Page 73 of Miss Dignified
“The second purpose of such a letter is to allow me to make the case that you gave this letter to your commanding officer, who fell at Waterloo, if I recall. I will contend that if the letter surfaced, it was because your superior saw you fall on the battlefield before his own unfortunate demise. We’ll get some former soldiers to opine vaguely about your possible last moments, with a lot of references to smoke, noise, confusion, and a facial wound if need be, and you will be as good as dead in no time.”
For the first time, Wesley beheld true disapproval on Marcus’s handsome phiz. “You’re ghoulish, Wesley.”
The observation was irksome. What Wesley sought, in truth, was simply to preserve an old and respected lineage from complete ruin, while affording himself a well-deserved comfortable life. Papa was a bumbler, and Marcus was nearly simpleminded. Aunt Caro had taken on the role of frail blossom, and Lydia—who might have made a very fine earl—was lamentably female.
Wesley was willing to take on the thankless task of marriage to Lydia, which ought to be proof everlasting of his honorable nature. Of course, his consolation would be her settlements, but her consolation would be babies. A more than fair trade, assuming she survived her various travails.
Wesley was the only party in a position to preserve the Tremont title from disgrace, and he was surrounded by ingratitude.
“I am not ghoulish,” Wesley said, allowing a touch of true impatience to color his words. “I am determined to save your birthright. If it’s a new start you want, then a new start I will get you. I am nothing if not loyal, and you of all people should recall that.”
“I do recall that, and I thank you for it, but I cannot approve of deception in the general case.”
Wesley did not dignify that pomposity with a reply. Did Marcus but know it, Wesley would sleep much more soundly with Marcus out of the country. Marcus would get his remittance, eventually.
“I will write the letter you ask for, Wesley, though I doubt it will be sufficient proof of my demise.”
“It won’t be.” Wesley rose and tapped his hat onto his head. “But add some tearful testimony, let a bit more time go by, bribe a judge or two… we’ll see this thing done for you, Marcus. You can count on me.”
Marcus rose as well, gentleman that he was, even in this stinking rathole. “When can I have my money?”
The note of worry in his voice was ever so gratifying. “Get me my letter, and we’ll talk about money. I’m actually a bit flush right now, thanks to some luck, so the money won’t be a problem. Where do you expect to end up?”
The hook was set now. No money without a letter written in the deceased’s hand. The wonderful irony was, the money Marcus had asked for was technically his already.
“I thought I’d try my luck in Philadelphia,” Marcus said. “The city of brotherly love and all that.”
“Excellent choice,” Wesley replied, grinning. “First-rate choice. If you pay the shot, I will sally forth first. Would not do to be seen strolling the surrounds together. I’ll leave word for you here when I have some news, and you can drop a note to Sybil when the letter is ready for me to pick up.”
Wesley bowed—he did not shake hands—and winked at the buxom maid on his way out the door. The meeting could not have gone better, unless Marcus had expired in the common before half a dozen witnesses.
“Spring is advancing,” Tegan said, accepting the lemon ice Dylan handed her. “The sun isn’t quite warm, but the light is lovely.”
“Lovely and bright, before the leaves all unfurl,” Marged added, taking her barberry treat.
Bronwen had decided not to partake, which was of a piece with her generally quiet and reserved nature. Something about Bronnie’s mood, though, smacked of discontent. Dylan took the place beside her, leaving Marged and Tegan to share the next bench over.
“Raspberry?” Bronwen asked, aiming a glance at Dylan’s ice.
“Would you like one?”
“No, thank you.”
Perfectly polite. Annoyingly polite. Dylan had spent nearly a week squiring his sisters about Town. Lingering at the bookshops, driving out in the park, doing the pretty. All the while, Lydia had played the role of housekeeper, barely speaking to him, while his sisters never ceased their chattering, shopping, and hauling him about.
Dylan’s dwelling, which had acquired the quality of a haven in recent months, was no longerhomey. He took a spoonful of cold sweet and reviewed his situation while Marged and Tegan began debating the moral implications of the waltz.
Dylan’s sisters, whom he’d long missed, were biding under his roof. His cousins were calling frequently, and last night had been the first occasion of a family dinner in years, with all four London cousins and their spouses at the same table with the Welsh sisters.
Dylan should have felt a sense of satisfaction to be hosting a regimental dinner and one with a damned impressive menu too. He should have been relieved to know winter’s grip had been cast off once again, making life easier for his former subordinates in London.
He should be happy.
“Your ice is melting,” Bronwen observed, taking the bowl and spoon from him. “You never used to like raspberry.”
Raspberry was Lydia’s favorite. “Tastes change.”
“Yours apparently have. You never used to allow embroidery on your waistcoats. Undertakers were more fashionable than our sober brother. We concluded you were trying to be more Puritan than Papa was.”
