Carola Dunn by Mayhemand Miranda Page A

A young man ought not to be tied to an old lady’s apron strings.”
    Descending the stairs, they heard an uproar from the drawing room below. A volley of high, sharp barks vied with a string of distinctly seafaring oaths.
    “Oh heavens!” cried Miranda, picking up her skirts. “Mudge has taken exception to Mr. Bassett.”
    She ran down, bursting into the room from the hall just as Alfred dashed in from the dining room next door. With great presence of mind, the new footman flung a napkin over the pug’s head. Startled by his unexpected blindness, Mudge stopped yapping and started whining. A moment later Lady Wiston puffed in with a handful of comfits.
    The dog was bribed into temporary complaisance; Alfred was congratulated, Mr. Bassett apologized to, and they all went in to dinner.
    Lady Wiston asked the lieutenant about his voyage with the Admiral, and then about his travels since. “And what brings you to London?” she enquired at last.
    “I’m waiting on a promotion and a posting, ma’am. Lord Derwent has recommended me to a command—Captain Hurst as was; I sailed under him—but the Admiralty moves slowly, especially since the peace. One must keep reminding them.”
    “I remember very well! So you are tied to Town for the present. Where do you stay?”
    “I have taken a room in a lodging-house in Westminster, ma’am.”
    “Is it comfortable? Do they take good care of you?”
    “Not very,” admitted Mr. Bassett, his expression saying not at all, “but I don’t care much for that. I should be very happy with such quarters in Portsmouth or Plymouth, or anywhere where there are plenty of our fellows about. The worst of it is, I have small acquaintance in London and most of them gone down to the country for the summer. I count it mighty good fortune to have fallen in with Daviot, and dev...dashed kind in him to present me to you, ma’am, and Miss Carmichael.”
    Her ladyship gave Miranda an odd, considering look. What was she up to now? She glanced at Mr. Daviot, then turned back to Mr. Bassett.
    “I have a splendid notion,” she said briskly. “Why do you not come and stay here?”
    “Oh but, ma’am, I couldn’t dream of imposing—”
    “Fiddlesticks. When Sir Bernard was alive, we often had young officers to stay.” She overruled Mr. Bassett’s admittedly half-hearted protests. “Miranda, after dinner, pray tell Mrs. Lowenstein to have a bed made up in one of the spare chambers.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Miranda agreed, hiding her qualms. After all, what did they know of Mr. Bassett? He seemed a charming, shy, ingenuous young man, but Mr. Daviot had scraped up an acquaintance with him only yesterday—and in any case, Mr. Daviot’s approval could scarce be regarded as evidence of trustworthiness. Inviting him to the at-home, even to dinner, was one thing. Having him stay in the house was quite another.
    When she and Lady Wiston retired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to the Admiral’s port, Miranda ventured a mild remonstrance.
    “A naval commission is no guarantee of respectability,” she pointed out.
    Lady Wiston’s eyes twinkled. “No, indeed, dear. I have known some far from respectable officers in my time! But Mr. Bassett is an amiable young man and, besides, he sailed with Sir Bernard. I have no fear of our being murdered in our beds. Should he decamp with the silver, well, I daresay his need is greater than mine.”
    With that Miranda was forced to content herself. She had no opportunity to broach the subject with Mr. Daviot that evening, for he and Mr. Bassett went off to fetch the latter’s things from his lodging.
    Not being murdered in her bed, Miranda was down early next morning as usual to take Mudge out into the square, a task which could not be delegated as he refused to go with anyone else. Twitchell did not report the silver vanished. Her misgivings had been for nothing.
    When she and the pug returned to the house, she found Mr. Daviot alone in the dining