Page 81 of Miss Delightful
Lonely job, guard duty. Hellishing lonely.
“I was desperate to find Powell,” Alasdhair said. “Nigh mad with the need to know whether he still drew breath, and he was nowhere to be found. I came across Dunacre, though.” Then, more softly, “He was with a woman…”
Haltingly at first, and then in more detail than he should have inflicted on anybody, Alasdhair told them the rest of it.
The silence that followed was thoughtful and sad, but not as ragged as Alasdhair had feared. He’d kept to the facts, neither wallowing in shame nor dressing up a nightmare in euphemisms. He did not feel better, precisely, for recounting that day, but some element of relief had seeped past his fatigue and frustration.
“I’m glad Dunacre is dead,” Goddard said. “Spares us having to call him out.”
Us.One did not issue challenges as a team, but that wasn’t the point. “Your wee Annie would disapprove.”
Goddard’s smile was sweet. “She’d disapprove of Dunacre a lot more.”
“This is why you look after the streetwalkers,” Powell said. “You are atoning for Dunacre’s bad behavior in Badajoz.”
“I’m atoning for my own bad behavior. I did not question when I should have questioned, did not stop to think about the evidence of my own eyes when I should have stopped to think. I had a moment to tarry and intervene, but I could not be bothered.”
“So you take those moments now,” Goddard said. “Has it occurred to you that Miss Delancey might need you to tarry and intervene?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Though a quickening in Alasdhair’s mental state suggested a wisp of an answer was already within his grasp.
“You found Melanie Fairchild,” Goddard said, “because you did not ignore the evidence of your eyes. The evidence you have also suggests Mornebeth is a low-down, manipulative, self-serving wolf in vicar’s clothing. What evidence might you uncover about him, if you were to look carefully?”
Was Alasdhair to lurk in the pubs as Mornebeth had? “He’s likely a canny wolf. The kind who knows to avoid leaving tracks, else he’d not be frequenting Lambeth Palace.”
“You’ve seen him in Southwark?” Powell asked.
“While keeping an eye on Melanie. Saw him twice.” And wanted to kill him both times.
“Think about it,” Goddard said. “Inspiration might strike if you’ll leave off brooding long enough.”
“I’m no’ brooding.”
“Pouting,” Powell said. “Sulking. My sisters have worse names than that for when a man wants to be private with his thoughts.”
“When he hasn’t a clue how to go on,” Alasdhair said. “Where the hell were you, anyway, Powell? While I was interrogating drunken sergeants and generally risking my neck trying to determine your whereabouts, what the hell were you doing?”
Powell abruptly found the flames on the hearth in need of study. “I was charging from one tavern to the next, one infirmary tent to the next, one open grave to the next, desperately looking for you. What else would I have been doing?”
“Guerre maudite,” Goddard muttered.
Accursed war indeed. “Appears you’ve found me,” Alasdhair said. “Took you long enough.”
Powell smacked his arm, and Goddard poured another round, while Alasdhair thought about what honor required of him and what Dorcas needed of him, for they might not be precisely the same things—or were they?
Chapter Seventeen
After days of smiling at Michael across the dining room table, smiling at him across a parlor full of guests, and smiling at him as he was whisked out the door to make yet more calls with Papa, Dorcas was out of smiles.
She felt as if she’d been hauled back in time to the weeks following her assignations with Isaiah Mornebeth, when she’d known herself to be forever changed, and had put all of her energy into making sure nobody else could detect her loss of innocence—not the loss of her virginity, but the loss of her innocence.
Smiles in every direction, great good cheer, every day’s tasks conscientiously executed no matter how long the list. No need for drama, as Mama would have said. Just get on with the next committee meeting, visit to a new mother, or pleasant supper with Papa and his guests. Heartache eventually fades, shame mutes into guilt.
Though Dorcas did not think the pain of parting from Alasdhair MacKay would ever fade.
“When did you acquire the gift of silence?” Michael asked, strolling at her side.
“When did you? Once upon a time, you would tell me your every adventure and prank.” They were making a circuit of the garden, though for once the walls felt confining rather than sheltering. Winter had gone on too long, and yet, Dorcas dreaded the weeks ahead.
