Scales and Sensibility by Stephanie Burgis

Chapter 8

“My friend Aubrey has a carriage he might lend us for an hour,” said Benedict. “You did ask about him earlier, didn’t you, Mrs. De Lacey?”

“Oh, he’s still here?” Elinor could have wept with relief. “That would be ideal! Do you think he could escort me himself?”

“Aubrey?” Sir John turned his frown to Benedict. “Who is this fellow you keep nattering about?”

“A scholar at Cambridge,” said Elinor. “A specialist in dragons. In fact, I’ve been hoping very much to consult with him about my pet.” She tilted her head to rest against Sir Jessamyn’s warm face as he contentedly chewed his latest chicken slice. For once, she was the one vibrating, not him, as excitement shivered through her fingertips. If Mr. Aubrey was still here—if she could tell him everything—then—

“A scholar, eh?” Sir John snorted with disgust. “Never seen the point of those bookish fellows, myself. Not what a real man chooses to do with his time.” He shrugged and turned back to his ale.

Irritation passed over Mr. Hawkins’s face before he masked it. “He’s also the grandson of Sir Toby Grayling.”

Ale spattered across the table as Sir John jerked to attention. “Grayling the banker, you mean?The one who got himself knighted for paying off all the Prince Regent’s debts five years ago, after Prinny built that monstrosity of a new palace?”

Mr. Hawkins nodded. “My friend is Sir Toby’s only heir.”

“Good Gad! Good…” Sir John’s jaw worked in silent agitation. “His only heir, you say? Well, he’ll just have to come and stay with us, too, then, of course!” He drew himself up. “We could hardly be so rude as to not invite him, when we’re asking you to stay. Wouldn’t want to offend any friend of yours, would we?”

Mr. Hawkins’s eyes widened. “I feel I must warn you, Sir John, that he isn’t the most sociable of fellows. He—”

“Balderdash!” Sir John’s voice hardened. “If you are to come to Hathergill Hall, he must as well. I won’t hear another word spoken against it! Do you understand me, sir?”

Mr. Hawkins paled. “Ah…”

Elinor’s conscience twinged. If she truly meant to aid Benedict in his pursuit of Penelope, she ought to intercede with Sir John, shouldn’t she? It couldn’t do Benedict’s courtship any good to be compared to a man who—judging by Sir John’s reaction—possessed a truly mouth-watering inheritance.

But…

No, Elinor thought firmly, and for once, she turned a deaf ear to her conscience.

Mr. Aubrey was hardly likely to take any notice of Penelope—not unless she developed ear ridges and scales, anyway. And Elinor could hardly turn down such a heaven-sent opportunity.

“What a delightful idea,” she said. “I shall look forward to meeting him as soon as possible!”

Mr. Hawkins looked from her to Sir John, sighed, and shrugged. “Then I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Forty minutes later,Elinor was sitting once more in Mr. Aubrey’s paper-flooded carriage, while Benedict Hawkins sat on the opposite bench beside his friend, who’d hunched tightly over the book in his lap. With bright sunshine pouring through the expensive glass windows and Sir Jessamyn curled up on her own lap, it should have felt just like the ride she’d taken the day before, with all of its ease and subversive, tingling pleasure.

It didn’t.

This time, they rode in near-silence, broken only by Mr. Aubrey’s occasional, low-voiced mutters of disgust with the book he was reading. Outside, the sun was shining every bit as brightly as it had before, but the temperature in the carriage felt as if it had dropped several degrees. Yesterday, Mr. Hawkins’s stretched-out legs had come perilously close to brushing against Elinor’s at every turn of the road. Today, he held himself carefully rigid in his seat, several polite—and chilly—inches away, and with no flow of easy conversation to lighten the mood. Instead, he frowned out of the window, his face set in weary lines.

Even after just one day of acquaintance, Elinor knew that grim silence was unlike him.

Was he regretting yesterday’s generosity now that he’d heard Sir John’s side of the story? Perhaps he, too, was remembering yesterday’s journey…but wishing that he could turn time back and leave her in the ditch where he had found her. It was what Sir John would have advised him to do, certainly.

It didn’t matter, Elinor told herself. It couldn’t matter, if she was to maintain her charade. And for all her undeniable temptation to break that grim silence now by revealing the truth—to tell him her side of the story and hope that he believed it…she was still Elinor Tregarth beneath her magical façade. She hadn’t entirely lost sight of common sense even in this desperate escapade.

Benedict Hawkins’s only chance of saving his family and estate lay in persuading Penelope Hathergill to marry him. Therefore, he could never be allowed to know the truth—not when he’d win Penelope’s favour in an instant by turning over Elinor to justice.

Elinor sighed and gave Sir Jessamyn a gentle pat for comfort.

That sigh finally caught Mr. Hawkins’s attention. He turned away from the window, his face easing into a not-quite-natural smile. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. De Lacey. I’ve been terribly rude with my wool-gathering.”

“You appeared to have grave matters on your mind.”

He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shook his head. “Nothing of importance. Only…” He compressed his lips. Then he sat forward with a sudden burst of intensity, looking into her eyes. “Mrs. De Lacey—”

“In the name of God!” Mr. Aubrey burst out. He snatched off his spectacles and glared around the carriage wildly. “When will they learn to catalogue properly? When?!”

Sir Jessamyn reared away from that accusing glare, letting out a startled clicking sound of alarm. Elinor let out a half-breath of shaken laughter.

Sighing, Mr. Hawkins shook his head and sat back in his seat. “I’m sure you’re right, old fellow, but perhaps—”

Mr. Aubrey’s wild gaze landed on Elinor. “You’ll understand me! Miss Tregarth, as the owner of a dragon yourself, you must surely—”

“I beg your pardon!” Elinor’s breath stuck in her throat as she met his burning gaze. “What did you just call me?” she whispered.

He knew. How could he know?

“Not Miss Tregarth, Aubrey.” Benedict sighed and shot her an apologetic glance. “That was yesterday, remember? This is a different lady.”

“A different lady?” Mr. Aubrey replaced his spectacles and leaned across the seat to frown at Sir Jessamyn. “But surely—”

“Mrs. De Lacey, remember? She’s been wanting to consult with you about her dragon.”

“But this is Miss Tregarth’s dragon, clearly.” Mr. Aubrey lifted one finger to Sir Jessamyn, who nosed forward cautiously in response, face lowered in nervous submission. “If you look at the very particular shape of those ear ridges…”

Elinor sat frozen in her seat as Mr. Hawkins’s eyebrows drew together. “But the markings on its face—”

“Markings?” Mr. Aubrey frowned, and gently tilted Sir Jessamyn’s chin. “What mark—? Oh. Ah, yes. Hmm. I hadn’t noticed these before.” He inspected the golden swirls on the left side of Sir Jessamyn’s face with interest. “Remarkable. I’ve never seen anything quite like them.”

“Never?” Elinor’s query came out as a croak.

He shook his head, tracing the swirls with one careful finger, while Sir Jessamyn leaned into his hand, eyes drifting half-shut with pleasure. “Never. I’ve seen pictures, of course—Kelsham has an illustration in his latest treatise of a few mature dragons in South America with such markings, but I’ve never seen one myself...not on a living specimen, at least. There was one stuffed specimen brought over by a Navy surgeon that displayed something similar, but it was so degraded by the quantity of seawater that had overwhelmed it during one of their pointless battles—”

“During their heroic sea-battles against the French, you mean,” Mr. Hawkins prompted patiently, “during the long wars against Bonaparte.”

“As you say, as you say.” Mr. Aubrey shrugged impatiently. “It was a desperate waste of a good specimen, though! They couldn’t manage to bring back a single live dragon until they finally gave up on all that cannon-shooting.”

“When Bonaparte was bravely defeated by our armies, you mean,” said Mr. Hawkins, with more resignation than hope.

Elinor moistened her lips. “But you must have seen a number of adult dragons yourself in the past few years, Mr. Aubrey, since they were first imported to England.”

“Oh, yes. Ladies’ pets.” Mr. Aubrey’s voice held the same note of disdain with which Sir John had uttered the earlier word “scholars.”

“Ahem.” Mr. Hawkins looked pointedly from his friend to Elinor and back again. When Aubrey didn’t react, he said, “Mrs. De Lacey herself—”

“Oh, I know, all the ladies who follow fashion must have them, and we’re all meant to be grateful just because they pay to bring dragons here for study. But, Hawkins, even you can hardly claim that the true pinnacle of dragonhood comes from riding about on a lady’s shoulder at a ball. Of course they’re hardly magical, as some fools in history thought, haha...”

“Ha,” Elinor repeated faintly. “Ha?”

“…But when you think of the size they must once have been, before the larger ones were hunted to extinction—when you think of the mark that they made upon history and legend…well!” He sat back in his seat and shrugged. “One can hardly look at such a degradation with any pleasure.”

Sir Jessamyn let out a cheep of protest as Aubrey’s petting hand retreated. The scholar nodded to him courteously in response. “Not that I blame the dragons, of course.”

“Of course.” Mr. Hawkins rolled his eyes.

“But Mr. Aubrey,” Elinor persisted, “those facial markings—”

“And I still fail to understand what could possibly be essential about my presence at Hathergill Hall!” Aubrey scowled at Mr. Hawkins. “My colleague is expecting me in Wales, you know. He claims he’s made some very interesting discoveries related to the work of a local dragon breeder. It’s all nonsense, of course—his theories are impossible—but who is to convince him of his foolishness if not for me?”

“And you will,” said Mr. Hawkins. “Only wait a single week, for my sake, please.”

“A week!” Aubrey sighed dolefully. “And what exactly am I to do during this week? Sir John may have a vast quantity of dragon scholarship in his library, as you say, if he is a great reader…”

Elinor let out a strangled cough.

Mr. Hawkins winced. “I only said that he might, not that he definitely would. But the point is, old chap, Sir John wouldn’t hear of refusal. If you don’t come, I can’t either, and…” He slid a wary glance at Elinor. “…Well, you know why this visit matters to me.”

Mr. Aubrey banished discretion with an impatient wave of his hand. “Yes, yes, pretty girl, large dowry, salvation, I remember.” Beside him, Mr. Hawkins closed his eyes with a look of pain, but Aubrey took no notice as he lifted a sheaf of papers and shook them in the air. “Of course I want the best in the world for you, man, but what of my own work? How am I supposed to accomplish that at Hathergill Hall?”

“Surely a scholar can work anywhere,” Elinor said, taking pity on both of them. “Isn’t most of the work you do that of the mind, sir?”

“Well…” He shrugged irritably. “I suppose so. But those dragons in Wales—”

“I have several questions about my own dragon, actually.” This time, Elinor was the one who aimed a wary glance across the carriage. “He’s been displaying some…ah, some decided peculiarities related to those facial markings, and—”

“Indeed?” Aubrey’s face brightened. “What sort of peculiarities have you noted? In detail, if you please.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Hawkins. “Do tell us, Mrs. De Lacey. Please.”

She smiled weakly. “You could hardly be interested, sir. Perhaps later, when Mr. Aubrey has a moment for a private consultation—”

“Oh, nonsense.” For the first time since they’d met, Aubrey set down his papers and firmly pushed aside the book he had been reading. He even gave Elinor a sickly-looking smile—his best attempt at ingratiation, she supposed—as he added, “Hawkins is far less ignorant about dragons than most laymen, I assure you.”

“It’s true.” Mr. Hawkins gave Elinor a rueful smile. “Trust me, after so many years of friendship, it’s impossible to avoid some knowledge of the species.”

“He won’t cause us any trouble with stupid questions,” Aubrey said briskly. “I have him well-trained. So, Mrs. De Lacey! Exactly which peculiarities have you observed? And exactly when did they begin?”

“Ah...” Elinor looked from one expectant face to the other. “I really think it would be better if—”

A rap at the glass window cut off her words—and made her realize for the first time that the carriage had rolled to a stop.

These windows might not open, but Sir John’s bellow, trained on hundreds of hunting fields, was more than capable of reaching through a mere layer of clear glass.

“Mrs. De Lacey!” He waved expansively. “My humble home! At your service!”

Hathergill Hall spread before them: expansive, grey, and only too nauseatingly familiar. Elinor’s stomach plunged at the sight.

It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since she had escaped.

Was it her imagination, or had a curtain just fluttered at the front of the house? Penelope always did like to know which visitors were arriving.

Elinor took a deep breath as her heart began to race frantically behind her chest. She had always pitied the red foxes who were mercilessly run to their deaths by her uncle and his friends. But she had never felt so much empathy for their situation...and she was about to walk voluntarily into her own hunters’ home.

Her fingers twisted painfully together in her lap as her breath shortened.

Rose, she reminded herself. Harry.

And then: Mrs. De Lacey.

Her spine stiffened. Her chin lifted.

No one called Mrs. De Lacey helpless prey. No one!

“Excellent.” Elinor’s smile felt as jagged as an icicle waiting to fall and shatter to the ground. “I can hardly wait to get started.”