Page 27 of Miss Dignified
Dylan had learned to deal with the tears, because when a lady could not cry for her deceased swain, when a soldier no longer reacted to the death of a friend, then trouble worse than sorrow was afoot.
Nothing in his experience had prepared him for the sight of Lydia Lovelace, sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, her cheeks damp with tears.
“Don’t s-scold me,” she said, her usual starch barely in evidence. “If you scold, lecture, or order me about just now, I will not answer for the consequences.”
Two candles burned on the bedside table, a taper and a carrying candle. In the flickering shadows, Dylan’s housekeeper looked both fierce and vulnerable, probably much as the damned kittens had first appeared to her.
She was not a kitten. Dylan lowered himself to the floor, an undertaking that his hips protested, and took the place beside Mrs. Lovelace, his back braced against the bedframe.
“The wee beast deserted her post in the kitchen?”
“I c-could not find her.”
“Ah.”
The rumbling grew louder.
“What does that mean? Ah?”
Dylan stroked a finger over the top of the kitten’s head. “It means, when we can’t find those we care about, we become a bit unhinged. I cannot find William Brook.” He hadn’t meant to say that, but then, Lydia Lovelace probably hadn’t meant to succumb to tears on the floor of his bedroom, much less allow him to find her in such a state.
“You were out looking for Mr. Brook tonight?”
The kitten went on purring, oblivious to the upheaval her wanderings had caused. “Out wasting time. I came across Hughie Porter earlier today, and his comments suggested Brook was in hiding. That’s plausible. A fellow runs up a few debts to the wrong people, or angers some girl’s father, and hiding becomes a sound strategy.”
“Hughie is the fiddler with the sad eyes?”
“The very one, though I would have said he has shrewd eyes.” Dylan produced a handkerchief and passed it over. An exchange followed, wherein he was handed a kitten, and Mrs. Lovelace took his linen.
What was he to do with…? The kitten rubbed her head against Dylan’s chin.
“One can be both shrewd and sad.” Mrs. Lovelace dabbed at her cheeks. “I could not find Mab.”
“And you left my rooms for last when you searched.” No doubt after spending the whole day turning the house upside down.
She nodded. “I was reluctant to intrude.”
Dylan’s thigh touched Mrs. Lovelace’s. She did not seem to notice as she finished blotting her eyes with his handkerchief, then took a sniff of the wrinkled fabric.
“I arguably broke my word to the men tonight,” Dylan said. “I was in the stews, alone, after dark.”
Mrs. Lovelace regarded him steadily, tears adding a sheen to her gaze. “Why disobey orders like that?”
Dylan was tempted to make up a tale, about catching wind of a rumor, hunkering down in a dodgy tavern, and patiently standing watch until the establishment had closed. That lie would flatter him, but subtly insult him and Mrs. Lovelace too.
“I got lost. I don’t know some parts of London well, and the men have extracted a promise from me that I won’t venture into those neighborhoods alone after dark. I’m to have their escort.”
“But most of your men are settled, aren’t they? Some will come by for a meal, but I suspect they are checking up on you as much as they are filling their bellies.”
Interesting theory. Dylan nudged her with his shoulder. “Or they are flirting with my pretty housekeeper.”
“I have it on the best authority that I am not pretty.”
“You are not a schoolgirl trussed up in silly frocks, your hair tormented into ringlets, your every thought bent on marriage or gossip. I rather like that about you, but who said you aren’t pretty?”
Lydia flattened his handkerchief against her thigh and smoothed out the wrinkles. “This is not my first sojourn in London.”
He liked sitting on the floor next to her, exchanging confidences. He liked that she trusted him, liked that she wasn’t bustling off to dust or polish or make a list. Jeanette’s words came back to him, about the powerful tonic of being listened to and heard.
