Page 46 of Miss Delightful
“Ask t’ ladies,” Scotty said. “They hear things, they see things, they know things.”
Much as Powell’s sisters did. “An excellent suggestion. Gentlemen, thanks for your time. Here’s to an early spring.”
They drank to that, and to Wellington’s health, and, less enthusiastically, tot’ auld mad buggerKing George. By the time Alasdhair and Powell left them to their second platter, they were debating the strategy of some skirmish outside Salamanca, which, in their informed opinion, had turned the entire tide of the war.
“That conversation raised more questions than it answered,” Powell said as he and Alasdhair walked in the direction of London’s more genteel neighborhoods. Lamplighters were shuffling from one lamppost to the next, and only three cabbies were lined up at the nearest hackney stand. The horses, blanketed against the cold, breathed plumes of white into the chilly night air. “Shall we take a cab, MacKay?”
“I’d rather walk.”
“You’d rather keep a lookout for your game girls. How much longer will you beat your head against the sheer stone walls of London’s appetite for vice?”
“Until I forget Badajoz.”
“We will none of us ever forget Badajoz, but you might at least tell me and Goddard why it haunts you so.”
To recount that horror to his cousins had been previously unthinkable, a private shame and a personal sorrow. “Someday, I might. Suffice it to say, Dunacre disgraced his uniform as badly as many others.”
“Another reason to be grateful that Dunacre fell at Waterloo.”
Alasdhair was grateful for the darkness and grateful beyond words for his cousins. “Did you kill him? You are a dead shot, Powell, and he was a blight upon the earth and your commanding officer.”
“You are the sharpshooter among us. A bullet killed him, and he died a hero’s death, which was more than he deserved. How’s the boy getting on?”
Alasdhair was grateful for the blatant change of subject too. “Wee John is thriving. I know now why Goddard is so concerned with his urchins.”
“They eat prodigiously, which makes Ann happy. Ergo, Goddard is happy.”
“Children change everything, Powell. They stand your world on its head, and that’s exactly as it should be.”
Powell, who generally had a rejoinder for everything, remained silent, but Alasdhair knew exactly what he was thinking: If Melanie Fairchild was alive, how could she have simply walked away from her own son, the child for whom she’d eschewed a life on the stroll, and begun the long, nearly impossible struggle back to respectability?
Chapter Ten
Isaiah’s quarry hadn’t changed much in all the years he’d been up north. Her figure was still matronly, her eyes still kind, though the hair visible beneath her poke bonnet had more gray. She moved from stall to stall with a brisk efficiency that had nothing to do with the nip in the morning air.
A woman serving as cook-housekeeper in a busy vicarage could not afford to dither over the choice of watercress or cabbages. Isaiah left off flirting with the flower girl and chose a bunch of unopened daffodil buds, probably stolen from some sheltered churchyard.
He flipped the girl a coin, aiming far enough from her boot that she had to scrabble for it, then donned his signature genial-bachelor smile and approached the greengrocer’s stall.
“It’s Mrs. Benton, isn’t it?” He touched a finger to his hat brim and bowed, being sure to hold the flowers in plain sight. “Isaiah Mornebeth. Years ago, I used to racket about with Michael Delancey. Your cooking figures fondly in my memories.”
“Mr. Mornebeth!” The old girl’s smile would have lit up Piccadilly. “Of course I recall you. What a pair of rascals you were. Vicar said you’d returned to London, and I believe you dined at the vicarage earlier this week.”
“The roast was superb. No wonder Thomas is such a happy man, when he sits down to meals like that regularly. Might I carry your basket? I’ve made my purchase and would enjoy your company if you don’t mind the bother of an escort.”
She passed over her market basket, which was heavier than it looked. “Very gracious of you, sir. What did you think of my apple walnut torte?”
“Madam, if I did not know you to be devoted to the Delanceys, I would steal you away simply to have that recipe.”
She beamed at him. “You are shameless, Mr. Mornebeth, though you are also right: I am devoted to the Delanceys. You could not ask for a better family to work for. Vicar toils without ceasing for the good of his congregation, and Miss Delancey is a paragon of organization and charitable inclinations. She’s not boastful about it, but she is much respected in the parish.Muchrespected.”
Miss Delancey was also going completely to waste. “Might I walk you back to the vicarage?”
“I must pick up some carrots.” Mrs. Benton moved along at a slower pace than she’d set earlier. “I prefer the brightest orange, but not too large. Carrots grow tough with age, and the flavor suffers with excessive size.”
“I never knew that.” Nor did Isaiah care about rubbishing carrots. “Are you responsible for all the cooking at the vicarage, or does Miss Delancey take a hand in running the kitchen?”
Mrs. Benton slanted him a look. “If you are trying to be subtle, young man, you are failing utterly.”
