Page 69 of Miss Dignified
“The captain cares about his men.”
Mr. Dorning offered her another section of orange. “It’s quite good, and you, Lady Lydia, have the look of a woman who skipped her breakfast.”
She’d been too nervous to eat. Too damned hopeful. Lydia took the orange section and then realized that Mr. Dorning had addressed her by her honorific.
“You recognize me.”
“And you recognized me. I have not called at Powell’s household, and yet, you know exactly who I am. MacKay pointed you out to me as we rode past the market earlier in the week. Dare I hope that a waltz shared a few years ago left an indelible impression?”
He munched his orange, not a care in the world, while Lydia wanted to smash the fruit on his handsome head.
“We never waltzed. A quadrille perhaps. They go on forever.”
“We were introduced, my lady, back in my eligible days, and we danced. I recall you because you did not chatter, did not flirt, and did not cling to my arm when I led you back to your auntie. I was intrigued by your indifference, fickle creature that I am, and by the fact that we are both the offspring and siblings of earls. Now you are housekeeper to the royal meddler, and I am intrigued again.”
This was not good, but given how the day had started, Mr. Dorning’s excellent memory ought not to have been a surprise.
“The captain has been apprised of my family connections. I doubt I will remain in his employ much longer.” A few weeks at most, long enough for Dylan to hire a replacement. Standards could go to blazes.
“You note that Powell cares about his men,” Mr. Dorning said, sitting back and crossing his booted feet. “He cares about his cousins, about his sisters… He’s a paragon, but I suspect our paragon has not gone on as he ought with you. Last I heard, he was all but courting you, and now you are glaring daggers at oranges.”
The orange was good. Dorning had been right about that. “We are not courting.”
“Shall I offer the captain a lesson in manners?”
The offer was both pointless and touching. “He’d beat you silly, Mr. Dorning.”
“No, he would not. True, he bested the French, but I learned to hold my own against six older brothers and two sisters. The French were so many pesky midges by comparison, I promise you. Let me help, my lady. You need reinforcements, and I am apparently the only option to hand. Powell does not particularly care for me, but that’s of no matter when one is family. My wife would like to see him happy.”
“My brother is a complete gudgeon.” Lydia should feel disloyal for saying that, except it was the truth. “Lord Tremont is biding somewhere in London when we need him back in Shropshire.”
A subtle shift came over Mr. Dorning. His posture did not change—he was still idling at his leisure on the bench—but he was more alert.
“My older sister went into service,” Mr. Dorning said. “She declared that if she was to drudge for a pack of louts—meaning her devoted brothers—she would at least be paid for it.”
“Lady Jacaranda…” Lydia said, mentally reviewing Debrett’s. “She married Worth Kettering.” Lord Trysting, now.
“She marriedher employer,” Sycamore said. “I was too young at the time to do more than miss my sister and fret because she was angry with me, but I am well placed to aid you now. If you need somewhere to stay, funds to leave London, or a certain captain brought up to scratch, I am your man.”
Lydia wanted to hold on to her anger, wanted to stomp and storm all the way back to Shropshire and stomp and storm yet more when she arrived home. Sycamore Dorning’s offer—his meddling—was deflating at least some of her ire.
“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Dorning, but I need neither coin nor lodging. The captain and I have reached a truce of sorts.”
“A ceasefire to deal with the wounded is not a truce, my lady. Think about what I said. Use the ceasefire to gather reinforcements and call upon me in that capacity if you need to. Loutish brother or dunderheaded captain, I will happily trounce either one.”
“No trouncing,” Lydia said. “I cannot find my brother, and if you lay a hand on the captain, I will tattle to your lady wife and the captain’s male cousins as well.”
Dorning finished his orange and tossed the peels to the pigeons ever present in a London marketplace.
“If you don’t want me to trounce the captain, and you don’t want me to intervene on your behalf, perhaps more than reinforcements, you need to patch up whatever has gone amiss with your favorite paragon?”
Mr. Dorning rose, bowed, and strode off, while the pigeons swarmed the discarded orange peels. Lydia sat on the bench for a good twenty minutes, pondering Mr. Dorning’s suggestion—that she needed to patch matters up with the captain.
Simply not possible, and if ever there was an excuse for tears, that might be it. Lydia instead tended to her shopping and arranged for most of the produce to be delivered to the captain’s house before noon.
Chapter Fourteen
“I came as soon as I could.” Wesley whipped off a stylish high-crowned beaver and ran his hand through artfully curled hair. “Clever of you, to send word through Sybil.”
