Page 26 of Miss Delightful
Perhaps she was the one grown light-headed and unsteady.
Mr. MacKay escorted her as far as the bedroom door. “I will keep John for the next fortnight, and I will not part with the lad until I’m certain he’ll be well cared for. If possible, I’ll send Timmens along with him, and I make you a solemn vow, Dorcas Delancey, that he will never want for anything.”
His gaze was serious, more serious than usual.
“I should not have carped at you,” Dorcas said. “That’s why they call me Miss Delightful—because I amnotdelightful. I am tiresome and difficult.” She made that confession while staring at the bare flesh of Mr. MacKay’s throat. She was tempted to collapse against him, to give him the weight of all her disappointments, and forget for a time who she was and where the line lay between propriety and folly.
He really had given her a bad turn.
“You are delightful,” he murmured very near her ear. “I keep my promises, Dorcas, and I do not lie. You are maddening, brilliant, determined, and as persistent as a seagull at a picnic, also entirely delightful. That boy is lucky to have a champion such as you.”
Something warm and soft brushed Dorcas’s cheek.His lips. Mr. MacKay moved behind the privacy screen with its intriguing collection of portraits.
She had just been kissed by Alasdhair MacKay,and she had enjoyed it. On that startling revelation, Dorcas slipped out the door.
* * *
The waiter gesturedto the third chair at the table by the window. That gave Alasdhair a view of the street, which meant his back was to the club’s dining room.
Not ideal, but such was the penance the last to arrive should serve.
“Don’t start,” Alasdhair said.
“Haven’t said a word,” Dylan Powell replied mildly, while Goddard simply smirked at his ale. Since marrying the former Miss Ann Pearson—Miss Delectable to those who’d consumed her cooking—Goddard was much given to smirking and smiling.
About damned time too. “I’d prefer a private parlor,” Alasdhair said to the hovering waiter, “if any are available.”
“Of course, Major. Allow me a moment to consult with Monsieur Lavellais. I’m sure he has a private dining room available.”
Lavellais was part magician, as every goodmaître de maisonshould be, and part mystery. He was invariably cheerful and unassailably discreet, most especially discreet about his own past. He lived at the club, and Alasdhair suspected he had an ownership interest in it.
More than once, Lavellais had directed that a cheese board be sent to Alasdhair’s table before the waiter had even taken orders. Perhaps Goddard and Powell had told tales out of school, but Lavellais was also that perceptive about the club’s members.
“If you don’t want us interrogating you,” Goddard said, “then you’d be better off in the main dining room.”
“You will interrogate me anyway, and half of the club’s members will be entertained by the spectacle. I’m not in the mood to oblige them.”
Powell took a considering sip of his ale. “Did you at least eat, MacKay? A bear coming out of hibernation has more manners than you do on an empty belly.”
“She made me eat.” Made him eat, made him take in the boy, made him trouble over his appearance… The behaviors of a meddling bedamned female, and yet, from Dorcas Delancey, all of those feminine imperatives felt more like fussing than meddling.
And fussing from her was a consummation devoutly to be treasured.
Lavellais appeared, looking as dapper and pleasant as always. “Gentlemen, greetings. Will the blue salon suit? We lack fresh flowers this early in the day, but perhaps good company can compensate for the absence of such a small touch?”
Powell and Goddard collected their drinks and rose. “The blue salon will suit,” Goddard said. “Thank you, Lavellais.”
Lavellais escorted them up a flight of carpeted stairs and down a corridor. The faint aroma of pipe tobacco wafted from the cardroom, which was likely still being aired from the previous night’s play.
A footman was lighting the fire in the blue salon and a waiter setting out cutlery as Alasdhair entered. Lavellais occupied himself with the decanters on the sideboard until the other staff had withdrawn.
“Nobody reserved this parlor for the midday meal,” Lavellais said. “You will be undisturbed while you solve the problems of the world.” He bowed cordially—Lavellais was never in a hurry—and left, doubtless intent on seeing to some other small dilemma elsewhere.
“Before you go,” Alasdhair said, “is the girl working out? You can speak freely before my cousins.”
Lavellais smiled beatifically. “Miss Beulah knows little of the kitchen, Major, but she knows a lot about hard work and about being cheerful. She will do quite well.”
“Keep her away from the strong spirits if you can, and she should manage adequately.”
