Page 57 of Miss Dignified
“And I thank you for trying, but it doesn’t feel dangerous yet.” The memory of Bowen’s battered face rose in Dylan’s mind. “Not seriously dangerous.”
“A bullet’s not seriously dangerous if it misses you,” MacKay said. “What of your housekeeper and her secrets? Are those dangerous?”
Beyond the parlor window, a groom steered the pony-trap around from the mews and parked it before the house. The shaggy creature in the traces would make slow progress in Town traffic, but Lydia apparently felt confident of her ability to drive London streets.
“She’s dealing with a family squabble. The scion of the house nipped off to Canada or ran afoul of the law. Nobody really knows his fate, but they are happy to divide up the estate in his absence.” Dylan was reluctant to disclose exactly who the scion was. MacKay had dealt with Lord Tremont for a time, and Goddard had known of him. Neither cousin had formed a good impression of his lordship.
“A housekeeper whose family has an estate to divide up.” Goddard could not have spoken with greater disinterest. “Be careful, Powell. Be exceedingly, relentlessly careful.”
“I always am.”
MacKay smiled. “You spent the night inLydia’sbed, Cousin. That is not the behavior of a careful man.”
No, it wasn’t, and Dylan didn’t particularly care that it wasn’t, which only underscored Goddard’s warning twice over. Now was no time to be stupid, because Dylan very much did consider himself Lydia Lovelace’s intended.
This explained—mostly—why, when she climbed into the pony-trap ten minutes later, Dylan discreetly followed her halfway across London and watched while she entered the offices of Sigafoose and Sigafoose.
As far as Dylan knew, that firm dealt only in civil matters and handled only clients of considerable social standing. He could hear Powell, Goddard, and even Dorning mentally reminding him that gentry would have to be very wealthy indeed to wrangle representation from the brothers Sigafoose.
Dylan turned his steps north and west, back to the part of Town where the only standing to be had came from quick wits, a sharp knife, and a pair of swift fists.
Chapter Twelve
“Captain Powell won’t give up,” Willaim Brook said. “He won’t quit.”
Marcus had devoted considerable thought to Powell’s recent penchant for ambling about the stews. For most of an afternoon, Powell had sat nursing a pint in the snug of one of Marcus’s most lucrative taverns. He’d asked after William Brook, presenting himself as an old army comrade, and this time, the publican had disavowed any knowledge.
Continued silence would come at a cost, and Marcus’s means were exceedingly limited.
“Powell hasn’t made any progress,” Marcus said. “If he continues to lurk in doorways and stroll about aimlessly, he’ll find himself missing his coat and a few teeth.” Marcus did not want such a mishap on his conscience. Powell was an honorable man and a good man.
Unfortunately, he was also as tenacious as an underfed hound on the scent of a rabbit. Then too, the men would take it very much amiss if Marcus’s games resulted in harm to their captain, and the good opinion of the men had saved Marcus’s life many times over.
“I don’t like leading the captain on a dance, sir.” Brook wasn’t standing at attention today. He was pacing back and forth before the cold hearth. Dunacre had been a pacer, and Marcus had learned to hate—to abhor, despise, loathe, and revile—the results of his pacing.
Dunacre would pace himself into high dudgeon over some imagined slight—the wording of an order, the seating at an officers’ banquet—and the result, unless something or someone distracted him, was misery for all in his ambit.
Powell had rarely witnessed the pacing, but he’d frequently earned Dunacre’s ire. Marcus had eventually puzzled out that Powell antagonized his superior by design and had taken the resulting punishment rather than let Dunacre’s temper rain down on the men.
Powell was brave, for which Marcus had both esteemed and resented him.
And Marcus did not pace. He remained in his rickety chair behind his dilapidated desk and forbade himself to think of Tremont, Mama, or the mischief he and Wesley used to get up to.
“Powell may not even be looking for you,” Marcus said. “He’s asking after you, but in a casual way, probably as a pretext. He’s canny like that.” Marcus was not canny. Never would be. “Your brother can’t tromp about all day searching for you, so Powell takes on that thankless task, but in truth…”
Brook came to a halt at the grimy window. “Sir?”
“In truth, Powell might well be looking for me. Why else would Lydia still bide in his household unless she’s set Powell to looking for me?” Brook had brought word that Lydia yet remained in London and had shown no signs of returning to Shropshire. She’d received Marcus’s note, and her Latin was in excellent repair. She was, as usual, thinking independently, at which she excelled.
Brook shot Marcus a look over his shoulder. “So have a quiet little reunion with your sister, explain the situation to her ladyship, and then send her home. And as for you… Italy is cheap, I’m told.”
A substantial portion of polite society was living cheaply on the Continent, particularly the former officers, heirs presumptive, and younger sons whom Marcus was avoiding at all costs. That Brook would suggest Marcus leave the country was indicative of waning patience on the part of a soldier kept on watch too long.
“I can earn my bread simply by reading and writing here,” Marcus said. “I’m an oddity in the stews, but not a foreigner. In Rome or Lisbon, I would have no ability to blend in.” No ability to hide, to state the disgraceful truth.
Why must Lydia still be so damnably stubborn?
Marcus felt the old frustration welling, the frustration of a man who was not clever, who had no gift for quick stratagems. He was a practical sort content to follow the rules—usually. If people could not read or write, he could do that for them and be paid a pittance for the task. That sort of transaction made sense to him.
