Page 19 of Miss Dignified
“But an earl,” Mrs. Lovelace said, “a man with his whole life ahead of him, why would he not come home to his family?”
Dylan pushed past his abiding loathing for Lord Tremont and officers of his ilk to consider the question. “War changes people, Mrs. Lovelace. A fellow who was the butt of the apprentices’ jokes in his uncle’s shop could become a sharpshooter, lethally accurate even under fire, the pride of his regiment. A lord’s son, given every advantage in life, might be overcome at the sight of a dead horse’s entrails. That man longs to be brave and tireless on the battlefield, but he can’t even stay on his feet if he cuts himself shaving. If Tremont is alive, he might well dread the day his family finds him.”
She watched as Dylan petted the kitten snoring in his lap. The little creature liked to have the top of her head stroked, and she was surprisingly soft given her lowly antecedents.
“You never did tell me your favorite dessert, Mrs. Lovelace.” She had instead brought the conversation back to Dylan’s military past and to herdistant relative, the earl.
“I am quite fond of a cup ofchocolat chaud, particularly served with a dollop of whipped cream.”
Not a typical dessert. “I am quite fond of apple tarts.” Too late, he realized that his word choice might embarrass his housekeeper. She wasfondof him, a ridiculous notion. Because she was fond of him and because Dylan was still tired but no longer aching and famished, he made an offer he would doubtless regret.
“Shall I see what I can find out about your missing lordling?” The peer whom she’d referred to asMarcus, though she was only passingly curious about his years-long absence?
“Please. My mother is concerned about him, and not knowing his fate is hard on her.”
Dylan rose and passed Mrs. Lovelace the sleeping kitten. “I cannot promise anything. A man who doesn’t want to be found usually has reasons for protecting his privacy. I thank you for the conversation and sustenance, Mrs. Lovelace, and youwillavail yourself of my library. That is a direct order.”
She rose as well. “Thank you, Captain. For the library, but also… Marcus’s family has worried about him for too long. His heir is a bibulous uncle. I suspect that fellow isn’t very interested in discovering his nephew’s whereabouts.”
She made a fetching picture by the light of the candles, the kitten snuggled against her shoulder. A fetching, worried picture. Dylan bowed and withdrew, though sleep eluded him more determinedly than usual.
Mrs. Lovelace was being vague about her past and her connections, she was comfortable using French phrases in regular conversation, and she’d had access to books and the leisure time to read them. Moreover, she considered that a housekeeper had “tremendous freedom” and was delighted with the simple fact of controlling her own wages.
Lydia Lovelace was hiding something. Dylan had yet to decide if she was lying per se, or simply guarding her personal dignity. He drifted off on the thought that he must instruct the kitchen maid to ensure chocolate was kept on hand at all times, for despite whatever secrets she kept, Mrs. Lovelace was entitled to some pleasure in life.
Wasn’t everybody?
“May I use the lap desk when you’re through with it, Mrs. Lovelace?” Bowen Brook asked, leaning against the parlor’s doorjamb.
“This is my traveling desk,” Lydia replied. “The one in the butler’s pantry ought to be available, but you are the house steward, Mr. Brook. The library and office writing supplies fall within your purview.”
In the morning light slanting through the windows, Bowen Brook was a very different man from the weary soldier who’d fallen at the back door days ago. His bruises were fading, and given the opportunity, he’d proved to be a fastidious fellow. His attire wasn’t fussy—Lydia had altered some of the captain’s clothing to suit Mr. Brook—but his person was scrupulously clean and his bearing that of a former military man.
Even his speech had become more genteel, at least around Lydia.
“Has the captain explained to you where it is I am to execute me duties, missus?”
The captain, after that late-night conversation earlier in the week, had barely been in evidence. “He might be leaving the decision to us. I have an idea.” Lydia set aside her latest letter to Aunt Chloe and led Mr. Brook up the steps.
By the time Lydia had located the items in the attic that would transform an old warming pantry into a steward’s office, the morning post had arrived. She took the mail to the library for sorting as she always did, because certain expenses were hers to pay from her household budget, and the remainder of the mail went to the captain.
Between what looked to be a tailor’s bill and an invoice from a bootmaker, Lydia found a letter from Aunt Chloe.
By agreement, Chloe was not to contact Lydia in London unless a dire situation had arisen.
Lydia used the captain’s letter opener to slit the seal and took Chloe’s epistle to the windows. The news was not quite catastrophic, but it was worrisome. Wesley was planning to visit Chloe a fortnight hence. That was doubtless meant as a warning from Wesley to Lydia herself that she was to be escorted home to Tremont on her cousin’s arm.
Why? Why would Uncle Reginald demand her return when he regarded Lydia as little better than a poor relation?
“You look as if you’re running out of rations, and you’ve received word of massed enemy forces in the next valley.”
The captain lounged with a hip propped on his desk, his riding jacket open, the tips of his boots dusty. How long had he been observing her, and why hadn’t she heard him come in?
And besides all that, did any man in the whole of England look half so delicious as Dylan Powell after a morning hack?
“Family squabbles,” Lydia said, folding the letter and tucking it into a skirt pocket. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You aren’t wearing your cap.” He pushed away from the desk and prowled closer. “I’m taking your advice.”
