Page 19 of The Magic of Pemberley (Fitzwilliam Darcy, Mage #2)
Chapter 19
T he next day Darcy set out on errands in Paris. His manservant had procured a guidebook for him and given him a recommendation for a tailor, since nothing Darcy had bought in Rouen would do for even the most casual presentation to a member of the aristocracy, much less the emperor.
After being measured and looking at far too many fabrics – never a favorite activity of his – he headed for the fashionable shops. Also not one of his hobbies, but the War Office said it would look more suspicious if he did no shopping, so he browsed through several stores, looking for a perfect gift for Edward Harcourt’s non-existent stepmother who had supposedly sent him on this errand to France.
But he could not resist a fine silk handkerchief embroidered with wildflowers. Elizabeth loved them, often pointing out the violets and cowslips near the cottage at the heart of Pemberley. A large present was out of the question, as it was all but certain that he would have to abandon his luggage to make his escape. But a handkerchief could fit in his pocket, and it represented his hope that someday he would be able to give it to her.
There was one other thing he wanted to do for Elizabeth, and it involved being in just the right place when the dragon scale awoke. That afternoon, he followed his guidebook’s instructions toward the Seine, where he could see the towers of Notre-Dame rising over the rooftops of ?le de la Cité. A pair of soldiers stopped him at the bridge and demanded his papers, something that seemed to happen more frequently in Paris.
How did the French stand it, having to prove their identity again and again? Not that most of them got a quarter of the attention he did, but still, he could not imagine the English tolerating it. But he was accustomed to the procedure now, and so far his safe-conduct had not been challenged. He chatted with them amicably, agreed that the Code Napoléon was much fairer to the common man than anything in England, and gave them a coin to drink to the emperor’s health. Then he crossed the Pont au Change and made his way toward the towers.
The buildings to his west were casting long shadows, but he still had time, so he paused in front of the great cathedral. He had seen engravings of it, of course, but it could not compare to the majesty of the ancient building, its square towers jutting towards the sky. Elizabeth would enjoy seeing these memories.
Then he strolled inside and found a pew which gave him a view of one of the rose windows. He gazed at it as the last of the light disappeared, studying every inch of it so that it was set in his mind. Then he took out the dragon scale and held it between his fingertips, waiting. When it finally came to life, he poured the image he had created through the link, the rose window and the glory of Notre Dame in the fading afternoon sun.
He could feel her gasp of pleasure. Her wordless gratitude and her love, the precious gift she had given him. And then she was gone.
Now the nave was dark except for the flickering candles lit by the faithful. He made his way between the tall pillars out into the square, warmed by his memories of Elizabeth.
He had to find a way to survive this and get back to her, so that someday, when there was peace, he could bring her here.
Finally, it came, after nearly a week of waiting, wondering if the conspirators had lost their nerve or, even worse, been discovered and arrested. A servant brought the response, demanding that he present himself to the Duc de Velaudin to explain the letter he had sent.
Darcy’s manservant helped him into his most formal attire and accompanied him to Velaudin’s stately townhouse. He was shown into the august presence of the duc, who haughtily informed him that he did not believe a word of Edward Harcourt’s story and believed him to be an English spy. Exactly in keeping with the script the War Office had set up.
Darcy played his part, protesting his innocence and suggesting that the question be taken to the Minister of Police, who had approved his passeport and safe conduct.
“The Minister of Police!” cried Velaudin scornfully. “I will take it to the emperor himself. He is the only one I trust in these matters. I will set up the audience.”
The secretary beside him referred to a piece of paper. “He is reviewing the troops in front of the Tuileries tomorrow.”
“Inform the emperor’s chamberlain that I wish to approach him then, with this Englishman.” Then Velaudin looked scornfully down his beaked nose at Darcy. “You will meet me there, and His Imperial Majesty will judge you.”
Darcy bowed. “It will be my very great honor.”
And so they concluded their piece of theatre, performed for the benefit of hangers-on and servants, to convince them that the Duc de Velaudin could not possibly be conspiring with an Englishman.
Even if he was.
Darcy tried to hide his jubilation as he left Velaudin’s townhouse. A troop review was perfect. Outdoors, in the great open square where he could bring his horses charging through. Where illusory gunshots would produce chaos. His chances of both success and escape would be much better outside than at an indoor public audience. And he had avoided the worst possible outcome – a private audience with Napoleon, which would be almost impossible to escape.
Since time was short, he stopped to make his final arrangements and to pay a second visit to the area around the Tuileries, refreshing himself on the locations of streets and potential hiding places. He could not choose the angle for the horses to come from until he knew where the troops would be, but he could consider possible options.
If he was very fortunate, by this time tomorrow, Edward Harcourt would be no more, and Darcy would be on his way back to England.
He would do his duty to the best of his ability. Drawing on the power of Pemberley and the dragon magic inside him would make his illusions strong. He had the dragon Artifact to assist his escape, and his plans for leaving Paris were as solid as he could make them.
And yes, there was still a good chance he would die tomorrow, but he would not dwell on that. Particularly when his final contact with Elizabeth before facing Napoleon was coming soon.
The message took no effort. Tomorrow afternoon, my love. Flavored with all the affection he could pour into it.
A gasp, a moment of fear, and then something that felt like an embrace. I love you. And then she was gone.
If only the connection lasted a little longer! But he should be grateful it existed at all, that his final memories of Elizabeth could be something beyond her tear-stained face that morning in her bedroom .
A knock at the door made his pulse quicken. Could their plan have been discovered, even at this late date? Had the conspirators lost their nerve? He opened it, fully expecting to see soldiers on the other side.
But it was only a liveried messenger with another letter. No, not just a letter, but a formal, sealed document, tied with a ribbon. He gave the boy a coin and sent him on his way.
The seal showed Napoleon on his imperial throne. Dread filled Darcy as he opened it. The formal language commanded him to appear with the Duc de Velaudin at the Tuileries palace the following morning for a private audience with His Imperial Majesty Napoleon, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, and Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine.
He stared at it in horror, his blood turning ice cold. There it was, in black and white. His chances of survival had just dropped to the same abysmal level that they had been when he first accepted the mission, before he had met Elizabeth and learned to hope.
It was a death sentence.
He would never see any of them again. Not Elizabeth, nor their child, nor Pemberley, nor England.
Dropping the paper, he dug his fingernails into his palms until it hurt. He still had a task before him. His brother had died to stop Napoleon. Could he do no less? Tomorrow he would save countless lives across Europe and avenge Jack’s death. He would protect England from invasion and make the world safe for his child.
It was worth the price. It had to be.