Page 61 of Miss Dignified
Lydia sat back, having put only her king and queen on the board. “They are an old and respected firm. I conclude that is a euphemism for a collection of doddering nincompoops. I am most unhappy that they broached the topic of Mama’s finances with her brother-in-lawat all, and they spoke to me as if I should be grateful to have a meddling uncle nosing about matters that are none of his business.”
The captain rose, went to the sideboard, and poured a scant inch of libation into each of two glasses. “Does your mother have brothers or uncles on her side of the family who could deal with the attorneys on her behalf?” He passed Lydia a drink, which turned out to be brandy.
Very good brandy. “She does not. Mama was an heiress, and the firm handling her money is her family’s firm. Uncle has nothing to do with them, and Mama gets regular reports. Uncle’s prying served no purpose.”
The brandy was a comforting blend of subtle aromas and smooth fire. A lady did not take strong spirits—in theory. In reality, she nipped from a flask in the hunt field, swilled patent remedies that made strong spirits look like nursery punch by comparison, and downed toddies to ward off the chill year-round.
She also, if she was Lydia, drank brandy because Dylan Powell offered it to her at the end of a trying day.
“So your mother gets regular written accountings from the solicitors by post, but you felt you had to confirm those reports?”
“Yes.”
The captain held out his hand to Lydia. “You are not in the mood for mock battles with toy soldiers. Come sit by the fire and tell me of your difficulties. I got precisely nowhere in the stews today, but I did confirm my theory that the men are purposely lying to me.”
“You spent all afternoon confirming a theory?”
“Theories can be wrong. When the French retreated over the mountains, they were desperate to know through which passes we would follow them. We’d bribe informants to convey supposedly false information to the French, the French would out-bribe us and get what they thought was the truth, but we of course hadmostlylied to our informants, and so forth. Appearances can be deceiving.”
Housekeepers could be deceiving, and yet, there never seemed to be a good time for Lydia to unburden herself to the captain. She was either too angry, too muddled, or too impassioned.
She had to try anyway. “I asked Mama’s solicitors if they’d heard any rumors regarding that other matter—the missing earl—how his estate is getting on in his absence, any legal gossip concerning the handling of the property or its revenue. They gave me what amounted to another pat on the head.”
And had all but shoved her out the door immediately thereafter. Sigafoose had been similarly unforthcoming about how one declared a peer dead and whether the lawyers employed by the Tremont estate were being paid regularly for their services.
That combination of rudeness and reticence spoke volumes. Uncle was proceeding with his rotten plans, and Lydia could do nothing to stop him—unless she could find Marcus. Her own efforts thus far had been unavailing, earning her nothing but orders to retreat and a bouquet of silly flowers.
The captain led Lydia to a comfortable sofa situated before the library’s fire. More than once, she’d found Dylan dozing on this sofa, sprawled full length with his sister Marged’s sketchbook clutched to his chest. Boots off, coat off, he’d been the picture of a gentleman in casual repose.
Lydia had always left him in peace. The last sentiment Dylan Powell would admit to was homesickness, but studying those sketches left him looking wistful and lonely, even in sleep.
“If you had all the troops,” he said, coming down beside her, “all the horse and cannon in the world at your command, any resource you needed, how would you foil your uncle’s meddling?”
Lydia did not need all the infantry, cavalry, and artillery in the world, she needed only her brother. Holding Dylan’s hand wasn’t exactly a need, but to do so comforted nonetheless.
“I cannot best him, only the missing earl can. I have to hope that Lord Tremont lives and that he’s in London.”
Marcus had erred badly when he’d sent those flowers. First, he’d expected Lydia to meekly slink away on the say-so of a younger brother. Second, the fact of Marcus’s survival had become an unassailable truth. Lydia had sent word to that effect to Mama through Aunt Chloe, using a prearranged reference to having found the perfect bonnet.
Marcus wasn’t much given to deviousness—or he hadn’t been—while Lydia was becoming adept at it.
She was tempted to plead fatigue and put an end to the evening. Instead, she remained on the sofa, casting around for the next particle of truth she could offer Dylan. The drapes had been closed for the night, the door was shut to keep in the fire’s heat, and the library had become a cozy haven at the end of the day.
“The flowers were from him?” Dylan asked, looping an arm around her shoulders, “from Tremont?”
Lydia nodded, both dismayed and relieved that Dylan could reach that conclusion, but then, a reconnaissance officer excelled at observation and deduction.
“How did you know?”
“I guessed because, as you said, the men who’ve come to the back door regularly enough to feel inspired to such a gesture can’t afford flowers. You were not pleased to receive them, and you destroyed the note rather than keep it as a memento of a thoughtful gesture.”
What else had Dylan surmised on the basis of passing observations? “Tremont told me he was safe and ordered me to go home.”
“Which leads you to conclude he is not safe, and you must search all the harder.”
Lydia allowed herself the comfort of Dylan’s embrace, drawing up her knees and curling against him. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally. Tired of trying to solve the family’s problems, tired of polishing silver, tired most of all of lying.
“I tell myself,” she said, “that his lordship can have no concept of the hardship his absence has created for others, no notion that his own family might betray him. He left an uncle in charge of Tremont, and that uncle like a second father to him, the uncle’s son was Tremont’s best friend.”
