Miss Dignified by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes [Burrowes, Grace]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781952443725
Publisher: Grace Burrowes Publishing

Chapter Twelve

“Captain Powell won’t give up,” Willaim Brook said. “He won’t quit.”

Marcus had devoted considerable thought to Powell’s recent penchant for ambling about the stews. For most of an afternoon, Powell had sat nursing a pint in the snug of one of Marcus’s most lucrative taverns. He’d asked after William Brook, presenting himself as an old army comrade, and this time, the publican had disavowed any knowledge.

Continued silence would come at a cost, and Marcus’s means were exceedingly limited.

“Powell hasn’t made any progress,” Marcus said. “If he continues to lurk in doorways and stroll about aimlessly, he’ll find himself missing his coat and a few teeth.” Marcus did not want such a mishap on his conscience. Powell was an honorable man and a good man.

Unfortunately, he was also as tenacious as an underfed hound on the scent of a rabbit. Then too, the men would take it very much amiss if Marcus’s games resulted in harm to their captain, and the good opinion of the men had saved Marcus’s life many times over.

“I don’t like leading the captain on a dance, sir.” Brook wasn’t standing at attention today. He was pacing back and forth before the cold hearth. Dunacre had been a pacer, and Marcus had learned to hate—to abhor, despise, loathe, and revile—the results of his pacing.

Dunacre would pace himself into high dudgeon over some imagined slight—the wording of an order, the seating at an officers’ banquet—and the result, unless something or someone distracted him, was misery for all in his ambit.

Powell had rarely witnessed the pacing, but he’d frequently earned Dunacre’s ire. Marcus had eventually puzzled out that Powell antagonized his superior by design and had taken the resulting punishment rather than let Dunacre’s temper rain down on the men.

Powell was brave, for which Marcus had both esteemed and resented him.

And Marcus did not pace. He remained in his rickety chair behind his dilapidated desk and forbade himself to think of Tremont, Mama, or the mischief he and Wesley used to get up to.

“Powell may not even be looking for you,” Marcus said. “He’s asking after you, but in a casual way, probably as a pretext. He’s canny like that.” Marcus was not canny. Never would be. “Your brother can’t tromp about all day searching for you, so Powell takes on that thankless task, but in truth…”

Brook came to a halt at the grimy window. “Sir?”

“In truth, Powell might well be looking for me. Why else would Lydia still bide in his household unless she’s set Powell to looking for me?” Brook had brought word that Lydia yet remained in London and had shown no signs of returning to Shropshire. She’d received Marcus’s note, and her Latin was in excellent repair. She was, as usual, thinking independently, at which she excelled.

Brook shot Marcus a look over his shoulder. “So have a quiet little reunion with your sister, explain the situation to her ladyship, and then send her home. And as for you… Italy is cheap, I’m told.”

A substantial

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