Page 90 of Miss Dignified
“That is not fair, miss.” Bowen had spoken quietly, which spiked Bronwen’s guns more effectively than had Dylan ranted at her.
“I was left for dead in an alley,” Bowen went on, “half freezing in the dratted rain, the wits kicked out of me, but I knew there was one place I could go, for safety, for help. The captain doesn’t gossip at Horse Guards, he doesn’t carouse, he doesn’t even have dinner at the club unless his cousins drag him out for a night. He remains here, on duty, and God be thanked for that, because Merry Olde England has little enough use now for the men who bested Napoleon.”
Bronwen gaped at Bowen, who’d lost any pretense of the soft-spoken humble fellow grateful for his post. The sharpshooter who’d marched across Spain had taken aim at her, and she had sense enough not to return fire.
“I have felt useful here,” Dylan said, “and I have missed my sisters, but I also knew I was needed in London. Right now, I need to find out where Lydia has got off to.”
“Why?” Bronwen ask, though her tone was curious rather than accusing.
“Because…” Because Lydia was carrying on alone when she need not. When she should not and must not. “Because I have information she deserves to know. Important information.”
Bronwen withdrew a folded and sealed missive from a pocket. “I found this on your pillow earlier in the week.”
Dylan took the letter. “Snooping, Bronnie?”
“I wanted to see what art you keep in your bedroom, because I thought you might like a painting of the home place if you didn’t already have one. You have no art in your bedroom at all, Dylan. What sort of Welshman are you?”
A lonely one.“I am a Welshman with much to do today. Please make my apologies to Tegan and Marged.”
Bronwen gave him a brooding perusal. “Was Bowen truly in a bad way?”
Bowen gazed out the office window, having apparently said his piece.
“Most of my former subordinates have had a difficult adjustment to civilian life. Too many soldiers came home at the same time, after too long of an absence. They found no jobs, no place to live, many of their old trades have been obliterated by manufactories. Some fellows arrived home ill in spirit or dealing with old wounds… I have been needed here, Bronwen.”
“You are needed at home too, Dylan.” On that parting shot, she left.
“The ladies have their weapons, don’t they?” Bowen asked. “Best read what Mrs. Lovelace has to say, sir.”
“Right.” Dylan took heart from the fact that Lydia had not crept away in the night, no word to him at all. He still wanted privacy to read her message. “Will you please see that my sisters don’t start a riot in Hyde Park or storm Richmond?”
Bowen’s lips twitched. “Miss Bronwen carries a sword parasol, sir. So does Miss Tegan. Miss Marged’s parasol contains a peashooter. Some ducal fribble designed those fripperies, and they are all quite the rage.”
Lydia would adore…
“Excuse me,” Dylan said, brandishing her letter. “And, Bowen, my thanks. I was about to verbally cut loose with my sister, and she comes quite well armed to the battle of wits. That could not have ended well.”
Bowen gave him a brisk salute. “Glad to oblige, sir.”
Dylan crossed to the library, closed the door, and took the seat behind the library desk. He tried slowing his breathing. He tried picturing the rolling hills of the Welsh countryside. He tried reciting the 23rdPsalm in Welsh, but nothing would calm his racing heart.
He slit the seal on Lydia’s note, having no idea what he’d find.
My thanks for all you’ve done for me and for my brother. I will send for my things when matters are settled with Lord Tremont. Love, Lydia.
A farewell, then. A polite, even gracious farewell. Dylan knew firsthand what it was to be kicked by a mule, and Lydia’s good-bye had the same quality. Equal parts stunning and painful, with painful gaining ground by the moment.
Well, hell. Bloody, bedamned, perishing… Dylan sat in the reading chair behind the desk, seeing nothing, thinking nothing, while the sound of women bustling about came to him from elsewhere in the house.I will send for my things… That was something. Lydia would have to send for her things from somewhere, and Dylan could track her to that location and perhaps… but no.
She’d said thanks and good-bye as effectively as polite language allowed. Mustered out. Hung up her housekeeper’s spurs and to blazes with stubborn Welsh captains too stupid to see…
Rubbishing, sulfurous, flaming perdition. He read the letter—so brief and unsentimental.
Then his eye caught on the final two words.Love, Lydia.
Love.
Love?
