Page 51 of Miss Dignified
He rose and bowed elegantly, then sauntered from the room.
“By God,” Dorning said, “he left his winnings. That was a splendid exit. If he keeps that up, I might have to like him.”
“Ann likes him,” Rye said. “They talk about sauces and spices by the hour. Jeanette would probably enjoy him too.”
MacKay collected Fournier’s abandoned cards. “Dorcas says he is something of a fairy godfather among the émigrés. They try not to abuse his generosity, but when somebody is arrested or unexpectedly widowed, the family turns to him. He does not protect the guilty or indulge the profligate, but he does what he can.”
MacKay’s wife was something of a crusader regarding London’s downtrodden. “Dorcas has crossed paths with him?” Goddard asked.
“Charitable committees are one way a cit or émigré can gain entrée to a more genteel circle.” Alasdhair shuffled the deck into a neat stack and put the cards aside. “Dorcas includes duchesses among her acquaintances thanks to those committees. Gives a man pause, to think of all those ladies putting their heads together. What shall we do about Powell?”
“Nothing,” Dorning said. “If I read him correctly, he hasn’t asked for any aid, and that all but ties our hands.”
Ourhands. Dorning was a cousin only by virtue of his marriage to Jeanette, but he’d apparently decided not to quibble over details.
“Right,” Rye said. “We are honor-bound to do nothing. That settles it. Gentlemen, I will bid you good night.”
“What do we do with the winnings?” MacKay asked, rising. “We did not play for farthing points.”
Not in front of the Frenchman they hadn’t. More fool them.
“We donate the funds in Fournier’s name to whatever charity Dorcas suggests will most directly benefit the émigrés,” Rye said, “and send the receipt for the donation to Fournier, along with a case of my best champagne.”
“All very honorable,” Dorning said. “Jeanette will approve.” He stood, stretched, and yawned. “Shall I walk out with you, Goddard?”
MacKay rose. “You fool nobody, Dorning. You will take the shortest route home, the same as I will, and Goddard will repair straight to the Coventry, because that’s where his Ann is at this hour.”
“Because,” Rye said, holding the door for the others, “doing nothing to interfere with Powell’s situation means we each embark on a lengthy and immediate consultation with our wives.”
“For starters,” Dorning said. “And if the situation grows dire, I will even consult a sister-in-law or two, or perhaps—as a last result—a few brothers. Don’t quote me on that.”
MacKay smacked Dorning on the back of the head, Dorning elbowed MacKay, and Rye shoved them each on the shoulder.
“March, you idiots. Annie was making profiteroles for tonight’s buffet, and I am famished for sweets.”
That earned him a pair of reciprocal shoves, and then each man was off to consult with his respective commanding officer.
Chapter Eleven
Dylan rose to awareness with the single thought that he was safe. Not in camp. Not on campaign. Warm, cozy, and secure, with an operatic robin somewhere nearby heralding the start of a new day.
A spring morning without birdsong was a morning when the French lurked in the undergrowth.
His next thought was that roses never bloomed this early in the year, and then the woman around whom he was snuggled wiggled her backside lazily against his erection, and his mind went still.
Lydia.
Lydia’s bed.
Lydia’s bedroom.
He’dspent the nightwith his housekeeper.
While one part of him allowed that it had been a spectacularly lovely night, and he’d never awoken feeling quite so refreshed, another part of him was court-martialing his witless self for having done just that.
The sun wasn’t yet risen, and Dylan had some hope he could tiptoe up to his own quarters unobserved. He eased from the bed, drew the covers around Lydia’s bare, delectable, entirely too kissable shoulders, and silently pulled on his breeches and shirt.
“Don’t go.” Lydia hadn’t opened her eyes, and Dylan doubted she was awake.
