beside the teacup. “We will take care of her.”

  Darcy nodded and jogged from the morning room, calling for the carriage.

  Mrs. Hill showed him in and took his dripping greatcoat. Mr. Collins trundled into the vestibule moments later.

  “Mr. Darcy, you are most welcome this forenoon, most welcome indeed.” He bowed, stiff and very proper.

  Cait squawked as she swooped toward them. “What he means to say is that we are all in an uproar and in need of someone who can manage it.” She landed on the edge of the open hall door. “Is it true?”

  “The cat—that is to say Rumblkins—came in bearing news that something had happened to Cousin Elizabeth.” Collins wrung his hands.

  “She is missing.”

  “Then it is as they said, she is in the clutches of yet another … dragon?” Collins’ voice dropped to a whisper as his face turned as white as the vestibule’s woodwork.

  “Nothing is certain right now. I have come to fetch a set of maps to guide our search.”

  A thunderous roar rattled the windows and door. Someone was in an ill-humor indeed.

  “You must speak to Longbourn while you are here. Pray sir, it is quite essential.” Collins laced his fingers before his chest, nearly begging.

  Cait looked over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “Mary is in the cellar with him right now, but it does not sound like she has been successful. He might take it in his mind to confront—”

  “Netherfield, the dragon calls himself Netherfield.”

  “Whomever—Longbourn seems determined to bare teeth against him.” Cait flapped violently enough to swing the heavy door.

  Two major dragons in battle was hardly something one kept from the neighbors, one of the few things that could make this situation worse than it already was. Darcy pushed rainwater from his face with his palm. “Go to the study and look for a green leather-bound volume of maps whilst I deal with Longbourn.”