Page 2 of Miss Dignified
Had she been running the campaign in Spain, Boney’s generals would have been dusted straight back to France within a year.
She deigned to take up a fork. “I am a trifle hungry.”
“And this assuredly does qualify as good food.” Saved from plainness by the hint of smokiness from the ham and a tangy quality to the cheese. A peculiar thought crossed Dylan’s mind. “Did you wait up for me?”
“Of course not, but on such a night, a caller or two at the back door would not be unexpected.”
“This late?”
“Not usually, sir. The men would hesitate to disturb your household once the candles are out in the kitchen. Have you heard any more from your sisters about a London visit?”
That maladroit change of subject confirmed that Lydia Lovelace had waited up for him. Dylan was half pleased and half alarmed by such a possibility. In the alternative, perhaps she was plagued by nightmares about cobwebs in the attics.
God knew, Dylan had his share of bad dreams. “My sisters hint,” he said, doing justice to his eggs. “They imply. They don’t quite threaten.”
“You will please inform me if that changes, sir. One wishes to be in readiness for every eventuality.”
Mrs. Lovelace ate with the sort of dainty manners a midnight snack did not merit, but then, Mrs. Lovelace was not the typical housekeeper.
She was younger than the usual exponent of her trade and not half so substantial. In the better London domiciles, a housekeeper was a general whose influence was felt in orders followed and inspections passed. She did not ruin her knees scrubbing floors or throw out her back hauling baskets of wet laundry. The housekeeper typically had her own parlor, and from her headquarters, she deployed the maids and commandeered any unsupervised male employees.
The usual housekeeper was a staff officer, in other words, and seldom found herself in hand-to-hand combat with tarnished candlesticks or dusty carpets. Mrs. Lovelace, by contrast, led her troops by example, perhaps a necessity in a bachelor’s modest quarters. Dylan had seen her in the garden laying into the hall runner with a carpet beater, dust flying everywhere.
Close and protracted observation led him to two conclusions regarding Lydia Lovelace. First, she got her hands literally dirty because she did not trust others to do the job right without her example. As an officer, she led the charge rather than hang back while others engaged directly with the enemy.
Second—this insight had come up on him only recently—she maintained a prodigious level of activity in hopes that her fine looks would go unnoticed.
She had lovely dark hair shot through with auburn highlights that became apparent only by candlelight. Her complexion would be the envy of any heiress. Her eyes were a gray green that changed hue with her moods and attire. When she spoke French, Dylan wanted to close his eyes and simply listen to her.
She poured them each a serving of tea and added a dollop of honey to Dylan’s cup. “Do you mind about the cat, sir?”
Dylan glanced over at the basket on the hearth, only to find that the feline interloper had been joined by a second calico ball of fluff.
“Kittens, you mean?” Female kittens, which could only lead to courtship mayhem and progeny.
Mrs. Lovelace stirred her tea with inordinate care. “The pair of them were on the back stoop, Captain. I suspect one of your men brought them around. Nothing on this earth is as pathetic as a wet, bedraggled kitten unless it’s two of them. They huddled together, and when I opened the door, they should have scampered off, but instead…”
“Instead?” To see the indomitable Lydia Lovelace reduced to explanations wasn’t as gratifying as it should have been.
“They looked up at me, all fierce and hopeful, and when I stepped back, they darted into the kitchen. I could not turn them out, sir, but I will take them to the church if you insist.”
Dylan sipped his tea, mostly to give himself time to consider options. Pets made little sense to him. Livestock had a place in the proper order of things. A well-trained dog could justify itself as a defense against housebreakers, and a personal mount merited appreciation, but cats…
He did not care for cats. They became too self-sufficient, when they finished being too darling and dear. Then they had kittens, made godawful noise, and left a stink about the stables. Children were probably less trouble than cats, not that Dylan would know.
“You would never allow mice on the premises, Mrs. Lovelace, and those two little wretches are months away from being able to defend the pantries.”
She pushed aside her plate of eggs, half the food uneaten. Was she saving it for the cats?
“If you insist, sir, I will make other arrangements for the kittens.”
Martyrs accepted their fates in such stoic tones. Dylan had sent men into battle and led them into near-certain death. If Mrs. Lovelace thought he was incapable of turning out a pair of opportunistic little felines when London’s alleys were awash in plump, tasty rodents, she had another—
A hard thumping commenced from the direction of the back door. Before the third thump, Dylan was on his feet, mentally reviewing weaponry—a knife in each boot, a third knife secured at the small of his back. His walking stick—mahogany, with a brass handle—sat next to the back door.
“Stay out of sight,” he muttered. “That’s an order, madam.” He chose not to take up a carrying candle lest thevisitorhave warning when the door opened.
The pounding continued, slow and determined. Dylan palmed the knife out of his left boot and secreted his hand in the folds of his coat. He opened the door and stepped back into the shadows.
