Page 5 of Miss Delightful
These blasphemies were so outlandish that Dorcas did not dignify them with a rebuttal. “Please do not think to cause a scandal, Mr. MacKay. Women regularly throw themselves off London’s bridges.”
That observation, while sadly true, was also a betrayal of Melanie. Another betrayal.
“Your late cousin is notwomen,” Mr. MacKay retorted, “and Melanie had overcome much. She did not do herself an injury when she was abandoned by her dashing swain. She did not do herself an injury when she realized she was with child. She did not do herself an injury by trying to rid herself of that child, and she would not leave wee John all alone in the world with only the likes of me standing between him and your family.”
Dorcas could not see that there was anything particularly wrong withthe likesof Alasdhair MacKay. “I insist that you allow Melanie to rest in peace, sir. Poking your nose into a tragedy won’t make it any less of a tragedy.”
He nudged the pretty landscape over the mantel a quarter inch higher at one corner, then nudged it back to its original position.
“You can come with me to call on Melanie’s landlady, or you can go back to memorizing Scripture, or whatever you spend your time on. I intend to find out what happened to John’s cradle, at the very least.”
He left off admiring the landscape and arched a dark brow at Dorcas.
That single gesture issued another challenge—a dare, even. “I’m coming with you,” she said. “I’m coming with you to ensure you don’t cause unnecessary bother to Mrs. Sidmouth or start the wrong sort of talk. Melanie’s memory must not be burdened with further scandal.”
He opened the door and gestured Dorcas through, something pugnacious about his courtesy. She preceded him to the foyer, head held high, but inside, her emotions were rioting.
Melanie had reestablished contact with Dorcas, who had been all too happy to offer what aid she could. Melanie had been doing honest work. She had no longer been attached tothat man. She had clearly loved her son, and in Mr. MacKay, she’d apparently had an ally, if not a friend.
And Mr. MacKay was asking valid questions.
But oh, the upheaval and drama. If Papa found out Dorcas had been in touch with Melanie, if he learned of the circumstances of Melanie’s death, if he learned about John… Papa no longer shouted, but his silent reproaches and muttered snippets of Scripture were worse than any tirade.
“You must promise me discretion, Mr. MacKay.”
He settled Dorcas’s cloak around her shoulders. “If I find out Melanie’s death was at all suspicious, then the only thing I can promise you is one hell of an uproar, and I do keep my promises, Miss Delancey.”
Of that, Dorcas had no doubt. No doubt whatsoever.
Chapter Two
Women came in two varieties.
The first was above Alasdhair’s touch, a category that included ladies from English families with any means. Between his chronically serious nature, his unprepossessing looks, and his Scottish antecedents, he had little to offer such ladies.
And they had nothing to offer him. In the second category were females deserving of his concern.
All women deserved his respect, but not all merited his concern. He’d been concerned for Melanie. He was concerned for old Mrs. Bootle, who lived next door. He was concerned for the Covent Garden streetwalkers and for the flower seller on the corner. He was concerned for many women, but Dorcas Delancey did not fit in any of the categories that would merit his concern.
He usually liked a quiet woman. Miss Delancey, since leaving his house, had said not one word, and he did not like that at all.
He was at ease with women who grumbled, lamenting the chilly weather, the gray skies, the detestable coal smoke that turned houses, gloves, bonnets, and coach horses sooty in the space of a few hours.
Miss Delancey hadn’t uttered a single complaint in his hearing, and he wished she would.
He preferred women who were pragmatic. Until Miss Delancey had shed a few tears, she might as well have been delivering a load of potatoes as surrendering her wee cousin into the arms of a stranger. Pragmatic in the extreme.
But she had wept. She had wept genuinely, noisily, heat coming off her as she’d yielded utterly to grief. She had wept, and just as quickly as the storm had descended, she’d regained her composure.
Women learned to do that when they followed a marching army to war.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked as Alasdhair turned down an alley.
“To Mrs. Sidmouth’s boardinghouse.”
“This is analley, Mr. MacKay.” Miss Delancey came to a halt and gave the alley the sort of look an artillery mule generally reserved for flooded river crossings.
“Indeed, it is an alley, and as alleys are wont to do, it runs between streets, thus saving us time and travel.”
