Free The Tudor Signet by Carola Dunn

presence. Her nod was frigid.
    Emmie made a most presentable curtsy. “How do you do, sir,” she said breathlessly. Far too shy and too well-brought-up to enquire about his missing arm, she was nonetheless obviously dying to ask. Her uncle diagnosed an incipient case of hero worship.
    “Miss Thorne, Miss Farrar.” Even as he bowed, Des stared at Emily. He turned to Lilian. “Your daughter?”
    It was Lilian’s turn to blush. “Yes, captain.”
    “Impossible!” he said with conviction.
    Though Des was Malcolm’s elder by a mere four years, his life at sea had weathered his thin face and he looked older than the youthful Lady Lilian. With a becoming pink in her cheeks, she appeared younger than ever. Malcolm suspected the sailor’s blunt disbelief pleased her more than any number of polished compliments. His sincerity was unmistakable.
    Blount came back to announce dinner. Lilian beckoned to him and spoke briefly in an undertone. “Certainly, my lady,” he said and departed with rather more haste than was quite proper in a very proper butler of his age and dignity.
    The captain gallantly offered Lilian his only arm, Malcolm gave his two to Miss Thorne and Emily, and they proceeded to the dining room. In such a small company conversation was general. The inevitable topic was Miss Bertrand’s “accident.”
    “The lady has my deepest sympathy,” Des said when he heard the story--with the tactful omission of the precise part of her anatomy which had been peppered. “A painful business!”
    Too curious to be shy, Emily seized the opening. “Does it hurt dreadfully to be shot, sir?” she asked.
    “Emmie, dear!” her mother expostulated.
    “That’s all right, ma’am.” Des touched Lilian’s arm reassuringly, then, as he realized what he had done, he hurriedly withdrew his hand and turned to Emily. “Yes, Miss Farrar, it hurts dreadfully.”
    Soup forgotten, she leaned forward, eyes wide. “Was it the French who shot you?”
    “I believe so, though truth to tell I didn’t much care whether the cannonball was French or Spanish.”
    “You fought at Trafalgar?” Lilian was almost as wide-eyed as her daughter.
    “I had that honour.”
    “You must have known Lord Nelson, then?”
    “Not personally, ma’am,” said Des regretfully. “I met him several times but only as one of many captains. Admiral Collingwood was my immediate superior.”
    Despite this disclaimer, Lilian and Emily wanted to know all he could tell them about the hero of Trafalgar. Even Miss Thorne put in a question or two. And in spite of his modesty, some of the glamour of that glorious victory clung to Captain Aldrich.
    While they talked, Blount and the footman, Charles, removed the soup. Malcolm noticed every dish served thereafter was cut up so as to be easily eaten without a knife. So that was what Lilian had whispered to the butler! Mariette’s difficulties must have given her the notion. She really was a dear, even if her exaggerated notion of his consequence led her to the featherheaded opinion that Mariette was not good enough for him.
    The dishes in the second course had been prepared in the same way. Des ate hungrily without apparent awareness of the pains taken to accommodate him, but Malcolm had seen him struggle to cope with a slice of beef during his convalescence, too proud to ask for help. He was sure his friend appreciated Lilian’s thoughtfulness, compounded by her silence on the subject.
    Her curiosity about Lord Nelson satisfied, Emily asked, “Are you still in the Navy, sir?”
    “Yes, Miss Farrar. Just when I was about to be invalided, I was offered a position ashore instead, under Rear-Admiral Gault at Devonport. I was lucky enough to have a friend put in a good word for me.”
    He looked at Malcolm, who said hastily, “Your grandfather, Emmie.”
    “At your uncle’s behest,” Des told her.
    “The least I could do for the man whose boots I used to black!”
    “Did you really, Uncle Malcolm? Is that what