Page 82 of Miss Dignified
“And you found him.”
Dylan gazed down at her, his expression solemn even for him. “And you found me. What you said, about wearing too many disguises, was the truth. The only part of me I have known to be real since coming home is the loyal officer, the loyal cousin, but that is not the sum of me. I was a good brother once. I can be again, and, Lydia—”
“There you are!” Marged stood in the front doorway. “Dylan, turn loose of Mrs. Lovelace and, for pity’s sake, change into something presentable. You promised to take us back to the British Museum, and Bronnie is already muttering dire threats about brothers who cannot keep straight what day of the week it is. Mrs. Lovelace, good day. I’m sure you will be delighted to have us all out from underfoot for the day, and I, for one, am glad to see some decent weather.”
Marged remained in the doorway, hands on hips, all but tapping her foot like an impatient governess. The Powell sisters had recognized “Mrs. Lovelace” as Lady Lydia. Well, fine, then, Lady Lydia she would be.
“Miss Marged, if you would excuse your brother and me for another moment, our business is not yet concluded.”
That provoked a faint smile from Dylan. Marged looked from her brother to Lydia, sniffed, and withdrew behind a closed door.
“What are my orders, your ladyship?”
“Find out what Wesley is up to. I promise you this, Dylan, I will not marry that man. I will sign over my settlements to him, I will take Mama to live with Aunt Chloe, and I might even take ship with Marcus, but I cannot marry Wesley Glover.”Not when I love another.
She left that part unsaid. Dylan had forgiven her for her subterfuges, and she had forgiven him for judging her, but sometimes, forgiveness was not enough.
He took off his disreputable hat and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to go to the rubbishing British Museum.”
“Then refuse the assignment,” Lydia said. “Tell the ladies to recruit one of your cousins, to impose on Mr. Dorning, to put off the outing until you are feeling more the thing. Tell them you need to rest, that a pressing business matter has come up. They are not your commanding officers, Dylan—youare your commanding officer now—and the British Museum will sit at the exact same location tomorrow.”
Lydia kissed his cheek to soften the sting of her words. She longed to tell his sisters to leave him in peace, but Dylan would have to decide on his own when the time had come to muster out. Lydia took herself down the steps to the kitchen and left Dylan on the walkway, looking rumpled and thoughtful in the morning sun.
Chapter Sixteen
Dylan escorted his sisters to the blighted British Museum—also to the glovemaker’s, Gunter’s, and the parasol shop. Tippling parasols were apparently quite the rage in some circles.
Before he did any of that, though, he sent messages to his cousins, and even to Sycamore Dorning. As an afterthought, he included a message to Xavier Fournier, who seemed to have one foot on the genteel side of London’s merchant community and another in all manner of unexpected locations.
For two days, Dylan squired his sisters about, though all the while he sought a moment to finish his discussion with Lydia, even as Lydia apparently sought to avoid him.
He had judged her too harshly when he ought not to have judged her at all. She had tried to convey her situation to him, and he had been too intent on charming his way into her bed. She was within her rights to hare off to Shropshire or Aunt Chloe or any bedamned where she chose to go.
Or to send Dylan figuratively to Coventry.
“For you, sir,” Bowen said, putting a sealed missive on the blotter of the library desk.
The note was on heavy paper, in an elegant hand Dylan did not recognize, and the message was brief:WG will be at The Aurora Club this evening as my dinner guest. You will join us. Pressing business shall draw me away from the table before the meal concludes. Fournier.
TheFin Fournier was a work of art, all flourishes and swirls, though clearly recognizable. Fournier had gained membership in the club through Goddard’s good offices, though Dylan and MacKay had also supported the application.
A favor returned, which made the assistance trustworthy.
“Will there be a reply?” Bowen asked. He was looking more the part of the dapper man of business, less the gaunt and ragged former soldier. Lydia’s good care and good meals had done that.
“Not a reply,” Dylan said, “though I will send more notes to my cousins.” Dylan still could not quite think of Dorning as a cousin, but he’d send word to him too. “I will go out tonight, supper at the Aurora.”
“Should I put the men on alert, Captain?”
“No need,” Dylan said. “This is a civil meal among gentlemen, and my family will take sentry duty. And, Bowen, you may tell the men that I bear Lord Tremont no ill will. He need not hide from me, and they need not worry that I will call him out.”
Bowen looked about the library as if a lot of musty old books had acquired fascinating new qualities.
“The men will be glad to hear that, sir.”
A silence arose that begged to be filled with truth. Dylan considered that his sisters knew Lydia’s situation, his cousins knew—he’d told them—and Bowen was no fool.
“Tremont is Mrs. Lovelace’s younger brother,” Dylan said. “She is very concerned for him, and that means…”
