Page 86 of Miss Dignified
“Oh, I do,” Dylan said. “I commend you on your ambition, cleverness, and bravery, but are you also lucky, Glover?”
“I must be,” Glover said. “I ended up sharing supper with you, didn’t I? You seem a good sort, Powell, trustworthy and so on.”
“I was trustworthy to a fault in the army. Much given to following orders, observing protocol, and doing my duty. Thank God I’ve resigned my commission. What say we head to the Coventry and place some outrageous bets?”
“I’ll drink the free champagne, you place the bets,” Glover said, pushing to his feet and weaving a bit. “I daresay some cool night air is in order to clear my head, and where does a fellow take a piss around here?”
Dylan was tempted—so tempted—to indicate that a fellow stepped around to the alley, where—while his breeches were unbuttoned and his guard down—he’d have the piss beaten out of him.
But no. Lydia’s orders were to get to the bottom of the situation. Dylan would, in this much, follow orders and report back to headquarters as he’d assured her he would. First, though, he would ensure Wesley Glover gambled away every groat the bleating scoundrel possessed. Dorning would buy up the resulting vowels, and Dylan would own them—and Glover—by sunset tomorrow.
Lydia stepped out of the post-chaise, every muscle and bone in her body rejoicing to be free of the conveyance. For two days, over the course of one hundred and fifty miles, she’d endured bouncing, bruising, and bad food.
She felt no sense of homecoming as she beheld the moonlit splendor of Tremont’s stately façade, no relief. Marcus was leaving England in a week’s time, and Mama at least deserved to wish her son farewell.
Mama herself came down the grand front steps, her step for once not quite graceful. “Lydia, my dear, you are home.” Her hug was surprisingly fierce. “Are you well?”
“I am well,” Lydia said, stepping back, “and I have much to tell you that I did not want to entrust to the mails. You must pack at once and prepare for a hasty journey to London. We leave in the morning.” The thought of another two days in more post-chaises was daunting, but Lydia saw no alternative.
“Tell me of Marcus. Did you find him?”
Uncle Reginald emerged from the house, and in the short time Lydia had been away, he’d put on weight and aged. His progress down the front steps was careful, as if his knees troubled him, or as if his balance was unsteady.
“You are coming to London with me to shop for new frocks,” Lydia said, keeping her voice down. “Time to catch up on the latest fashions and call on some old friends.”
Mama studied her as Uncle reached the foot of the steps. “I would rather not leave Tremont, Lydia. Somebody must maintain order in your absence, and dear Reggie was relying on Wesley rather more than he should have been.”
Mama was sweet and kind and quiet. She could also be prodigiously stubborn.
“If you ever want to see your only son again, you are leaving for London with me in the morning.”
That got Mama’s attention. “You’ve found him? You’ve found our Marcus?”
Either the coded letter Lydia had sent had yet to arrive, or Uncle had waylaid it. He appeared reluctant to set foot on the drive, or perhaps he needed to keep a hand on the banister to remain upright this late in the day.
“Come home at last, Lydia?” he called. “Your mama’s been pining for you, and I daresay you’ve been on holiday long enough.”
“I found Marcus,” Lydia whispered as the post-chaise pulled away, “but he refuses to come home.”
“I will write to him.” Mama linked her arm through Lydia’s. “I will send him an express. I am so glad to have you home, Lydia, and so pleased that you bring good news. I cannot convey to you clearly enough the weight you have lifted from my heart.”
She began walking Lydia toward the house, while Uncle waited at the foot of the steps, a dark shape obscured by moonshadows.
“Mama, you cannot tell Uncle about Marcus. You must not.”
“Reginald is the acting head of this family for now. Maybe he can talk Marcus into coming home. He loves Marcus like a son.”
Lydia freed her arm from her mother’s grasp. “You do not believe that. You want to believe that, but you are lying to yourself.”
Mama’s posture became subtly more upright.
“Liddie,” Uncle called, “are you haranguing your dear mama already? Do get inside, girl. The night air is not healthy for a woman of mature years. If you must be so rude as to show up at such a late hour, no notice to anybody, then you will at least have the decency to not tarry in the driveway.”
“I will come tuck you in,” Mama said, somewhat stiffly. “You will want a bath after your travels, and I will stop by your room to ensure you are well settled here at home.”
Why won’t you listen to me?Lydia wanted to shout the words and physically shake her mother, but Uncle Reggie had already started a ponderous ascent of the steps, and he would doubtless wait by the door until Lydia had accompanied Mama inside.
By the time Lydia was in the bedroom she’d occupied since girlhood, and she’d had a short soak in tepid water, she had rehearsed a speech worthy of Mr. Burke on the subject of free trade.
