Chapter One

The dancing nymphs were not equal to Caroline Bingley’s standards. “Hmph,” she sniffed. “Their dancing could be more graceful. And their dresses do not even glow.”

Bingley gave her a carefully correct smile—the smile he used when he tried not to contradict his sister. “I suppose there are fewer nymph dancing troupes to hire in Hertfordshire than in town.”

Caroline gave an elegant shrug. “Then they should do without. It is not as if nymph dancers are de rigeur at an assembly ball in the country.”

“I suppose the good people of Hertfordshire are showing everyone how sophisticated they are. Nymph dancing troupes must surely be a novelty here.” Louisa Hurst tittered with her sister.

“Or perhaps they take pleasure in watching the nymphs dance. They are quite lovely,” Bingley said with absolute sincerity.

Darcy silently agreed with his friend. Small and light, nymphs could perform tricks and elegant dance steps that would be impossible for a human. The troupe at the Meryton assembly was perhaps not the most sophisticated he had ever observed, but they wove intricate and beautiful patterns with ribbons. Darcy said nothing to Caroline; he was less willing than Bingley to draw her wrath.

The party from Netherfield watched in silence as the performance concluded with an elaborate pose made colorful by ribbons wrapped around each dancer’s wrists. Darcy joined the applause; the dancers should be commended just for avoiding tangling up the ribbons.

The five nymph dancers glided to the edge of the dais that occupied one end of the assembly hall and made elegant bows before hurrying out the door. Although they took delight in performing for humans, nymphs tended to be shy and uninterested in socializing with other species. The members of a small orchestra—all human—swept onto the dais and commenced tuning their instruments.

Caroline was not finished punishing her brother for the sin of prevailing upon them to attend a country dance. “Have you noticed the pathetic attempt at décor?” She waved negligently at the ceiling. “Colored flames in the chandeliers? Shadow silhouettes on the walls? It is all so passe. The floral decorations do not sparkle. And the curtains have been blue all evening. The least they could do is enchant the curtains!” Her eyes slid toward Darcy. “Surely you agree with me.”

He hated to be drawn into a disagreement between the siblings, but honesty—and a sense of obligation to Caroline— compelled him to respond. “The décor does rather possess an amateur air,” he admitted. Colored flames and enchanted silhouettes on the walls had been popular in London three years ago, but the most fashionable balls now had more sophisticated decor.

Bingley was not perturbed by the criticism. “I find it most charming. The decorations were probably conjured by a local mage in his spare time. They would not possess the funds to hire a professional decorator mage.”

“That much is exceedingly obvious,” Caroline sneered.

Bingley’s attention was drawn toward movement on the far side of the room. Sir William Lucas, one of the local landowners, was moving toward them purposefully with other local residents in his wake. “Apparently Sir William has other people for us to meet,” Bingley said with relish. Darcy managed not to groan; meeting people had to be the most tedious part of attending balls.

“I thank you for my share of the favor,” Caroline drawled, “but I am forced to decline. I have an urgent need to visit the ladies’ retiring room.” Grabbing her sister’s arm, Caroline fled the scene as if being chased by enemy soldiers. Hurst, Louisa’s husband, had already taken himself off to the card room, leaving Darcy standing with Bingley and cursing himself for not having affected an escape earlier.

Just as Sir William reached them, the orchestra struck up a lively dance tune. “Mr. Bingley! Mr. Darcy!” The man’s voice was always quite a bit louder than the occasion warranted. He gestured expansively toward the family of worthies arrayed behind him. “Allow me to introduce the Bennet family. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet and three of their daughters, Miss Jane Bennet, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and Miss Mary Bennet. Their younger two daughters have already found dancing partners.”

Everyone exchanged bows and curtsies. Bingley’s gaze lingered on Miss Jane Bennet, who was quite lovely, with a blonde halo of hair framing a serenely beautiful countenance. Darcy’s attention was particularly arrested by Elizabeth Bennet. Her hair was a mass of dark curls, and her smile held a faint hint of amusement in it. How intriguing. Something about her name was familiar, but Darcy would remember meeting a woman of such striking beauty.

Mrs. Bennet burbled about how wonderful it was to see such fine young men at their “fair assembly.” By “fine,” Darcy understood her to mean “wealthy.” He was accustomed to this reaction, but that did not render it less tedious.

While the others spoke of inconsequential subjects, the question of where Darcy had heard of Elizabeth Bennet nagged at him. When Mr. Bennet said something about the Academy of Magic, Darcy remembered. “Miss Elizabeth, are you the woman who petitioned the Convocation for admission to the Academy?” He blurted out the words.

She did not appear nearly as abashed as he would have expected. “I am, but that was three years ago. I am intrigued to find that you still recognize my name.”

“I was part of the Convocation panel that heard your petition.” Only after uttering those words did Darcy realize it was hardly the most politic thing he could have said. The panel had been unanimous in rejecting her application; the Academy had never admitted a woman.

Fortunately, she appeared more amused than irritated. “It is a shame the panel did not see fit to test my magical abilities before denying my request. That might have altered their opinion.” Darcy expected the other mages in the group to be embarrassed by this forwardness, but her father laughed an agreement and Sir William nodded. The sisters regarded Miss Elizabeth with sympathy. Only Mrs. Bennet colored and glanced away. Apparently Miss Elizabeth’s application to study magic was well known in the community. How curious.

“Magical studies in the Academy are quite rigorous and even dangerous,” Darcy said. “They should not be undertaken lightly.”

“I assure you, I had every intention of undertaking them quite heavily.” Her father snorted a laugh and even Bingley smiled.

Darcy’s friend broke the ensuing awkward silence by inviting Miss Bennet to dance the next set, which was just beginning to form. After her shy agreement, they hurried toward the dance floor. Politeness suggested that Darcy prevail upon Miss Elizabeth to dance, but he could not bring himself to do so. She had created a minor scandal, and he had no intention of associating himself with her any longer than the length of the discussion. Obviously she rated herself rather highly if she believed her abilities equal to the most talented young mages in the country.

“I understand you are from Derbyshire, sir?” Mrs. Bennet asked.

“Yes, my estate is Pemberley—near Matlock,” Darcy answered shortly. Questions about his income hovered unspoken in the air. Darcy wondered if there were a polite way to hint at how fruitless any matrimonial efforts would be. Mrs. Bennet babbled about a distant relative from Lambton, relieving Darcy of any social obligations save nodding at appropriate moments.

Everyone knew that women’s magic was better suited to small domestic tasks such as mending clothing, embroidery, or beautifying charms. Female servants might use a little magic to enhance food they made, make cleaning easier, or light a kitchen fire. However, most women were not adept with higher level spells.

History did offer a few exceptions to this rule, such as the notorious Jane Dee during Elizabeth I’s reign. But customarily women did not possess the capacity for greater magic, leaving male mages to fight magical wars and perform other dangerous tasks.

Darcy understood why Miss Elizabeth was without a dance partner despite her beauty. If the woman’s doomed application was widely known in the neighborhood, scandal would have attached to the whole family.

Citing the need for some punch, Darcy turned and hastened away from the group. This assembly ball was tedious enough; he did not need to struggle through an awkward discourse with such a family.

Caroline Bingley was standing near the punch table, and Darcy hastened to pour her a glass. She accepted with a smile. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam, you are so thoughtful.”

“The prospects for good society are not promising,” he replied. “We must rely upon each other for company.”

“Indeed.” She laughed as if he had said something exceedingly droll. “Only our own company is tolerable.” She regarded him with an expectant expression.

Oh. “Would you honor me with the next dance?” Darcy asked.

“I would be delighted,” she drawled.

Darcy occasionally had small reservations about Caroline’s character; she could be cutting and cold. But she had excellent taste in fashion, and nobody could fault her manners. In addition, the Bingleys were a well-established magical family with Convocation members stretching back for generations—although Bingley’s father had unfortunately dabbled in trade to replenish the family’s coffers.

Nevertheless, Darcy had made the right decision when he had prevailed upon Caroline to marry him.

After two sets with his fiancée, Darcy had retreated from the dance floor. Caroline had taken herself off to the ladies’ retiring room once again, and Mrs. Hurst was dancing with a militia officer.

If only he could depart without causing a minor scandal! Their party had been in Hertfordshire less than a week, and they were not acquainted with many people in the room. Balls were such a colossal waste of time. Netherfield was not the most stimulating place, but there Darcy could read the latest magical journals or write a letter to his sister Georgiana. In fact, he would have preferred not to visit Hertfordshire at all, but he had been powerless to deny entreaties from both Bingley and Caroline.

Darcy was considering yet another glass of punch when Bingley appeared at his side. His friend was always in his element amidst a large crowd of people—perpetually well liked wherever he went. Darcy occasionally envied his friend’s easy ways but found them onerous at other times. This event fell into the latter category.

“Come Darcy, I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner,” Bingley declared. “I must have you dance.”

“I certainly shall not,” Darcy said. “You know how I detest it unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to stand up with.”

“I have never met so many pleasant girls and several of them are uncommonly pretty,” Bingley said.

Darcy had already been importuned into visiting Hertfordshire and attending this vexing dance. He was not about to allow himself to be coerced into additional dancing. “You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” Darcy said, indicating Miss Bennet.

“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But, there is one of her sisters who is very pretty and, I dare say, very agreeable.” Bingley waved his hand toward their right.

Darcy turned his head just enough; Miss Elizabeth stood not far away. He had to admit that she was quite lovely—with particularly fine dark eyes. She regarded him with an enigmatic smile.

He quickly glanced away. Apparently the Darcy fortune would easily overcome any reservations the woman had about his role on the Convocation panel. But Darcy’s reservations were not so easily conquered. Even if he were not engaged, he would not be inclined to give her any encouragement.

“She is tolerable,” Darcy said to Bingley, “but not handsome enough to tempt me.” She could not fail to overhear, which was all to the good; she was less likely to importune him. “I am in no humor at present to give consequence to women with such insufferably high self-regard.”

Bingley laughed uncomfortably. “I would not be as fastidious as you for a kingdom! I understand why the panel denied her application, but surely there is no harm in desiring to attend the Academy.”

“You know what the Academy is like,” Darcy said. “She would not have lasted a single day. There was no reason for the Convocation to indulge her capricious ambitions.”

Bingley shrugged. “Perhaps not, but there is also no reason to avoid dancing with her.” His friend gave Darcy no opportunity to reply. “Perhaps Miss Jane Bennet might agree to another dance.”

A moment after Bingley’s departure, Darcy happened to glance to his right; Miss Elizabeth Bennet had quitted the vicinity. It was just as well. Her presence had been annoying, and those eyes had been a distraction.

***

Jane will be pleased to hear that Mr. Bingley thinks she is the most beautiful creature he ever beheld. Since Elizabeth had no hopes of a partner for the dance, she might as well relate something that would lift her sister’s spirits. Since men were scarce at the assembly, Elizabeth had briefly harbored hopes that one of the newcomers to Hertfordshire might dance with her, but Mr. Darcy had dashed that dream quite thoroughly.

She took pleasure in dancing and had no additional expectations for any partner. But since her aspirations for Academy admission had become widely known, many of the young men in Hertfordshire had taken to avoiding her. Certainly “tolerable” was not the worst insult she had ever heard.

A sigh escaped Elizabeth. She did not regret applying to the Academy; she was more than qualified. But occasionally she regretted that her reputation deprived her of an opportunity to dance.

As she crossed the room, she felt a tug on her magical senses that warned her someone was manipulating the ether in the room. It did not take much searching for her to find Lydia on one side of the room coaxing strands of ether to create a small gust of wind that blew one of the militia officer’s hats across the floor. Every time the poor officer drew near the hat, it blew away again—while Kitty and the other militia officers laughed. Apparently the poor man did not command enough magic to counter Lydia’s; no wonder he had joined the militia.

Lydia was the most magically talented of Elizabeth’s sisters, but she never used it to any purpose—regarding it as merely another tool in her perpetual quest for “some laughs.” None of their father’s chastisements curtailed Lydia’s misuse of magic.

At least Elizabeth could benefit the hapless officer. With a flick of her wrist, she yanked on the strands of ether that Lydia manipulated, causing the wind to reverse itself so the hat landed on the startled militia officer’s head. Lydia immediately spied who had thwarted her amusement. “Lizzy!” She stamped her foot and scowled at her older sister.

Lydia never considered the consequences of her actions. Elizabeth drew her sister away from the others. “You were creating a spectacle,” she said in a low tone.

Her sister rolled her eyes. “We were only having a laugh! Even Denny was laughing!”

Elizabeth folded her arms over her chest. “Are you bent on achieving a reputation as a girl who misuses magic?”

“I don’t care!” Lydia pouted.

“Be that as it may. If you do not cease at once I will follow you around the ballroom and negate every one of your silly spells.”

Lydia’s chin jutted upward belligerently, but she knew Elizabeth was not making an empty threat. “I would hate to deprive you of the opportunity to dance,” she said in a falsely sweet voice. “Oh, wait, nobody will dance with you.”

Elizabeth forced herself not to react. “Keep this up and nobody will dance with you.” She gave her sister a quelling glance.

Lydia tossed her head and turned on her heel. Returning to her group of friends, she grabbed the hand of the officer closest to her. “Come, let’s go dance!” The man grinned, apparently undeterred by her forwardness, and accompanied her to the dance floor.

Elizabeth found Jane near the punch table. Her countenance was serenely beautiful as always, but her eyes sparkled with an unusual brightness. “Did you enjoy dancing with Mr. Bingley?” Elizabeth inquired.

“He is quite gracious, a true gentleman.” Despite her measured words, Jane was obviously fighting to hide a smile.

Elizabeth took her sister’s hand and squeezed it; rarely had she seen her sister so ebullient. “I may have overheard Mr. Bingley relate that you are the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld.”

Her sister gave a very un-Jane-like giggle and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. “It is wrong to eavesdrop, Lizzy,” she said with mock sincerity.

“It is not eavesdropping if they are speaking loudly enough.”

Jane peered closely at her sister. “I saw his friend watching you. I thought he might prevail upon you to dance.”

“Watching me? You must have been mistaken. Mr. Darcy is not as gallant as Mr. Bingley, I fear. He declined an opportunity to dance with me because—” She imitated the man’s deep tones. “I am in no mood to give consequence to women with such insufferably high self-regard.”

“He said that?” Jane was more horrified than Elizabeth had been. “To say such a thing in your hearing is very wrong.”

Elizabeth shrugged. Jane had no notion of how frequently people said far worse. “You know I am not seeking a husband.” She was not averse to marriage, but she had resigned herself to the possibility of dying a spinster. Most days it did not bother her, although she was occasionally apprehensive that she would feel differently in ten years.

“In any case,” Elizabeth said briskly. “I am far more unhappy that Mr. Darcy denied my admission to the Academy than I am over any slight at a ball.” The injustice of the Convocation’s refusal still rankled. The panel had not even been willing to test her to determine if she had sufficient magical talent. Elizabeth did not have unjustifiably high regard for her own abilities, but she had met many Academy graduates with far less skill than she possessed.

Jane nodded. “It was wrong for them to deny you.”

“I daresay I will not languish for the want of Mr. Darcy’s friendship,” Elizabeth said with a laugh. “He is clearly a man to make quick judgments.”

“Perhaps he spoke in haste and is now regretting it,” Jane said. “Perhaps he will invite you to dance later.”

“I think I can promise you that I will never dance with Mr. Darcy.”

A commotion at the ballroom’s entrance drew their attention. “Goblin! There is a goblin on the drive!” A coachman shouted as he raced into the room.

The music stuttered to a halt. Elizabeth regarded the coachman skeptically. Goblin appearances were rare—and usually a result of storms. The sky today could not be clearer. Perhaps the coachman had mistaken a bear or wolf for a goblin. “What sort of goblin?” someone shouted at the man.

He shrugged. “Big—at least six feet tall—and blue!”

People gasped all over the ballroom. Very well. Definitely not a wolf or bear.

Another servant entered at a run shouting the same thing, prompting an older lady to faint, a singularly unhelpful reaction to the news. Some guests surged toward the doors—running for the terrace or escaping elsewhere in the building—as others shouted that the ballroom doors should be barricaded.

Two figures emerged from the back of the ballroom and swept past Elizabeth: Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy. The latter was unsheathing a sword engraved with runes: a bespelled blade.

Jane’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh! They must be paladins.” The warrior mages were the kingdom’s primary defense against goblin attacks, evil mages, and any other dark magic that might threaten the rest of the population. Paladins learned a special technique that allowed them to hide and then summon their swords seemingly from thin air.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Of course Mr. Darcy is a paladin.” They were known for an extra helping of arrogance.

Jane watched Mr. Bingley disappear through the ballroom door. “We are fortunate they are here.”

Elizabeth had never observed a paladin fight; goblins and other dark magic were rare in Hertfordshire. Watching the battle would be terribly thrilling. But fighting goblins was hardly an activity that called for spectators, and her assistance might be needed in the ballroom.

“Remain calm!” shouted a stout, unprepossessing man who emerged from the card room. Since Elizabeth did not recognize him, she guessed he was another visitor from Netherfield. “If you remain within the ballroom, you will be safe. I am a mage with the Convocation, and I shall fight any goblins that attempt to attack this room!”

There was a general murmur of approbation at this announcement, but Elizabeth was tempted to roll her eyes. Most mages belonged to the Convocation—well, male mages anyway—the country’s magical governing body. Being a member did not prove much beyond a minimal level of magical talent.

The man chanted in Latin to activate a spell. Elizabeth could sense him weaving together strands of ether—the magical energy that only mages could see or use. He created a standard deflection spell, which would be useful if anyone shot arrows into the room but would do little to stop a goblin.

When the man ceased chanting, several people applauded, causing the stout man to preen. Elizabeth sighed. Yet another Academy-trained mage who regarded himself more highly than was warranted.

Somebody yanked on Elizabeth’s arm, and she turned. Her hands fluttering like butterflies, Elizabeth’s mother peered anxiously at her. “Your father went to summon the carriage. The goblin will attack him, I know it! What shall we do if he is killed? We’ll be thrown into the hedgerows for sure.”

“Papa is outside?” A stab of terror jolted through Elizabeth.

She took a step toward the door, but Jane caught her hand. “You cannot go outside, Lizzy. It is too dangerous!”

“It is not much safer here,” Elizabeth replied. “That mage could not stop an angry gnome.”

“Let the paladins take care of it,” Jane insisted, her forehead creased with worry.

“I will not leave Papa alone and defenseless,” Elizabeth said. The mere mention of her father provoked an anguished moan from her mother. “The paladins may not even know he is there.” Without another word, she pulled her arm from Jane’s grasp and rushed toward the door.

Guests were wailing in fear or arguing loudly about what to do; the commotion made it easy for Elizabeth to slip through the doorway unnoticed. The last thing she needed was someone trying to prevent her from leaving for her own good.

The corridors were empty; no doubt the servants were hiding. The sounds of shouting and the goblin’s angry roar echoed through the building even before Elizabeth reached the front hall. Despite her slippers and long gown, Elizabeth crossed the hall quickly and burst through the doors to a little porch, which topped a short flight of stone stairs that descended to the drive. She stopped to take stock of a scene that barely made sense.

It was a warm night for early January, but winter’s bite was still in the air. The sun had set long ago, but a plethora of torches illuminated the circular drive before the assembly hall. The drive was lined with coaches; the coachmen had fled. The goblin stood on the roof of a ruined carriage, having killed the horses with swipes from its enormous claws.

Elizabeth was astonished at how accurate the terrified coachman’s description had been. The monster was at least six feet tall—with bright blue, leathery skin covered in thick dark hair and twisted horns emerging from its skull. Most notably, it had six arms that each ended in five-inch claws. Elizabeth had only encountered one goblin previously, and it had resembled a cross between a hellhound and a border collie—with a tendency to eat sheep rather than herd them. This goblin was nothing like that.

But she had viewed similar illustrations in books. “Hobgoblin,” she breathed. Her stomach lurched with agitation—and a touch of excitement. Many mages went their whole lives without observing a hobgoblin, one of the most destructive types of goblins.

Given its size, she was not surprised that Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy were struggling to fight it. Just after she emerged from the hall, the goblin jumped down from the roof of the ruined coach, forcing Mr. Bingley to jump backward to avoid being sliced open by one long claw.

Mr. Darcy fared a little better. Needing to stay out of reach of the six long arms, he struggled to get close enough to the creature to stab it. While the goblin’s attention was distracted by Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy did manage to land one good blow, severing one of its hands. The goblin screamed in pain, but did not slow its attack, advancing with even more fury. The stump at the end of its arm bled freely for a few seconds, but then a hand started to grow back. Heavens! How unfair! How could such a creature be defeated?

Elizabeth had a tendency to dive headlong into any fray but held herself back from racing toward the goblin by sheer power of will. She reminded herself that paladins were trained for such battles, and she was not. Moreover, her task was to find her father. She strained her eyes but could discern no figure lurking in the shadows along the edge of the drive. Her breath caught in her throat. Where was he? Had the goblin already killed him?

Then she spied a figure, crumpled and unmoving, at the foot of the steps.