Page 101 of Miss Dignified
“Lydia might have some ideas.” Powell rose and extended a hand. “I trust you will not be taking ship?”
Some part of Marcus, the part that had learned the relief of hiding in low places and giving up on happy endings, was tempted to get on board theRebecca Louiseand sail for the New World.
“What do you think I should do?” he asked.
“I think if Dunacre hadn’t been so good at dividing his staff and sowing discord among us, we might have seen him relieved of command long before Waterloo—a proper court-martial with all the disgrace he deserved. I also think if more of us were concerned about being decent neighbors and doing the right thing—no small challenge—then fewer of us would ever have to march off to war again.”
Of all the outlandish revelations… Dylan Powell was a philosopher. Marcus took Powell’s hand and rose. “You won’t tell Lydia or Mama?”
“Not my tale to tell, Tremont, and I owe you an apology for misjudging you.”
Powell shook Marcus’s hand, and that simple gesture effected a sense of absolution Marcus would probably not have found on his own, even if he’d searched the whole of Philadelphia for it.
“Apology accepted, though I’ve no idea what you’re going on about. Lydia is sweet on you.” An inane comment, given the ache in Marcus’s chest. “Lydia is formidable. Witness, she found me.”
“You wanted to be found,” Powell said. “Most soldiers separated from their comrades do. Let’s rejoin the ladies, and you can tell them of your decision.”
Maybe that was a bit of cozening—Marcus had not announced any decision—or maybe it was Powell reading the signs most others missed, because Marcushadmade a decision. He was not going to Philadelphia.
He was going to the solicitors’ offices, where he would revoke Uncle Reggie’s power of attorney and also cut off Wesley’s allowance, effective immediately.
Lydia had hoped to slip in and out of Dylan’s house without him being aware of her presence. He and Marcus had resolved matters between them two days ago—Marcus refused to yield details— and Lydia had spent all day yesterday at the solicitors’ offices with Marcus and Mama.
Reggie’s bumbling and Wesley’s conniving had done some damage, but in time, with good management, Tremont would come right.
Not so, Lydia’s heart. Dylan had not called at the Dorning residence in her absence. He’d sent no notes. She’d lost any ability to wait patiently on a man’s whims weeks ago, to wait patiently for anything, in fact.
Lydia intended to retrieve at least her writing desk and perhaps chat up Betty about the doings in the Powell household. A little reconnaissance mission, nothing more.
She found the kitchen deserted, and beside her bed sat an open trunk, the same trunk she’d brought with her to London. Somebody had folded up her dresses and caps, tucked her slippers along the sides, and laid her Sunday gloves neatly atop the whole.
One of the kittens had curled up beside her gloves, and that sight—the bedraggled little feline now glossy and content—made her unaccountably sad.
“There she is,” Dylan said, pushing away from the doorjamb. “We should name her Baggage if she’s so determined to nap in trunks.” He ambled past Lydia, scooped up the cat, and stroked her head. “My lady, good day.”
I missed you.Lydia had already told Dylan that once—confessed that—and he’d said he loved her. Lydia had not imagined him admitting that sentiment, but where did that leave them?
“Captain, what brings you belowstairs?”
“You do. I saw Dorning’s monstrosity of a coach stop at the corner and watched the footman hand down a very fine lady, whom he then escorted to my doorstep. Nobody knocked upon my door, though.”
“I wanted to retrieve my writing desk.”
Dylan set the cat down and gave her a gentle push in the direction of the parlor. The cat, of course, sat right upon her haunches and commenced licking her paw. Smart feline, to refuse direct orders when they did not suit a lady’s agenda.
“I am preparing to ship your things to the destination of your choice,” Dylan said. “Might we sit a moment, my lady?”
Dylan led her not to the bed, but into her sitting room—her former sitting room. “I spent most of yesterday in a dead sleep,” he said, “and my energy is still somewhat at low ebb.”
Lydia took one of the wing chairs by the hearth, and when she was seated, Dylan took the other. That he’d been asleep yesterday suggested that while Lydia had been rattling her bones in all those post-chaises, Dylan hadn’t exactly been picnicking in Hyde Park. He’d said as much, said he’d been upset, but the confirmation was reassuring.
“You and Marcus have resolved your differences?” she asked.
“We had a misunderstanding, not a true difference. The whole time we were in Spain, and I thought Tremont a bumbling toady, he was protecting me. He was protecting all of us.”
“That is respect I hear in your voice.” Dylan Powell was incapable of feigning such an emotion.
“I have tremendous respect for your brother, and I have apologized for misjudging him. I apologize to you for the same mistake. I used what skills I had to foil our enemies. Tremont used other skills. He was so expert at his tactics that I did not fathom what he was about. I suspect he has been fooling a lot of people for a long time, possibly even himself.”
