Had she been running the campaign in Spain, Boney’s generals would been dusted straight back to France within a year.
She deigned to take up a fork. “I am a trifle hungry.”
“And this assuredly does qualify as good food.” Saved from plainness by the hint of smokiness from the ham and a tangy quality to the cheese. A peculiar thought crossed Dylan’s mind. “Did you wait up for me?”
“Of course not, but on such a night, a caller or two at the back door would not be unusual.”
“This late?”
“Not usually, sir. The men would hesitate to disturb your household once the candles are out in the kitchen. Have you heard any more from your sisters about a London visit?”
That maladroit change of subject confirmed that Lydia Lovelace had waited up for him. Dylan was half pleased and half alarmed by such a possibility. In the alternative, perhaps she was plagued by nightmares about cobwebs in the attics.
God knew, Dylan had his share of bad dreams.
“My sisters hint,” he said, doing justice to his eggs. “They imply, they don’t quite threaten.”
“You will please inform me if that changes, sir. One wishes to be in readiness for every eventuality.”
Mrs. Lovelace ate with the sort of dainty manners a midnight snack did not merit, but then, Mrs. Lovelace was not the typical housekeeper.
She was younger than the usual exponent of her trade, and not half so substantial. In the better London domiciles, a housekeeper was a general whose influence was felt in orders followed and inspections passed. She did not ruin her knees scrubbing floors or throw out her back hauling baskets of wet laundry. The housekeeper typically had her own parlor, and from her headquarters she deployed the maids and commandeered any unsupervised male employees.
The usual housekeeper was a staff officer, in other words, and seldom found herself in hand-to-hand combat with tarnished candlesticks or dusty carpets. Mrs. Lovelace, by contrast, led her troops by example, perhaps a necessity in a bachelor’s modest quarters. Dylan had seen her in the garden laying into the hall runner with a carpet beater, dust flying everywhere.
Close and protracted observation led him to two conclusions regarding Lydia Lovelace. First, she got her hands literally dirty because she did not trust others to do the job right without her example. As an officer, she led the charge rather than hang back while others engaged directly with the enemy.
Second—this insight had only come up on him recently—she maintained a prodigious level of activity in hopes that her fine looks would go unnoticed.
She had lovely dark hair shot through with auburn highlights that became apparent only by candlelight. Her complexion would be the envy of any heiress, her eyes were a gray-green that changed hue with her moods and attire. When she spoke French, Dylan wanted to close his eyes and simply listen to her.
She poured them each a cup of tea and added a dollop of honey to Dylan’s cup. “Do you mind about the cat, sir?”
Dylan glanced over at the basket on the hearth, only to find that the calico had been joined by a second calico ball of fluff.
“Kittens, you mean?” Female kittens, which could only lead to the mayhem that passed for feline courtship and to feline progeny.
Mrs. Lovelace stirred her tea with inordinate care. “The pair of them were on the back stoop, Captain. I suspect one of your men brought them around. Nothing on this earth is as pathetic as a wet, bedraggled kitten unless it’s two of them. They huddled together, and when I opened the door they should have scampered off, but instead…”
“Instead?” To see the indomitable Lydia Lovelace reduced to explanations wasn’t as gratifying as it should have been.
“They looked up at me, all fierce and hopeful, and when I stepped back, they darted into the kitchen. I could not turn them out, sir, but I will take them to the church if you insist.”
Dylan sipped his tea, mostly to give himself time to consider options. “You would never allow mice on the premises, Mrs. Lovelace, and those two little wretches are months away from being able to defend the pantries.”
She pushed aside her plate of eggs, half the food uneaten. Was she saving it for the cats?
“If you insist, sir, I will make other arrangements for the kittens.”
Martyrs accepted their fates in such stoic tones. Dylan had sent men into battle, and led them into near-certain death. If Mrs. Lovelace thought he was incapable of turning out a pair of opportunistic little felines when London’s alleys were awash in plump, tasty rodents, she had another—
A hard thumping commenced from the direction of the back door. Dylan was on his feet, mentally reviewing weaponry before the third thump: Knife in each boot, a third knife secured at the small of his back. His walking stick—mahogany, with a brass handle—sat next to the back door.
“Stay out of sight,” he muttered. “That’s an order, madam.” He chose not to take up a carrying candle lest the visitor have warning when the door opened.
The pounding continued, slow and determined. Dylan palmed the knife out of his left boot and secreted his hand in the folds his coat. He opened the door and stepped back into the shadows.
A sodden. shivering heap of humanity fell across the threshold. “Thank God. I’m s-s-sorry, Captain, but… th-th-thank God.” Private Bowen Brook lay on his back, his features almost unrecognizable beneath blood and bruising. “Hadn’t anywhere else t-to go. Sorry.”
“Get him out of the wet,” Mrs. Lovelace said. “We’ll need to remove his clothes and get him warm as soon as may be. Use your knife if you have to.”
“These are likely the only clothes he has, and I told you to stay out of sight.” Dylan got Brook beneath the arms and dragged him back far enough that Mrs. Lovelace could close the door. “Lad, can you hear me?”
“Aye, sir. I’m right enow. Just got m’ bell rung.”
Bowen was slight, pale, and half-lame, but like most career infantry, he was amazingly tough. Somebody had done much worse than ring his bell.
“What the hell tempted you onto the streets at such an hour?”
“Interrogate the poor man later,” Mrs. Lovelace said, twisting the door lock. “He needs medical attention now.”
Gone was the deference of the conscientious housekeeper. In her place stood the general Dylan had long suspected lurked beneath all those lacey caps.
“Best heed her, sir,” Bowen said, as Dylan hefted the lad to his feet. “I wouldn’t want to get the business end of that poker, if I was you.”
Mrs. Lovelace gave Dylan the same sort of look the orphaned kittens had likely given her: Defiant, a little hopeful, quite fierce. She kept a steady grip on a heavy wrought iron poker, too.
Of all the confounded, purely female illogic… She had disobeyed a direct order, thinking to come to his aid. But then, an iron poker was a formidable weapon, even in the hands of a smallish woman.
“Come along,” Dylan said, securing an arm around Brook’s skinny waist. “Mrs. Lovelace does not tolerate insubordination. To the kitchen with you, and you can make the acquaintance of her palace tigers. I’ll fetch some brandy from the library, and we’ll have you right as a trivet in no time.”
Mrs. Lovelace braced Brook from the other side, and he was soon sitting at the kitchen table, the scent of wet wool perfuming the air.
“He’ll need dry clothes, Captain,” Mrs. Lovelace said, unbuttoning Brook’s coat while he sat inert on the chair Dylan had vacated. “Dry socks, the whole lot. I’d run him a hot bath but the water will take too long to heat. When you’ve fetched the brandy, please bring my medical box from the herbal.”
Dylan had been given his orders, a curiously comforting reversal of roles. “Mrs. Lovelace, may I make known to you Mr. Bowen Brook, formerly of the 3rd Bicksford Regiment of Foot. I will return directly.” He quick-marched for the steps but paused before ascending. “The kittens can stay, Mrs. Lovelace. I cannot abide the thought of rodents trespassing on your pantry.”
She shooed him of
f, but Dylan’s artillery had hit its target. Mrs. Lydia Lovelace had, albeit faintly, smiled at him.
* * *
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A Rogue in Winter Page 13