Page 78 of Miss Dignified
“Lydia, I will be on foot in one of the worst slums London offers, which is saying a great deal.”
She advanced on him, figurative bayonet clearly fixed. “Marcus ismy brother. He will be well aware that you hold him in no esteem whatsoever. What do you think he will do if he sees you marching on his domicile? He might well leave England, and then I will never find him, because you could not be content to lead the charge. You had to go alone into enemy territory, the same as always.”
For a sheltered lady turned housekeeper, she had phenomenal aim. “I am trying to keep you safe, and I have said I will find him for you. I mean Tremont no harm, despite his military record.”
Lydia kept on marching until she and Dylan were nearly toe to toe. “Marcus is a dead shot. He practiced and practiced until he felt he lived up to my father’s legacy as a marksman. I am trying to keep you safe, too, but you are too dunderheaded, stubborn, andmaleto contemplate your own mortality.”
Her fragrance assailed him, all rosy and fresh, a soft counterpoint to the frustration in her gaze.
“Tremont could not hit a stationary target at point-blank range if somebody loaded and aimed the pistol for him.” Marcus had seen Tremont bungle an easy shot any number of times and nearly put a bullet through his own foot as well.
“I am his sister, and I know my brother, and I am coming with you.” Lydia pivoted, giving Dylan her back. “Please, Captain, for the sake of all concerned, I must accompany you.”
She clearly believed her brother to be handy with a pistol, though Dylan knew otherwise. She also had a point that Tremont would hardly expect Dylan to be making a social call.
“Dress in your oldest cloak and most battered hat. Bring no coin. If I give you an order, you obey instantly and without question. Before we leave the garden, put some loose soil in the pocket of your cloak to fling in the eyes of any assailant.”
She nodded. “I will meet you at the back door in fifteen minutes, but you should eat something if we’re to hike halfway across London.”
Spoken like an experienced officer. “I must change as well, so let’s say thirty minutes.”
Dylan heeded Lydia’s guidance, stopping by the breakfast parlor to finish a cold plate of eggs, toast, and bacon, then choosing attire that would be considered finery in St. Giles and fit for rags in Mayfair. When Lydia met him at the back door, she wore a patched, wrinkled cloak that was nonetheless clean. Her millinery was a plain straw hat such most ladies would not wear beyond their own garden.
“My pocket is half full of dirt,” she said, preceding Dylan out the door. Her tone suggested any thief stupid enough to try to pick that pocket would not live long to regret it.
“I would offer my arm like a proper escort,” Dylan said as they set off in an easterly direction, “but I need my hands free. If I tell you to run—”
“I will pelt off like a rabbit pursued by hellhounds. You even walk differently in those clothes. No military bearing, no brisk stride.”
Dylan had taken a moment to dirty his hands with some ashes from the hearth and had streaked yesterday’s limp cravat with a hint of ash as well.
“Reconnaissance is largely a matter of becoming who and what people expect to see, knowing which piece of small talk—the weather, the price of bread, the latest royal folly—is the one they expect to hear. You, for example, should allow yourself to show all the weariness you feel. No more maintaining appearances where we’re going.”
The neighborhood had already changed, from genteel if modest homes, to dingier shops and narrower streets.
“I am not weary,” Lydia said, “not in the sense you mean. I am worried.”
“Then show that, because to blend in believably, some of your disguise must be genuine.”
They walked the length of two more streets before Lydia spoke again. “I hate that you know these games, that you know so well how to hide in plain sight. I suspect that the stratagems you employed at war to keep you alive have only led you astray now that we’re at peace. You wore so many disguises that you no longer recognize your own reflection.”
Dylan could not afford to focus on her words in the dodgy surrounds they’d reached, but Lydia had put her finger on something that merited further thought. Of necessity, he’d learned the habit of dissembling while at war, and that habit had, indeed, kept him—and often his men—alive.
They walked for another twenty minutes before Dylan slowed his pace yet further. “The only lodging to be had on this street is in that building, the one housing the gin shop. I’m told the rooms above are humble, but as close to clean as—”
Lydia jerked his arm violently, pulling him around to face her. “That man coming out of the door beside the gin shop and stuffing a folded piece of paper into his breast pocket is my cousin Wesley.”
Dylan stepped nearer, as if trying to quietly placate a woman who’d taken umbrage at something he’d said.
“Dressed like that, your cousin is all but begging to have his pocket picked and his clothing stripped from his back. Do we see him escorted back to safe territory, or assume he was calling on your brother, and Tremont is thus at home?”
“Wesley is looking entirely too pleased with himself. Leave him to the pickpockets, and let’s find Marcus.”
The rest was fairly easy. Half of the rooms above the gin shop had no doors, and being young and fit, Marcus would have gone for the cheaper lodging on the highest floor. Dylan stopped a boy on the last landing and asked which was the fancy gent’s room. The lad pointed to a closed door and scampered off before Dylan could pass him a coin.
“Smart fellow,” Dylan muttered, rapping on the door. “Glover.” Even Tremont wouldn’t bother with a title in this neighborhood. “You have callers.”
Sounds on the other side of the door indicated an occupant moving around. “A moment.”
