Page 7 of Miss Dignified
Goddard popped a sprig of parsley into his mouth. “This was a random beating such as anybody traveling alone on London’s streets might receive after dark. Dunacre is dead, and you have grown fanciful. Go home to Wales.”
Not until the men were settled. Dylan had promised them that much, and they had relied on his promises. He’d also promised himself not to abandon his cousins until they were settled, which they appeared to be—blissfully so.
“Dunacre is dead,” Dylan said slowly, “but where is Marcus, Lord Tremont?”
Goddard scowled at his wineglass, then took a sip and resumed demolishing his doves. “What brings him to mind? Tremont struck me as young, sentimental, and stupid.”
“He was Dunacre’s toady, but nobody seems to know what’s become of him.”
“At least try the wine. Fournier sent it over, and he does a fine job with the clarets. I fail to see a connection between a particularly inept young officer whose name apparently should have appeared on the casualty lists and some bad luck for Brook.”
“Somebody has asked around at Horse Guards about Tremont. An inquiry by mail, supposedly from his family. Then William Brook disappears, and now Bowen has been beaten.”
“Do you plan to eat those potatoes?”
Not while they were billing and cooing at each other. “No.”
Goddard reached across the table to scoop the avian sculpture from Dylan’s plate. “Good food should not go to waste, and you are sorely in need of a wife.”
“Mrs. Lovelace takes adequate care of my domicile. Just because you and MacKay are awash in connubial joy doesn’t mean marriage will yield the same result for me.”
“If marriage merely stops you from sliding into bitterness and lunacy, I will account your union a success.”
“You didn’t serve under Dunacre.” Alasdhair had for a time, and he’d had sense enough to accept the first transfer that had come along.
“You no longer do. You’d best recall that.”
“If you hear of anything, if your urchins hear of anything, you will let me know?”
“I will ask them to keep a sharp eye out for William Brook. I draw the line at watching for Dunacre’s ghost.”
“As do I.” Dylan saw that ghost in his dreams often enough that he need not hunt for shades while awake. “If the sisters come to Town, I will expect your support, Goddard.”
“You will have it, and I’m sure Alasdhair and Dorcas will also aid your cause, provided you aren’t occupying a private room at Bedlam by then.”
Dylan sampled the claret and rose. “I served under Dunacre. A suite in hell would be a comfortable billet compared to that. My regards to your dear wife.”
Goddard stood, his gaze full of consternation. “You ate practically nothing. My dear wife will be equal parts offended and concerned.”
Goddard’s dear wife was running the entire kitchen, which even at this late hour was a barely controlled riot of food preparation.
“The food is too pretty to eat. I’ll bid you good night.”
“You could stay here,” Goddard said. “Or take a bunk at my house. You don’t have to march across London at this hour in this weather.”
Dylan thought of Brook, aching and bruised as he spent the night on a footman’s cot, and he thought of Lydia Lovelace, warning him not to track mud into her back hallway.
“I want to properly question Brook over breakfast, and the walk home will give me time to think.”
“Time to brood. Welshmen are the worst for brooding.”
“Don’t let MacKay hear you say that. He prides himself on his brooding.” Or he had before marrying his Dorcas.
Dylan let himself out into the alley that ran behind the Coventry and slogged home through a cold, mizzling rain. He was careful to wipe his feet before he presumed to set a boot upon the floor of Mrs. Lovelace’s back hallway, and he resisted the urge to pet the sleeping kittens nestled in their basket on the hearth.
He made his way to bed, already rehearsing the questions he’d put to Brook in the morning, but in the morning, Bowen Brook was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Three
