Page 15 of Miss Delightful
He dusted his hands over his plate and patted his lips with his table napkin. “No, you are not. I will call upon you, Miss Delancey, at the day and time of your choosing, and I will make a full report like the reconnaissance officer I am. You fear I will simply drift away, relieved that the managing Miss Delancey cannot vex me further. That is the price you pay for being difficult. People avoid you. Or perhaps that’s the reason you are difficult in the first place—to keep them from coming near?”
“For a man who never wore a collar, you excel at delivering sermons, Mr. MacKay.”
“I carried a gun into battle instead. Turned me up all philosophical. I also have an unaccountable fondness for difficult people, perhaps because I am one. If I say I will call upon you, I will call upon you, if for no other reason than I expect you to help me find a situation for John. Trust me, Miss Delancey. Iwillcall upon you.”
He spoke softly, and maybe another woman would have heard menace in that rumbling burr, but to Dorcas, he sounded utterly sincere. Stating immutable facts.
She did not trust anybody, much less any man. That she was tempted to trust Alasdhair MacKay could become a problem.
Not that she would permit herself such folly.
Chapter Four
Was a call truly social if the motivation for making it was to discuss a young woman’s death?
Alasdhair debated that question as he rapped smartly on Rev. Thomas Delancey’s front door. Delancey was vicar to a genteel parish that hugged the fringes of old money to the west and new money to the north, while commercial districts lay conveniently close by to the south.
A good place to shepherd a flock, judging by the flagstone walkway swept free of mud, the freshly painted wrought-iron porch railing, and the vicarage’s abundance of spotless windows.
“Good day, sir.” A housekeeper in cap and apron had opened the door. “Welcome, and do come in from the cold, though if you’re here to call upon the vicar, I’m afraid he’s out.”
She was cheerful about her sentry duty, thoughoutmight well mean Delancey was in his study, trying to fashion the week’s sermon.
“I’m here to call upon Miss Delancey,” Alasdhair said, passing over a card. “She should be expecting me.”
The housekeeper’s smile vanished, suggesting that either the wrong sort of man called on Dorcas Delancey, or that men never called upon her at all.
“I’ll see if Miss Delancey is at home. The guest parlor is this way.”
The guest parlor was intended to tastefully impress. Lathe-turned wooden candlesticks graced the mantels, and tall beeswax tapers arrowed toward a twelve-foot ceiling. The gilt was kept to a minimum—tracery on sunbeams frescoed among the ceiling’s celestial clouds, flourishes on the corner moldings.
The scene overhead involved two stone tablets held by some old bearded fellow whose gout looked to be troubling him. Not a bare breast or fat, half-clad cherub to be seen.
The carpet was Axminster, the drapes velvet, both emphasizing a lush raspberry hue. The mantels on the opposing fireplaces were rose marble, their carvings limited to the capitals and pediments of the pilasters. The walls boasted two landscapes, both rural scenes featuring a venerable village spire reaching for the cerulean English sky.
Only one fire was lit, though the second was laid, probably for later in the day, when callers were more likely.
The balance between luxury and austerity was perfect, exactly befitting the household of a vicar of a prosperous metropolitan congregation. Of Dorcas Delancey, Alasdhair could see nothing—not in the embroidered chair covers (cabbage roses, of course), not in the porcelain shepherdess and her adoring lambs on the sideboard.
And that was probably the point. Dorcas Delancey, like any good spy, excelled at concealment in plain sight. That quality intrigued Alasdhair more than it should. Most young women developed the opposite skill—the ability to attract notice without seeming to work at it.
The lady herself appeared in the doorway, frowning, as was her habit. Alasdhair was also intrigued by the question of what might make her smile.
“Master of Abercaldy?” She brandished his card. “What does that mean?”
“It means my father is a Lord of Parliament, in the Scottish tradition, and I am his heir. Papa inherited the title through an auntie, who held it for all of fifteen days prior to expiring. The role amounts to presiding at some annual village affairs and keeping a lot of books.”
Paying out an exorbitant amount quarterly in pensions made up the rest of the job. Alasdhair had chosen to use the calling card that included his honorific, knowing that the card might eventually find its way into Thomas Delancey’s hands.
“A Lord of Parliament is like an English baron?”
“An English baron without the right to sit in Parliament per se—or the obligation.” The Scots sent a delegation to Parliament, and Alasdhair hoped to never be among their number.
She gave his card one last scowl, then tucked it into a pocket. He’d surprised her, having expectations slightly above a mere former officer’s, and Dorcas Delancey clearly did not like surprises.
“We can sit here and swill tea, Mr. MacKay, or walk in the garden. My preference is the garden, despite the chill.”
“So is mine. I feel as if a pair of stone tablets are about to drop upon my head if I utter even a polite falsehood.”
