“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…shewasstill 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’llunderstand 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?
“NotMiss 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.”
