Page 93 of Miss Dignified
“She took a perishing post-chaise, Goddard. One doesn’t take a post-chaise to jaunt over to Southwark.”
Goddard cocked his head. He had no need to threaten, bluster, or scold. He’d merely wait—until Lady Day twenty years on, if necessary—for Dylan to reveal what Goddard wanted him to reveal.
“The last person Lydia contacted before leaving my household was Sycamore Dorning. She could have asked me for anything, but she went to him instead. Why?”
“You can ask the man himself. Dorning came home over an hour ago—he sent across the street for supper from the buffet. Let’s pay him a call, shall we?”
“I don’t need you to nanny me,” Dylan said, stalking for the door.
“No,” Goddard replied, pushing to his feet, “but if Jeanette is from home, Dorning might need some supervision, and I am entitled to my entertainments.”
They left the Coventry through the back entrance, pausing to give Goddard a moment to confer with his wife. Ann waved him off with a floury hand.
“Eclairs after midnight,” Goddard muttered as he and Dylan crossed the garden. “This will be a brief call.”
“I didn’t know you were partial to eclairs.”
“I like anything Ann makes, but the footmen lose all pretensions to decorum in the face of her eclairs and profiteroles. My stern presence is needed to prevent all-out insurrection.”
“Do you like managing Dorning’s fancy temple to idleness and vice?”
Goddard was silent until they emerged from the alley onto the thoroughfare. “The enlisted men passed many an hour dicing and playing cards. Officers bet on anything from how many petticoats the colonel’s wife was wearing to the exact hour the first French cannon would sound. People need entertainment and diversion, Powell. What do you do for entertainment and diversion?”
Dylan could not stride across the street and pretend he hadn’t heard the question, because a lone dray redolent of horse droppings lumbered past.
“I’ve been diverted half out of my mind this past week escorting my sisters to Astley’s, various museums, Gunter’s, and more bookstores than Napoleon had mistresses.”
He’d played chess with Lydia once upon a time, but he kept that treasured memory to himself. He’d talked with her. Cuddled with her and argued with her.
“And you do so love to read,” Goddard remarked, stepping into the street.
“I read poetry, mostly.”
“What’s the last poem you read?”
“Go to hell, Goddard.” In his subtle way, Goddard had made a profound point. Dylan was still on forced march, stopping only to feed or water the horses, eat some dry biscuit, or tend to nature’s call. His feet weren’t aching, and he wasn’t famished, but his heart was weary and sore.
As they approached Dorning’s front steps, it occurred to Dylan that Lydia had been on a forced march, too, trying to find her brother, run Dylan’s household, manage a family gone ragged at the seams…
Goddard rapped the knocker, and Dylan found himself involuntarily coming to attention. A youngish fellow in butler’s sober attire opened the door.
“Colonel, Captain, do come in. I’ll just have your coats and see if the family is still awake.”
“No need, Bascomb,” Goddard said, passing over his hat. “My stay will be brief. Powell and I will announce ourselves.”
“But, Colonel…”
“I know to knock loudly on the parlor door and wait until I’m bade to enter.”
Dylan passed Bascomb his hat and followed Goddard up the steps. “I still think of Jeanette as that quiet, busy sprite who tagged after us and tried to remain unseen. I don’t think of her as Mrs. Sycamore Dorning.”
“She very much is, and he is very much Jeanette’s adoring husband.”
“Like you and Ann.”
“Like MacKay and his Dorcas. Like most happily married couples, which you would know if you weren’t so blindly determined to remain at war with the past.” Goddard knocked smartly on a closed parlor door.
Behind that door, somebody giggled, somebody else—male—cursed. Then a silence while Goddard smiled at the carpet. MacKay had that same smile sometimes, sweet, merry, naughty… A married sort of smile?
