Not Quite a Lady (The Dressmakers 4)

“Mr. Carsington is right,” said Lady Lithby. “Your father only wants some time to collect himself. He would spare you every hurt, as you know, and he is understandably distressed because he could not spare you this. He must feel thoroughly bewildered and helpless. Give him a little time, my dear. Even I am having trouble taking it in. I saw that child time and again and had no inkling who he was.”

“I knew,” said Charlotte. “I knew the instant I saw him, the instant I looked into his eyes. But I wouldn’t let myself believe it.”

“I noticed his unusual eyes,” Lady Lithby said, “but it meant nothing to me. I never met Captain Blaine. Even if I had, I’m not sure I would have believed it, either.” She smiled, and Darius clearly saw then the warmth that had won the hearts of both stepdaughter and spouse. “How sweetly you put it, my love: that your son had found you, after all this time.” She rose from her chair. “Well, let us try to make a start at finding him. Tell me again what Colonel Morrell said, exactly.”

Lord Lithby stormed through the gardens for a time. He stomped on a herbaceous border. He threw an ornamental urn against a stone wall, shattering it.

He paced one of the bridges across the moat, back and forth, back and forth.

Then he made his way to a shaded avenue, flung himself onto a stone bench and sat there, his head in his hands.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, grieving for his daughter. A long time, perhaps. He had a great deal to grieve.

A sound made him look up.

The bulldog Daisy stood before him, holding what appeared to be a piece of a tree trunk in her jaws.

“You ridiculous dog,” he said. “Who let you out to tear apart my gardens? Or did you come to help me do it?”

The bulldog shook her head, trying to shake the log to death, apparently.

“Lizzie sent you, didn’t she?”

Drool flew as Daisy tried to kill the log.

“I can’t play with you now, you silly creature,” he said. “I’m trying to collect my wits. Trying to calm myself. One is no good to anybody in an excitable state, and they need me to help—to find my grandson. My grandson. Pip.”

Daisy dropped the piece of tree trunk at his feet—narrowly missing crushing his toes—and bounded away. When Lord Lithby didn’t follow, she came back and repeated the performance.

“Ah, yes, Pip is your friend,” said Lord Lithby. “How many sticks do you kill for him, I wonder? But it’s rats, isn’t it? Good God. My grandson, earning his keep by killing rats at a halfpenny apiece.”

Daisy barked.

The average bulldog was fearless, determined, and persistent to a phenomenal degree, but it was also inscrutable. Other dogs made a noise about every little thing. A bulldog could remain stolidly mute in the face of the most extreme provocation.

When Daisy barked, therefore, she must be in a state of unbearable excitement.

Lord Lithby realized he’d said two unbearably exciting words. Rats and Pip.

“Where’s Pip?” he said.

Daisy trotted away from him, paused, and looked back.

Lord Lithby rose from the stone bench. “Very well, I’ll follow you—and you had better not be taking me to the nearest rathole.”

Meanwhile in the library

After closely interrogating both Darius and Charlotte about the day’s events, Lady Lithby disappeared for a time. When she returned, she had her bonnet on and her carriage ordered.

Darius had been afraid of this: everyone going off in several directions and no plan in place.

“I think it would be best if we approached the search in an orderly way,” he said.

“That is what I am doing,” said Lady Lithby. “If Colonel Morrell has the boy or knows where he is, I shall oblige him to give him back.”

“I can do that,” said Darius. “In fact, I should like nothing better than obliging him to do something.”

“I know you would like to break his nose,” said Lady Lithby.

“No, I should like to break every bone in his body,” said Darius. “Then I should like to throw him out of a high window.”

“That is irrational,” said Charlotte.

“It is perfectly rational for a male to try to kill another male,” said Darius, “especially when the other male threatens those he cares about.”

“It is gallant of you to want to smash Colonel Morrell to pieces,” said Lady Lithby, “but that course would not be productive. You will only get his back up. You will act like men, daring and daunting each other. He will deem it a matter of pride not to tell you anything. He will not behave that way with me. In any case, whether or not he can help us find Pip, I must speak to him—and you must let me, sir, like it or not. You must allow me to do something.”

“And what are we to do, Lizzie?” said Charlotte.

“You might try looking for Daisy,” said Lady Lithby. “I let her out. I thought that if Pip is nearby, she’ll be the one to find him. And Pip, in turn, will know she oughtn’t to be running loose and will bring her back.”

Colonel Morrell reviewed his speech over and over as he rode home, trying to asc

ertain where he’d gone astray. He should not have called Lady Charlotte a fool—that much was obvious. Her refusal had floored him, and he’d spoken without thinking.

One mustn’t do that with women. Even he knew that.

Women were so difficult. Life was so much easier in the army. Rank and rules. One followed orders. One gave orders, and others followed them. If one failed to follow the rules, one suffered the consequences, and those were perfectly clear. Everything was clear, even when one dealt with muddleheaded superiors.

It was clear, at any rate, compared to civilian life.

But women…

He’d rather face artillery fire.

“Damn me to hell,” he muttered. “I cannot leave it like this. She’ll think—God only knows what she’ll think.”

He turned his horse around and started back for Lithby Hall.

He was surprised—but not completely, when he thought about it—when he saw Lady Lithby’s carriage coming toward him.

He saluted as she went by.

The carriage passed, slowed, then came to a halt. A gloved hand signaled from the open window.

Oh, no, he thought.

He rode back to the carriage.

“How lucky,” said Lady Lithby after they’d exchanged greetings. “I was coming to speak with you. Perhaps you would be so good as to walk with me for a moment or two.”

This is not going to be good, he thought.

How could he expect it to be good? He had insulted the daughter of the Marchioness of Lithby. He had called her a fool—and he was not sure what else he’d said in the heat of the moment, the heat of anger and disappointment.

He quickly dismounted, opened the carriage door, and offered his arm.

They walked on until they were well out of earshot of both the maid inside the coach and the coachman on the box outside.

“I wished to speak with you about your conversation with Charlotte,” Lady Lithby said.

“I guessed as much,” he said. “I assure you, Lady Lithby, it was not the conversation I’d intended to have. When you stopped me, I was on my way, in fact, to beg her pardon for anything I said that was out of order.”