Page 77 of Miss Dignified
A world of male reproach lay in that single word. “Dorning is your cousin by marriage now, Dylan, and he told me he was willing to serve as my reinforcements. To take you to task.”
The kittens had worn themselves out and returned to their basket. They made a sweet, peaceful circle of sleeping felines, curled up with each other. For no earthly reason, the sight brought a lump to Lydia’s throat.
“Dorning thinks to offer me a good pummeling.”
“You’d pummel him worse. He’s arrogant, while you are…”
A ghost of a smile lit Dylan’s eyes. “I am…?”
“You have the courage of your convictions. You do not back down. You do not give quarter. Mr. Dorning strikes me as pragmatic. If he were losing a fight, he’d cry pax and try to charm his opponent into sharing a pint.”
The smile faded. “You would have made a good reconnaissance officer, my lady, and you are an excellent housekeeper, but it was wrong of me to ask you to continue in the post.”
Now he would ask to her leave, though Lydia dreaded a return to Shropshire. “I have not yet found my brother, and I, too, refuse to quit short of my objective. I know Marcus is here, and I know I must find him.”
Dylan rose and took the morning’s tray of raspberry tarts from the bread box. “I suspect William Brook found him.” He set the tray on the table. “Cider, tea, or milk?”
“Cider goes well with these tarts.” Then the import of Dylan’s words sorted itself in her mind. “William Brookfound Marcus?”
Dylan poured Lydia a mug of cider and resumed his seat across from her. “I suspect so, and your brother…”
“Marcus.”
“Lord Tremont,” Dylan said. “William served under him for a time. He would recognize Tremont easily. I will try to find your brother for you, Lydia, but am not among his admirers. I admit that nobody serving under Dunacre had it easy, and your brother was young, but I could not like or respect him.”
“You don’t like or respect me much at this point either.” She did not dare reject this offer of assistance, but she wanted to. Marcus had been a boy when he’d joined up, barely seventeen, with a single year of university to his name. How on earth was he to have known how to deal with the same commanding officer who’d made a game of putting Dylan’s life at risk?
“I respect you enormously,” Dylan said, “and I have disappointed you, so I will make right what I can, but time after time, Lord Tremont—whom you love fiercely—supported Dunacre’s lies, failed to stand up to him, and toadied to a monster. That truth will always be between us. I’m sorry for that, my lady. I’m sorry I judged you, and sorry my temper got the better of me. I’m exceedingly, abjectly sorry.”
He rose, kissed Lydia’s cheek, and left her sitting before a plate of raspberry tarts while battling the useless urge to cry.
The answer came to Dylan the next morning as he ate a solitary breakfast and recalled the kittens scrapping and wrestling in Lydia’s kitchen. The inspiration for their contention, besides plain feline high spirits, had been a small, hard pinecone. One kitten would bat the toy away, then chase after it. The other would pursue her sibling and try to reach the toy first.
Keep away.Boys played the same game in every schoolyard in Britain, and some people played a version of it in the ballrooms.
While Lydia had been recounting fears and worries that would have felled a lesser woman, some silent part of Dylan’s mind had been pondering the game of keep away. He’d kept away from Wales, unwilling for the war to be over until he’d satisfied himself that all the men he’d protected so poorly in Spain were well set up in London.
Until the cousins he’d also been unable to protect in Spain were comfortably settled.
Until he’d punished himself with homesickness for so long that even hearing his sisters speak Welsh nearly brought him to tears.
William Brook and his friends had been playing keep away in the stews too.
Dylan went to the library, got out a map of London, and recalled every time he’d been given “directions” by a helpful former soldier.
“There,” he said, tapping a short street in a warren of twisting byways near Seven Dials. The men had always directed himawayfrom that little street, and they’d been posted on every corner that led to that location.
“On picket duty,” Dylan muttered, “and I didn’t even notice.” He still had not sorted out why former soldiers would be so loyal to Tremont. About the only compliment his lordship could honestly be given was that he hadn’t been mean. Dunacre’s cruelty had appalled Tremont, but he—a belted, if young, earl—had done nothing to confront Dunacre or hold him accountable.
“You barely touched your breakfast.” Lydia stood in the library doorway, looking very much the housekeeper, wearing both a pristine cap and a full-length starched apron. “Are you well, sir?”
Dylan was not well. Hadn’t been well for years. “I know where your brother is.”
She put a hand to her throat. “You are certain?”
“All but. The situation wants some reconnoitering, and I will be about that now.” He’d need to change into less-conspicuous attire and most especially don a waistcoat that bore no golden daffodils.
“I am coming with you.”
