Page 43 of Miss Delightful
“I could not possibly. One is almost too rich a pleasure.”
“Then you’ve not been enjoying the right pleasures.” Though his tone was admonishing, he winked at her, tucked a piece of shortbread into his pocket, and rose. “I’ll see you home now, and should your dear papa be on hand, an introduction would be appreciated—if you’re comfortable with that?”
Papa would be polite, also puzzled. Alasdhair MacKay was not a Mayfair dandy, not a churchman, possibly not even Church of Scotland. He consorted with game girls, grew testy when hungry, and named his horse for the Young Pretender.
But he was a good man, ferociously honorable, and more genuinely respectful of women as a gender than was any bishop Dorcas had met—and she had met many. She was pondering the nature of respect as she and Alasdhair rounded the corner onto her street. A red-wheeled curricle tooled by, matched grays in the traces…
And Isaiah Mornebeth at the ribbons.
“Fancy equipage,” Alasdhair said, “but then, it’s a pretty day, and the toffs must display their finery.”
Mornebeth hadn’t so much as glanced Dorcas’s way—he’d not expect her to have an escort, would he?—but her cup of chocolate soured in her belly. Mornebeth had no reason to be on Holderness Street other than to call on Papa—or her.
Dorcas resumed breathing when the matched grays trotted around the corner.
The introduction of Alasdhair to Papa went smoothly, as Dorcas had known it would. Papa did not bring up John’s circumstances, though he had to grasp that Alasdhair had taken in a member of the Delancey extended family. Dorcas was hanging up her cloak and scarf—it washerscarf now, thank you very much—when Papa peered out the window at Alasdhair’s retreating form.
“They grow them big up north, your mother always said.”
“I suppose the Scots come in all sizes. Mr. MacKay is a gentleman. His father is some sort of minor Scottish lord.”
“Impoverished, no doubt. The Scots have not had an easy time of it.” Papa’s gaze shifted from the street to Dorcas, but she had long ago learned to evade paternal scrutiny.
“I must put the finishing touches on the fellowship meal plans,” she said. “You will be glad to know that John thrives in Mr. MacKay’s care.”
“I am glad to know that, though I wasn’t about to ask the man directly. Will you be calling on MacKay again, Dorcas?”
“Yes.” And he would be calling on her, and if all went well… Dorcas cut off that thought before she was grinning like a fool in her own foyer. He had bowed over her hand with exquisite politesse while squeezing her fingers ever so gently.
Papa pretended to sort through the afternoon mail. “You might be interested to know that Isaiah Mornebeth stopped by on the spur of the moment. He’d been squiring his grandmother about and wanted to take her grays for a turn in the park. He thought you might enjoy driving out with him.”
Dorcas’s good mood, herhopefulmood, evaporated into a miasma of resentment and worry. “He should have sent a note around. I don’t exactly idle away my hours, Papa.”
“Don’t be churlish. Mornebeth wanted to surprise you.”
He had wanted to ambush her. If Dorcas knew one thing about Isaiah Mornebeth, it was that she was not safe with him and never had been. She forgot that lesson at her peril.
“If he calls again, Papa, I am not at home to him.”
“You are letting this MacKay fellow turn your head? That’s not like you, Dorcas.”
“My lack of regard for Mr. Mornebeth has nothing to do with Mr. MacKay. I know you value your friendship with Isaiah, but I have my reasons for keeping my distance.”
More than that, she dared not say.
Papa’s regard grew pensive. “Be careful, Dorcas. Isaiah Mornebeth is a man of substance and influence. He is playing his cards shrewdly and could do much to benefit this family.”
The truth begged to be spoken. Mornebeth was a serpent, as Mr. MacKay had said, but Papa could not see that. He would believe every lie to come out of Mornebeth’s mouth, and the occasional self-serving truth too.
“I will be careful, Papa, and I will be civil and even cordial to Mr. Mornebeth, but allowing him to develop aspirations in my direction would be unkind.”
Papa let her have the last word, though Dorcas felt no sense of victory. The day’s glorious developments had been overshadowed by Mornebeth’s sneak attack, and having been frustrated in his aims once, he’d come around again.
Mornebeth was nothing if not as determined and as devious as the devil.
* * *
“His name is Richard Scott,”Dylan Powell said, keeping up a brisk pace as the western sky turned infernal shades of red and gray. “He will answer only to Scotty, though he hails from Yorkshire. Has an obsession with keeping his fingernails clean, which you will not remark upon.”
