Page 78 of Miss Delightful
“I can be pleasant company, just as you can.”
“Such effusive compliments, Powell, will put me to the blush. I’ve put away my sword.”
Right. Enough about Alasdhair’s broken heart and tattered wits, about which they could do nothing but drink and lament and worry.
Powell’s sword hung across the library beneath a portrait of Great-Uncle Arwyn, who’d gone to sea as a midshipman at the age of eleven and worked his way up to his own command. He’d had wonderful stories to tell a small boy starved for masculine attention, though Powell suspected most of those stories had been more fairy tale than fact.
“We promised we’d keep our swords in view,” Powell said, “lest we forget the horrors of war.”
“Ann asked me to take it down. She said I needed no reminding of those horrors when they still haunt my dreams. I occasionally argue with my lady, but not when she’s right.”
So Goddard had nightmares too. Doubtless Alasdhair did as well, then. “We should send MacKay home. He’s miserable here, and winter is almost over. If he’s not to court the fair Miss Delancey, then he might as well put distance between himself and the site of his defeated hopes.”
“Fine idea. I suggest you be the one to tell him he’s banished from Town. I’ll start working on your eulogy tonight.”
“He’s not violent.” And yet, MacKay had a powerful temper when roused. Once upon a time, he’d brawled with the best of them. “We need to intervene before he does something he’ll regret. He’s rambling everywhere, from St. James’s to St. Giles, to Southwark, always alone, always on foot.”
Goddard took another sip of his drink. “The boys have spotted him along the river, and that is no place for a man alone to linger after dark. I have wondered if what’s needed in MacKay’s case isn’t an eruption of some sort. He’s been a monk since Badajoz, barely drinks but for a nip here and there, won’t play more than a rare hand of cards, never disports with the ladies… He tends to the family business, passes coin to the streetwalkers, and grows quieter by the year. Whatever happened to him in Badajoz, it still burdens him.”
What to say to that? MacKay, being MacKay, would likely take that burden to his grave. Powell was about to renew his argument for Alasdhair’s removal to the north when the door opened, sending a gust of chilly air into the library.
MacKay strode in, his open greatcoat flapping with each step. “Two in the afternoon, and my cousins are already hitting the brandy. I’m related to a pair of doddering sots. Don’t sit there gawping, lad. Pour a man a drink. I’ve poked into every coalhole and privy in this wretched town, and I’m parched.”
He was also gaunt, rumpled, and in want of a shave. His eyes were ringed with fatigue, and his burr was much in evidence.
“You need to eat,” Goddard said, “and don’t argue with us, because contrariness is simply more evidence that you’ve neglected your belly. No brandy until you’ve eaten something.”
MacKay took out his flask and tipped it to his lips. “Keep your frog-water. You’ll no’ be tellin’ me what I need, Goddard. I know what I need, the same thing I always need.”
“A sound thrashing?” Powell ventured.
“The truth. I’ll also appreciate the use of some beggars and urchins, which is why you find me here when I ought to be keeping watch over the Southwark lodgings of Miss Melanie Fairchild.”
Mrs. Lovelace appeared in the doorway with a laden tea tray in her hands. Powell had learned not to attempt to take trays from her, not to hold doors for her, not to in any way demonstrate gentlemanly courtesies where she was concerned.
Had her standards, did Mrs. Lovelace.
“I’ll bring up sandwiches in a trice,” she said, putting the tray on the sideboard. “Major MacKay can doubtless use a late luncheon, and I will take your coat as well, Major.”
She all but whisked MacKay’s coat from his shoulders, which he allowed, interestingly, while Goddard’s expression had gone bemused.
“A managing woman,” MacKay said when Mrs. Lovelace had absconded with his coat. “I used to adore them.”
“A pretty woman,” Goddard murmured. “Beneath that monstrous cap and all that frosty competence, she’s quite pretty. Powell, what have you got yourself into?”
“A clean house, hot meals, and clothing that doesn’t come up from the laundry half scorched and all over with stains.” More than that, Powell did not dare admit. “You need reconnaissance patrols, MacKay?”
“Aye, and sentries. Melanie Fairchild is alive, and I want to know why she’s lied to me, her family, and, by extension, her only begotten son. Deceptions and prevarications might suit the Delanceys and their kin, but for John’s sake and my own, I want the truth.”
* * *
No amountof anger or heartache would render Alasdhair capable of keeping eyes on Melanie Fairchild around the clock. He had thus come to Powell to requisition reinforcements and also because he simply could not stand to be under his own roof.
He tossed through the night alone in the bed where he’d made love with Dorcas. He’d had the house spruced up in anticipation of making a home with her there. He’d acquired fripperies and stuffed bears, in part because Dorcas would expect that of him and in part because that was the kind of foolishness a man in love undertook gladly.
And for what? He’d given her his heart, and she’d given him his marching orders so she could martyr herself in marriage to a conniving priest.
Powell’s housekeeper had taken one look at Alasdhair. “They’re waiting for you in the library,” she’d said, “and they areworriedfor you.”
