Page 83 of Miss Dignified
Bowen turned his inspection on Dylan, his expression conveying only curiosity. “Yes, sir?”
“That means I have been an ass, and the only way I know to make amends to Mrs. Lovelace is to put things right with her brother. He’s determined to quit England under some cloud of scandal, and there’s a cousin stirring the pot, and a title involved, and a bumbling uncle with his fingers in the family coffers… all quite muddled.”
Dylan was explaining himself to a subordinate, which in the army never happened, except… He was no longer in the hellishing, rubbishing army and never would be again. Thank the merciful powers.
Stating that to himself changed nothing. He’d sold his commission years ago, but acknowledging the truth—the war was over, the time had come to muster out—left him feeling buoyant with determination. Lydia’s brother was also apparently still fighting old battles, or perhaps he’d been taken prisoner by old scandal. Dylan would rescue the earl, and hope Lydia could sort matters from there.
“You’ll have to go carefully, sir,” Bowen said. “You’re good at that, but, Captain?”
Dylan consigned Fournier’s little note to the fire. “Yes?”
“You never dealt with Dunacre on his own terms. Never sent him out of camp with a bad map. Never dosed his flask with laudanum on the day of battle. You never lost your temper with him. All the skills you used to such good advantage in the countryside, you never turned on your own superior officer.”
“I considered it, considered slow poison, ambush, jamming his pistols, anything to get him relieved of command.”
“But you refused to play by his rules, even though he was clearly your enemy. You respected the uniform so much that you nearly let him kill you. Do you recall when Dunacre was laid up with a bout of dysentery?”
“About the happiest two weeks of my military life.”
Bowen ambled to the hearth and poked some air into the coals, then added more fuel. “It wasn’t dysentery. Will overheard our Frenchie doctor talking about some sort of local mushroom or herb that resulted in a bad case of the Jericho quickstep. As Tremont’s batman, Will was in a position to see that Dunacre was laid up.”
Dylan thought back, while the mantel clock ticked, and a kitten nosed her way around the library door.
“Dunacre fell ill right after I was stripped of rank.”
“Dunacre was that angry you weren’t hanged. He wanted you dead, and the men couldn’t have that, so we gave your superior officer some time to settle his nerves. I’ll send a footman by to collect whatever notes you need to send.”
“Themendecided to poison Dunacre?”
“He sent us into an ambush, Captain, just because he wanted to see you dead, wounded, disgraced, or captured. Something had to be done, and you were too gentlemanly to do it.”
Bowen bowed and was halfway to the door before Dylan spoke again.
“Thank you, and please thank the men for me. I wish I’d thought of it myself.”
“You had enough skulking about and lurking in haylofts to do. We felt giving you a few weeks’ respite was a way to pay back a little of all you’d done for us. Dunacre is the least-mourned superior officer ever to fall on a battlefield. Enjoy your outing, sir.”
Bowen left Dylan to the company of the kitten, though his confession wanted pondering. Why hadn’t the men alerted Dylan to their scheme? Why hadn’t Dylan thought of it? What would Lydia make of Will Brook’s behavior, and what would Marcus’s philosopher have said about it?
On the one hand, harming a superior officer was contrary to army regulations. On the other, needlessly putting soldiers in harm’s way was clearly the greater crime.
Dylan roused himself from such philosophical conundrums and scribbled off notes to the requisite parties. As he wrote, the kitten clawed her way up onto the sofa and hopped to the reading table. The little beast nosed about the books stacked in the center of the table, then perched on her haunches and regarded Dylan with a basilisk stare.
“What?”
The cat closed her eyes. Dylan came around the desk, scooped up the intruder, and took a wing chair by the fire. The kitten was content to be petted, while Dylan needed to think.
“I intended to confront Wesley Glover tonight, ask his intentions, demand explanations, name my seconds if necessary.”
Dylan would be honorable, in other words. Wesley Glover, though, was arguably a man who’d betray his cousins, manipulate his father, and extort valuables from a widow, all while presenting himself to Marcus as a loyal and selfless friend.
“Wesley will profess great concern for his aunt and for Lydia,” Dylan murmured as the cat began to purr. “He will intimate that he’s trying to stay his papa’s inebriated hand and suggest that offering for Lydia is the generous act of a marital martyr.”
Confronting such a man would be like confronting Dunacre. What followed would invariably be a display of lies from the party confronted, along with twisted facts and wounded dignity, all tied up with a bow of convincing outrage.
“You are absent from your post without leave,” Dylan told the kitten as he rose. “I will march you back to camp, and you will suffer the wrath of your commanding officer. She will doubtless pet you soundly for your transgressions and sentence you to supper and a saucer of milk.”
Dylan made his way to the kitchen, hoping to find Lydia bustling about as usual. He wanted to discuss the evening’s agenda with her, and he wanted to finish what they’d started on the front steps two days ago.
