Page 33 of Miss Dignified
“Are you finished, Dorning?”
Dorning smacked him on the arm. “That’s the spirit. Chin up, soldier on. It’s merely your heart that’s in peril. No risk to anything of value. If Jeanette asks, tell her I tried and met with an absolute granite wall of Welsh pride. Thank you for a pleasant evening, Powell. I’ll give Jeanette your regards.”
Dorning sauntered away into the night, swinging his walking stick and whistling some jaunty tune.
Dylan turned for home, moving quickly as he mentally set about cataloging everything he knew regarding Lydia Lovelace’s life prior to her joining his household.
She’d not disclosed the name of her village.
She’d never mentioned any family member by name, other than to admit a distant connection with that idiot Marcus, Lord Tremont.
She’d never paid any calls or received any callers that Dylan knew of, and the only mail she received was a rare note from an auntie in Oxfordshire—not Shropshire.
Dylan’s steps slowed, and he was seized by a sudden urge to pummel the hell out of Sycamore Dorning.
Chapter Eight
“The captain played cards until about midnight, my lord. Walked partway home with Mr. Dorning, what owns the Coventry and is married to the captain’s cousin.”
William Brook still had the habit of standing at attention when he made a report. Marcus, Earl of Tremont, hated that mannerism. The war with all its inane posturing was over, and the information was the same whether a man stood, lay on the floor, or slouched.
“And then?” Marcus asked.
Brook continued to stare unwaveringly at a water stain on the opposite wall. “Andy Bean said the captain went home, let hisself into the house, and took hisself upstairs to his own bedroom.”
As a younger man, Marcus had felt awkward having to rely on a lot of reprobates and scalawags to keep him informed—also to keep him alive—but they had proven to be wily and loyal reprobates when he’d needed them most.
And he was in no position to judge anybody. “No light appeared in the kitchen windows?” Or in the windows of the housekeeper’s parlor?
“Nary a light belowstairs, sir. Straight up to bed, candles snuffed thirty minutes later. Appears the captain enjoys a clear conscience, and as much as he’s been pokin’ about lately, he deserves his rest.”
Brook’s loyalties were divided, which was understandable. His brother Bowen now worked for Dylan Powell, and Powell was fiercely protective of his former subordinates.
Was he protective of Lydia, indifferent to her, or something else entirely? “When did his housekeeper go to bed?”
“Mrs. Lovelace turned in a couple hours before the captain came home.”
Lydia’s typical bedtime, though she’d stayed up later than usual the previous night. Why? She was looking for Marcus in London, asking discreet questions of the men, but why conduct that search as a housekeeper in Captain Dylan’s Powell’s domicile, of all places? Why leave Shropshire at all?
The whole situation was far too puzzling for a mere disgraced earl to fathom.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, my lord, there’s something else you need to know.”
Marcus had asked, ordered, reminded, and begged Brook not to refer to him asmy lord.“My uncle is trying to have me declared dead.” A clerk in the solicitors’ office had passed along that much in exchange for a bit of coin. He’d thought Marcus a clerk from the offices of the countess’s solicitors, but heavens above… if a man would betray a legal confidence for a few shillings, what would he betray for a few pounds?
Brook’s eyes-front, blank expression turned quizzical. “I thought you wanted to be dead?”
“I want to be disappeared,” Marcus replied. “I thought I still had some time before I must choose whether to be dead. It hasn’t been seven years, and that is the minimum necessary to create a rebuttable presumption of my demise.”
“Whatever that means.” Brook ambled across the room to crack a window. “Goddamn chimney fumes will kill you, sir.”
“So will the goddamn cold.”
“This ain’t cold. Cold’s behind us for the nonce. The flue ain’t drawin’ proper, and that’s a worse hazard than fresh air.”
There was no fresh air in London outside of Hyde Park. Brook was right, though—the chimney likely hadn’t been cleaned since Queen Anne had held court, just one of the many charms of life in St. Giles. Before residing in London, Marcus had had only the vaguest notion that dirty flues were a health hazard—in addition to being a fire hazard—and not the first inkling how to remedy the problem.
An earl’s heir had to be among the most useless, ignorant creatures ever to strut about the earth. “What is this other news I need to know?”
