Page 21 of Miss Dignified
“You cannot leave me,” he said, not stopping until he was close enough that Lydia caught the scents of shaving soap and horse. “No deserting the regiment just as we hear the enemy’s drums in the distance. Tegan’s feelings would have been hurt had she found her painting behind the harp, but I honestly forgot where I’d put it. A steward needs his own office, but Bowen would never have mentioned that to me. I will not answer for the fate of your palace tigers if you retreat to Shropshire now, Mrs. Lovelace. I want your word you will not abandon your post.”
Lydia could not give him her word, and yet, she was loath to lie to him—to lie to him again. “You can hire another housekeeper, Captain.”
“Of course I can, and she won’t serve me apple tarts late at night, or hang sachets to chase the bugs from my library, or scold me for tracking mud into the back hallway, or wash my bed hangings even once a year.”
What was he going on about? “I’m simply doing my job.”
“I’ve grownquite fondof how you do your job, Mrs. Lovelace. Promise me you won’t quit.”
Lydia would quit. As soon as she figured out what had become of Marcus, if not sooner. “I will stay at least long enough to see your sisters settled in, but I doubt my family will relent.”
Chloe could tell Wesley that Lydia was in Town doing some shopping or catching up with friends as the Season got under way. A whole sampler of lies would have to be stitched to support that fiction—an escort to Town, some friends to stay with—but Wesley would accept half-truths at face value, because Lydia frequently did the same for him.
“I will not relent either, Mrs. Lovelace. You have turned a command post into a home, and that means more to me than you can fathom.”
Captain Powell was not an affectionate man, at least not that Lydia had seen. She was thus entirely unprepared for him to lean close, kiss her cheek, and bow over her hand.
“My chief intelligence officer’s advice is not to be ignored,” he said. “I’m off to change into my best morning attire.”
He strode from the library, leaving Lydia smiling at nothing in particular, for no reason at all. She’d never been anybody’s chief intelligence officer before, but then, neither had she been a housekeeper—or a liar.
How dare they?How dare Lydia Lovelace’s family try to summon her back to rural obscurity when she’d barely had time to find her feet as Dylan’s housekeeper? She’d taken the post only at… Yuletide? Already, it felt as if she’d been managing Dylan’s domicile since he’d moved to London, she was that competent at the job.
Competentwas the wrong word, not superlative enough.
Dylan strode along the walkway, mentally remonstrating with a lot of Shropshire yokels who hadn’t appreciated Lydia when they’d had her—trying to marry her off to a clodhopping cousin, for God’s sake—and now that she had found herself a respectable London position, they missed the treasure they’d scorned.
Served the lot of ingrates right. Dylan traveled several streets, composing sermons to the dunderheaded Lovelaces, before it occurred to him that he was upset. On a tear. Charging headlong, bayonets fixed, at Lydia’s relatives, who, for all he knew, were the very same maiden aunties who’d taught her so much about the domestic arts.
“Uffern a’r diablo.” Dylan had marched nearly to Jeanette’s door, but had little recollection of his travels.
“What has you invoking Old Scratch on such a fine day?” Hughie Porter tucked his fiddle into the crook of his arm and brandished his bow. “I hear you aren’t getting enough sleep, Captain.” He played a bit of a lullaby. “Yer London cousins are all married, and you’re the last bachelor standing.”
Hughie was plying his trade on a busy corner where mercantile and residential neighborhoods intersected. He dressed the part of the wandering minstrel, with a jaunty top hat and lacy neckcloth, but his clothing hadn’t seen an iron since Moses went up to the mount, and his boots were seriously down at the heels.
“Since when is this your regular patch?” Dylan asked, flipping a coin into the fiddle case open on the walkway.
“Since better surrounds mean better earnings.” Hughie played a few spritely notes. “I hear you’re looking for Will Brook.”
“I am, as is his brother.”
“Mayhap Will doesn’t want to be found.” Hughie started on a waltz, which made a curiously apt accompaniment to a busy London morning. “Will’s a big boy, and Bowen tends to hover over him.”
“Will’s a big boy who can hardly hear his own harp tunes. If trouble walked up behind him, he’d be ambushed, and he has only the one good fist.”
Hughie hadn’t served under Dylan for long, but he’d been a good soldier. Tireless, as the pipers and drummers had to be, and brave. He was also far too fond of drink for a man who often plied his trade in pubs and taverns. For all his cheerful ditties and pretty tunes, Hughie was not a happy man.
“Do you know something of Will’s whereabouts?” Dylan asked.
“If I did, and Will told me to keep my gob shut, I’d keep my gob shut.” Hughie played on in lilting triple meter. “Bowen’s biding with you now?”
“He has accepted a post as my house steward.” A solution of sorts, and one that had been sitting right under Dylan’s nose.
“A former quartermaster’s clerk will like all that ciphering and so forth. What should I tell Will if I come across him?”
“To stop being an idiot. Bowen lost his lodgings because Will piked off, and then Bowen lost his job at the livery. He’s worried about his brother.”
Hughie brought his little waltz to a conclusion, tipping his hat to a beldame who’d put a copper into the fiddle case.
