And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake

chapter 9



I’m ever so glad. I try to be above such things, but I will confess a longing for silk gowns and a handsome partner in life.

Found in a letter from Miss Spooner to Mr. Dishforth

Somewhere in Owle Park, someone was playing a piano. Not the distinct tinkling of a lady at the pianoforte, but a grand piano being played with passion. The music—full of longing and desire—lured Daphne from her determined course to find a copy of Debrett’s.

Whoever could play with such fire?

She wandered through the maze of halls and wings with Mr. Muggins at her heels. The terrier cast more than one glance at her that said very clearly that she was going in the wrong direction for sausages.

When eventually the notes grew louder, Daphne found herself filled with both the exhilaration of the music and the thrill of discovery as she approached an open doorway. Since she didn’t want the music to end, she stopped just short of entering and instead took a furtive peek inside. Immediately she reeled back.

She gaped down at Mr. Muggins, who had planted himself at her feet.

No! It couldn’t be.

Taking a deep breath and realizing she didn’t trust her eyes, she took another longer look, and there it was, Lord Henry sitting alongside his ancient relation, Lady Zillah, at a grand piano.

He stopped abruptly and turned to his great-aunt. “That is how it is played,” he said to her.

“You still have a knack, Henry,” Lady Zillah replied.

“I should,” he laughed. “It was you who taught me my first notes. So I don’t mind helping you with this piece.”

“I find it keeps my mind sharp,” the lady said, nudging him aside a bit and taking up the keys herself. “But this one has been bedeviling me for months.” As she played—with surprising skill—Lord Henry turned the pages for her.

Daphne knew she should leave them to their practice, but the music was so lovely, and the scene so curious and intimate. It was as if she was seeing not only Lord Henry but also the entire Seldon family for the first time.

The music didn’t stop Lady Zillah from nattering on. Loudly. “Henry, you could be out shooting or riding, whatever are you doing hanging about with an old lady like me?”

He smiled at her. “I was lured from my duties when I heard you playing. You don’t play all that often anymore, so it is a treat to hear you.”

Daphne thought the real treat was hearing Lord Henry play. Zillah was good, but Lord Henry played with such a hidden passion.

Rather like the way he kissed.

“My goodness, I never knew you’d inherited your father’s flair for flattery,” Lady Zillah teased back. “Always thought you more an Oscroft than a Seldon.”

“Thank you, Cousin Zillah,” he replied. “My mother despaired that neither of her children appeared to hold any of her family’s traits.”

“I hardly meant it as a compliment,” she shot back. “You are too nice by half. Respectable and kindhearted; look how you’ve managed Preston’s estates all these years, kept the entire family afloat—and nary a scandal to your name. I was starting to doubt you were truly a Seldon.” Lady Zillah’s pronouncement came out in a scolding voice, but there was a spark of pride to the lady’s eyes as she glanced at him.

“Nary a scandal to his name?” Daphne mouthed to Mr. Muggins.

Told you, Mr. Muggins’s large brown eyes seemed to say.

No, the lady must be wrong. As was this mangy terrier, whose opinion of Lord Henry had been formed in the breakfast room. Over a purloined sausage.

No, they were both wrong. Lord Henry was the most scandalous man Daphne had ever met.

And how many gentlemen have you met, Daphne Dale? Mr. Muggins seemed to be asking.

Well, if she was being honest, she’d really never met any until she’d come to London with Tabitha—for certainly her Dale relations didn’t count.

Inside the room, Lady Zillah wasn’t done with her assessment of Lord Henry’s character. “I had lost hope of you, my dear boy, at least until this house party.”

Daphne turned toward the door again. Oh, she knew she shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but she couldn’t help herself. What else had Lord Henry done?

Besides kiss her.

“Whatever were you doing last night?” Lady Zillah was saying, even as she nodded toward the music sheets.

Lord Henry leaned forward and flipped the page. “Not that again.”

“Yes, that again. And this time I will have a straight answer from you.”

He heaved a sigh. “Aunt Zillah, do I need to remind you this is a house party? Occasionally one loses one’s head. I do believe it is expected.”

“Oh, of course it is. But not with one of them.”

One of them. Oh, Daphne could well imagine who Lady Zillah meant. Because while she might call Lord Henry barely a Seldon, Lady Zillah was a Seldon through and through.

Then the old girl confirmed her suspicions. “If only I’d been consulted about the invitation list beforehand,” she complained. “Dales! Here in Owle Park! Why, it is unforgivable.”

“Yet you stay on,” he teased. “And it is only one Dale.”

“Mark my words, they are like squirrels. Feed one and you will be feeding the lot before a week is out.”

Daphne pressed her lips together. Oh, he was a devilish rake to bait the old girl so, and at the same time, her heart beat a little faster to hear him do so.

It was almost as if he was defending her right to be here.

Almost.

“What was your sister thinking?” Zillah demanded.

“Hen?” he asked, feigning innocence.

Daphne had seen him do the same thing, acting as if he hadn’t a clue what one meant, but he didn’t fool her any more than he was deceiving his elderly aunt.

“Of course, Hen. What other sister do you have?” she snapped, then reached over to flip the music sheet herself, glaring up at him as she did. “I would expect better of Henrietta. She’s a rare woman with refined taste, and I daresay this invitation to a Dale was not to her liking.” She cocked a brow at him, as if to dare him to naysay her.

Instead, Lord Henry remained his usual composed self. “Miss Dale is Tabitha’s dearest friend, and Preston speaks quite highly of the chit.”

Daphne waited for him to add his vote for her, but there was none forthcoming.

Not that she had expected as much. Not really.

Well, perhaps a little.

Meanwhile, Lady Zillah was off and running at such a challenge. “Bah! Preston’s opinion, indeed! Not that I give much countenance to what he thinks—he’s spent the last five years dallying about like a second son.”

“If you recall, Cousin Zillah, I’m a second son, and I don’t see you giving me such short shrift—in fact, weren’t you just singing my praises a moment or two ago?”

“I was,” she warned him. “That is until I saw you return from that carriage ride with that girl looking quite tumbled—”

“She was drenched from the rain,” he protested. “As was I, something no one seems to have noticed.”

I did, Daphne would have told him. I noticed. His shirt plastered to his chest, his breeches tight against his . . .

Inside the music room, Aunt Zillah remained unimpressed. “If I say she looked tumbled, then she looked tumbled, Henry Seldon! And don’t tell me what I did or didn’t see, because I know what I saw! Just as I did last night.”

“Oh, why can’t she leave off on last night,” Daphne whispered to Mr. Muggins, who had given up hope that they would continue on to the kitchens and now lay on the carpet with his head atop his paws.

“Rather than berate my luck at having to partner with Miss Dale for the scavenger hunt, you might try being civil to the gel and get to know her.”

Lady Zillah’s fingers stopped, sending a discordant note jarring through the room. “Be civil to a Dale? You are mad.” She shook her head, turned her attention back to her music and played a few bars before stopping again.

Lord Henry wasn’t done. “I think you would find you have much in common.”

“With a Dale?” Lady Zillah squawked.

“With her?” Daphne whispered furiously.

“Never!” they both said in varying tones.

“I disagree,” Lord Henry said, picking out a few notes. “Miss Dale is an opinionated and spirited lady. Rather like you, my dear aunt.”

“Bah! She is nothing like me,” Lady Zillah replied, but this time she didn’t sound as offended.

Lord Henry continued. “She’s also loyal to Tabitha. Helped Preston win her hand. And has risked much to come here for their wedding. As a Seldon, you should be able to respect such loyalty.”

Lady Zillah pushed his hands aside and began to play again, as if thinking over the matter.

Daphne considered his words as well. “He thinks I am spirited and loyal,” she told Mr. Muggins.

Don’t forget opinionated.

The music stopped again. “I don’t care if she cured the king of his madness, I cannot be civil to a Dale. Not after the way Dahlia Dale behaved at my debut ball!”

“Good heavens, Zillah, that was how many years ago?”

“Don’t you be impudent with me! Why, I remember it like it was yesterday! I was nearly betrothed to . . . nearly betrothed to . . .” Lady Zillah’s fingers pounded down on the keys. “Botheration, what was his name?”

“Lord Monnery,” Lord Henry supplied. “And here—this is how you do the bridge. I’ll make a note here on the sheet.”

Daphne glanced inside to spy him writing notes on the sheets.

“Yes, yes, Monnery,” Lady Zillah said, glancing over at the notes and nodding her thanks. She played through the portion, this time perfectly, before she stopped again. “Harrumph. Nearly engaged I was, until that toothy bit of muslin Dahlia Dale came along and quite stole him away.”

“I hardly think it was as you say,” Lord Henry remarked as he turned a page and pointed to the place for her to continue.

“I haven’t forgotten any of it,” Zillah told him.

Save the man’s name, Daphne would point out.

“That gel ensnared my nearly betrothed with her Dale wiles. Quite ruined him, because a fortnight later she threw him over. Fickle, scandalous creature that she was. Just as that bit of Dale muslin here will ruin you.”

Daphne blew out an exasperated breath. Seldons! What an overly dramatic lot. And whoever was Dahlia Dale?

She ran through her family tree, searching all the branches, and then came to a stop.

Oh! That Dahlia Dale. The one Great-Aunt Damaris kept a portrait of—displayed in a dark corner in one of the back hallways.

The one Cousin Phi had remarked upon before a crowded room of Dales by saying in all innocence, “Daphne rather takes after Cousin Dahlia, don’t you all think so?”

And had been met with stone-faced, horrified shock.

Oh, yes, that Dahlia Dale.

Inside the music room, the debate continued. “Aunt Zillah, if I recall the story correctly, you didn’t want to marry Monnery—”

“Of course I didn’t want to marry Monnery. He was a nincompoop.”

“So you might consider that this Dahlia Dale did you a favor,” Lord Henry suggested.

“Stealing my nearly betrothed from me at my debut ball? Hardly!” Lady Zillah shook her head furiously, the keys of the piano taking the brunt of her indignation. “Bad form runs through their blood like scandal does ours,” she declared, as if one trait was better than the other.

And Daphne knew exactly which trait Lady Zillah found superior.

“What concerns me most is how you were dangling after her last night,” Zillah continued. “I won’t have you beguiled and entangled by that minx!”

“Zillah!” Lord Henry protested.

“No, hear me out! You are far too innocent in these matters—”

It took every bit of Daphne’s restraint not to snort. Lord Henry? Innocent?

Obviously the name of the old lady’s lost love wasn’t the only thing she was a bit addled about.

“—I fear that girl has you in her crosshairs. She’s using you, if only to appear more eligible than she actually is. That’s how they do it.”

“Zillah—” Lord Henry’s voice held a warning tone.

“And she will only ruin your hopes of making an advantageous match. Who is this Daphne Dale? She’s not even one of the better Dales.”

“There are better ones?” he teased.

“You know exactly what I mean. I’m surprised she hasn’t been fawned off on that old warhorse, Damaris, as a companion. That’s what they do with the ones who have no hope of a match or have fallen,” Zillah told him, wagging a finger in warning. “Mark my words, that gel wants to see you entangled.”

Daphne couldn’t breathe. For even as the lady said the word—entangled—all she could imagine was being in Lord Henry’s arms again.

Entangled. Enticed. Enthralled.

But not for long.

“You needn’t fear for my sake,” Lord Henry was saying. “I have it on good authority that Miss Dale is all but betrothed.”

“What’s this?” Lady Zillah said in that loud, impertinent voice of hers.

Daphne didn’t think the lady was hard of hearing, rather she just liked making people repeat themselves.

“Daphne Dale will not be a Dale for long,” Henry said.

“Once a Dale—”

—always a Seldon, Daphne mused.

Henry struck a balance between the two of them. “Yes, yes, I know.”

“So if this gel has someone else on the hook, whyever are you dangling after her?”

“I’m not.”

Daphne huffed a bit. Well, he needn’t sound so adamant. Or so put out.

“Good,” Lady Zillah said. After a few moments, she spoke up again. “There is that lovely Miss Nashe—”

Daphne discovered there was adamant and then there was adamant.

“Good God, no!” he burst out.

So Lord Henry hadn’t been taken in by Miss Nashe’s winsome smiles and precise manners. Daphne pressed her lips together to keep from smiling smugly.

If only she could be the one to tell Miss Nashe. . . .

“Oh, she’s an ill-bred mushroom, I’ll give you that,” Lady Zillah conceded.

“You can say that again,” Lord Henry enthused.

“But she has the loveliest dowry,” the lady added, cackling with open avarice.

Daphne wished Miss Nashe and her lovely dowry to perdition.

And so, it seemed, did Lord Henry.

“Zillah! I have no interest in that girl. She could have a king’s ransom at her feet and I would still find her unworthy.”

The old girl seemed unimpressed. “Well,” she sniffed. “A fortune like that belongs where it can be well served. Not lining a merchant’s pockets.”

“I don’t want it in mine,” he told her in no uncertain terms. “I have no desire to marry some sow’s purse. Mark my words, Zillah, when I wed, I will marry as Preston is doing—when my heart is engaged and the lady is my perfect match.”

“That’s an overly romantic notion for the likes of you. Hardly sensible,” Lady Zillah noted.

“Perhaps I am only now realizing how much of a Seldon I truly am,” Henry told her.

And this time, Daphne grinned and knew she needed to slip away before she was discovered. Yet her escape was delayed when Lady Zillah spoke again.

“You say Miss Dale has another in her sights?” she prodded, obviously unwilling to let go of the subject.

“Yes, Aunt Zillah.”

“Harrumph! That didn’t stop Dahlia Dale.”

Daphne spent the rest of the morning in a bit of a tangle about what she’d overheard.

Lord Henry defending her? It seemed too much.

But more to the point, how could anything Lady Zillah had said about him be true?

Throughout nuncheon, served alfresco in the walled garden outside the orangery, she’d found herself stealing glances at him and trying to see him as his aunt had described him.

Nary a scandal to your name . . .

Too nice by half . . .

Respectable . . . kindhearted . . .

Oh, she’d give him the kindly part. She’d seen him at breakfast slipping a sausage to Mr. Muggins when he’d thought she hadn’t been looking.

And she’d done her best to reconcile the man at the ball, at the folly, the one who’d kissed her, the rake who’d teased her last night, with the gentleman before her—the one of property and means, who didn’t flaunt his good fortune.

Rather, spent his time caring for his family and was beloved by them in return.

She’d become so married to the notion that he was naught but a rake that she felt as if she was seeing him with new eyes—for here was a man with fine manners and a reserve to his behavior.

And true to his confession to Zillah, he went out of his way to avoid Miss Nashe’s blatant attempts to catch his eye.

Daphne had to admit—that point alone rather won her over. Not that she wanted to be won over by Lord Henry.

Still, she couldn’t forget what he had said earlier. I will marry as Preston is doing—when my heart is engaged . . .

A frisson of something oddly close to jealousy ran down her spine, leaving her wondering what it would be like to be Lord Henry’s perfect match.

The very thought left her insides quaking, a fluttering bit of breathless need racing through her. All at once.

His kiss . . . his touch . . .

Daphne felt herself being lured from her plans. Her very sensible plan.

Why wait for happenstance, or even a planned assignation? There was only one way to catch Mr. Dishforth, and that was in the act. Which was why she was here—hidden in the alcove in the foyer where the salver sat.

Waiting for him.

She was ever so determined to uncover his identity. Before . . . Before . . .

The determined clop of boots down the hall brought her gaze up. But when she parted the curtain slightly, to her chagrin it was Lord Henry coming.

The thump of his boots woke up Mr. Muggins from his dozy state, and the giant dog jumped up and barked.

“No, Mr. Muggins, no,” Daphne whispered, but the terrier was already halfway out of their hiding spot, barking happily, his tail waving exuberantly enough to shake the curtains back and forth.

“Ho, there, boy,” Lord Henry said in greeting, “whatever are you doing in there?”

Daphne shrunk back and closed her eyes.

“Up to no good, eh—” Lord Henry was saying, parting the curtain. “Miss Dale!”

Daphne’s breath stopped in her throat. Perhaps he’d just go away. When she opened one eye, he was still there. So much for her prayer that he’d evaporate into thin air.

He pulled the curtain back further. “What the devil are you doing hiding back there?”

She tried to say the words she usually did when faced with Lord Henry and his pompous demands—wretched, awful man—but instead found herself listening for that piece of music he’d played, remembering what he’d looked like when he’d pulled her into his arms and kissed her in the folly.

Thoroughly, passionately. Rakishly . . .

Oh, that would never do!

Dishforth, Daphne! she reminded herself. You must find sensible and reliable Mr. Dishforth.

“Miss Dale?” he said in a voice etched with concern.

Smoothing out her skirt and glancing up at him, feigning a look of surprise at his untimely arrival, she stepped around him. “Oh, Lord Henry! Whatever are you doing here?”

“On my way to the ballroom to choose my costume for the masquerade. I would have thought you would have been down there first thing, like all the other ladies.”

“I was delayed—” she replied, stealing a glance at the empty salver, then wrenching her gaze away. Bother, she’d forgotten about the costumes. “—by Mr. Muggins.” She reached over and gave the traitorous terrier a scratch on his wiry head. “I believe he spied a bird.”

“Inside the house?” Lord Henry asked, stepping back and studying her.

Daphne laughed, perhaps a little too hysterically. Drat it all, she was so terrible at lying. “No. Of course not. It was . . .” She glanced around. “Outside. Yes, outside. Just beyond the window.” She turned back and smiled at him. “Mr. Muggins and feathers! He is the very devil.”

Lord Henry’s brow wrinkled. “Yes, so Tabitha mentioned. Went so far as to ban them from the house party.”

“Good thing,” Daphne advised. “Just ask Lady Gudgeon.”

“I heard about that. He chased her across Hyde Park until he’d brought her hat to ground.”

“He did.”

“Rather wished I’d seen that,” Lord Henry admitted. “Never been overly fond of Lady Gudgeon.”

“Apparently that is a sentiment shared by many,” Daphne said.

Just then, Miss Nashe and her mother came strolling through the foyer on their way to the rooms set aside for the costumes. Both mother and daughter wore identical expressions of disapproval. They glanced at each other and Daphne could well guess what passed between them.

See. I told you she’s set her cap.

So you did.

Then Daphne glanced up and realized Lord Henry had edged closer to her, almost protectively. Then once the pair was well and gone, he shuddered.

“Allow me to escort you, Miss Dale,” he said, holding out his arm. “I fear the path ahead is plagued with trolls.”

Since she hadn’t any plausible excuse for hanging about the salver, and no desire to enlist his help in finding Dishforth, there was nothing Daphne could do but accept his offer and lay her hand down on his sleeve.

As she did, he reached over and laid his other hand atop hers, and the moment they touched, it was as it had been in the folly all over again—save without his lips covering hers.

The magic, the heat, that spark that lit inside both of them every time they touched.

Daphne yanked her gaze away from his hand and looked straight ahead, concentrating on her raison d’être.

Find Dishforth. She must find Dishforth.

Or . . . or else . . .

Well, she knew what “or else” meant.

Ruin. At the hands of this very rakish man. No matter what his harridan of an aunt claimed.

“Any word from your family?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“Your family?” he nudged. “I just assumed you were hovering about the salver in case any word of their impending approach arrived.” He laughed a bit, as if this disastrous notion was something worthy of waiting around for.

“I wasn’t hovering about the salver, as you put it, and no, I’ve had no word from my family.”

“Truly?” he asked.

And she hadn’t the least idea if he meant, Truly you haven’t heard from your family? or Truly, you weren’t hovering about the salver?

Nor was she inclined to delve into either subject.

So she did the next best thing. She ignored him and hoped he’d leave well enough alone.

But then again, this was Lord Henry, and he was apparently as tenacious as Mr. Muggins when he spied a feather.

“And here I thought you were hiding from the impending doom of your family’s likely arrival,” he teased.

Daphne glanced over at him. Had he suddenly gone mad to joke about such a thing?

“Hardly,” she replied with the same haughty disdain that was Lady Essex’s trademark. “As I said, Mr. Muggins spied—”

“Miss Dale, you needn’t gammon me.” He shook his head and made a tsk, tsk sound. “If you wanted to escape your chaperone, you’ll get no objections from me, nor sanctions. Far from it.”

“Well, I wasn’t.”

“If you say so,” he mused. “But if you were—”

“Which I wasn’t,” she shot back.

“Miss Dale, you are at a house party, not locked away in a London town house. If you want peace and quiet, Owle Park affords far better choices than a dusty alcove.”

“It wasn’t dusty in the least.”

He laughed. “So you were hiding in there.”

Daphne notched up her chin and refused to be baited further.

“I would have suggested—if you had come to me—”

“Which I wouldn’t—”

“Yes, well, I think we’ve covered that. But as I was saying, next time might I suggest the rose garden, the orangery, or even the maze. All far superior choices for peace and quiet, if that is what one is truly seeking.”

Daphne made a little sniff.

“I could show you around this afternoon,” he offered. “If you would like, so that the next time you are in need of solitude you’ll have the perfect spot at the ready.”

Show her the perfect spot for a secluded interlude? She’d just bet he would. Probably knew every such venue within a five-mile radius—that is, if he didn’t get lost along the way.

“No, thank you,” she replied, of half a mind to report his offer to Lady Zillah. Then they’d see how Lord Henry would spend the rest of the house party.

Trussed up in the cellar.

“Are you certain?” he pressed.

“Decidedly so,” she told him, gritting her teeth. Not a rake, indeed! She went back to her original theory: Lady Zillah was firmly planted in her dotage.

“Well, if you find yourself with a free moment, do not hesitate—”

“I have previous plans,” she told him, which they both knew was a lie. This was a house party, and the schedule was posted every day by Lady Juniper.

The remainder of the afternoon was completely and utterly open for such entertainments.

“Yes, well, if you change your mind—”

“I won’t.”

“So you say,” he said in an offhanded manner, which only piqued her temper all that much more.

They walked down the long hall, and Daphne began to feel a momentary bit of triumph. Here she was with Lord Henry, and she wasn’t bothered by it in the least.

He hadn’t any hold or sway over her.

None whatsoever.

Save for the hammering of her heart and those dangerous tendrils of desire that seemed to entwine around her every time she touched him . . .

Those notwithstanding, she had everything under control. Now all she had to do was find Dishforth.

Sensible, nearly reliable Dishforth. She could only hope he kissed as well as he was pragmatic.

Leave it to Lord Henry to nudge her off her confident, lofty perch.

“About your gentleman—” he began.

Daphne came to a staggering halt. “Oh, good heavens. Must we?”

“Yes,” he told her, crossing his arms over his chest. “I fear I might have wronged you.”

Now he was having a lapse into regrets? Now?

“I would rather not discuss this with you!” she declared, continuing down the hall without him.

He followed, his long stride eating up the distance she’d tried to create, and once again he was at her side. “I think we should discuss him.”

“You might think so, but I do not.”

Lord Henry caught her by the arm and stopped her. “I merely want to know if I’ve caused difficulties between the two of you.”

Daphne lowered her voice. “Good heavens, Lord Henry, haven’t you the least notion of propriety? Besides, there was nothing last night to cause anyone a moment’s concern.”

“Are you certain?” he asked, drawing closer.

“Yes.” She went to turn and flee again, but she came up short as he held her fast.

“I must know who he is.”

She shook her head. Vehemently. “Oh, no, I think not.”

“Not?”

“Not!”

“Then I’ll be forced to guess.”

Daphne threw up her hands and this time was free to make her escape. That is, until Lord Henry reined her to a stop with his first conjecture.

“Fieldgate,” he called after her.

Daphne’s feet stopped. Fieldgate? Just like that? With nary a thought?

Daphne felt a spark of ire burn to life inside her. She glanced around the hall. Wherever was a spare pike when a lady from Kempton needed one? “No, it is not Lord Fieldgate.”

At least not so far as she knew.

“Oh, good news that,” he said, sounding like a man who had just received a king’s pardon.

Taken aback by his concern, Daphne’s heart tripped a beat.

“Why is that?” she asked, thinking she might hear a declaration of how Fieldgate was a complete rotter and unworthy of her.

No, unfortunately, Lord Henry’s relief was for an entirely different reason.

“Fieldgate is a deuced good shot. Wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet through a fellow if he thought his honor had been impugned.”

Daphne’s mouth fell open. That was what he was concerned about? That Lord Fieldgate might take offense and demand satisfaction?

Not a word about her honor? But rather that Fieldgate was capable of laying him low?

Shuttering her lips, she grit her teeth. Fieldgate, she would like to tell Lord Henry, wasn’t the only deuced good shot under this roof.

Lord Henry sighed again and, seemingly with all his problems solved, started down the hall, this time without her hand on his sleeve.

Daphne found herself hurrying to catch up.

“Hmm,” he was musing, glancing over at her as she stormed back up to his side, most likely warned by the determined click of her boots. “If it isn’t Fieldgate, then who? Kipps?” He studied her for a moment, then shook his head. “No, never. He’s too impractical for you.”

Harrumph! “Must you continue this?”

“Decidedly,” he told her, as if he was surprised she would even protest. “This is my nephew’s house. Wouldn’t do to have some untoward scandal happening under his roof—”

She cocked a brow at him. Untoward scandal? As if a Seldon wasn’t quite capable of providing enough on dits to keep even the most jaded gossips busy for a month.

They were nearly to the ballroom, where a flurry of activity could be heard.

“Hen loves a good masquerade party,” he said, surveying the chaos before them. “Just like our mother did.”

“Lady Salsbury,” she said, before she realized it.

“Yes, she was Lady Salsbury before she married my father.” He grinned at her. “An aficionado of Debrett’s?”

Daphne flinched. For she had spent a good hour this morning—after her side trip to the music room—searching the pages in the dated volume she’d found on the shelf for any reference to the name Dishforth. That had been Tabitha’s idea.

But much to her chagrin, Daphne’s time had been spent reading the entire section devoted to the Seldon family.

Including Lady Salsbury.

“I believe Tabitha mentioned your mother,” Daphne said instead. “Your sister has given her some of your mother’s jewels—the ones she wore as the duchess.”

Lord Henry nodded. “Of course. Hen is thoughtful that way.”

“Yes, it was thoughtful of her to have all these costumes sent down from London.”

“Perhaps. Mercenary, more like it. She’s also had the ones here brought down and aired. She’s in quite a state to ensure the entire party is well garbed, since invitations have gone out to all the local gentry and there is an entire throng coming down from London.” He paused for a moment. “She wants the reports and gossip to speak only of a glowing success.”

“I doubt she will fail,” Daphne said diplomatically.

Lord Henry let out an impatient snort. “Will be a terrible crush is what it will be. Stand warned, you won’t know who you are dancing with, a local knave or a knight with no title.”

Ahead of them, there was a clamor of excited voices.

“Ah, the costumes,” he said, sounding less than enthused. “You are destined for a shepherdess or worse, I fear.”

“Not in the least,” Daphne told him. “Tabitha and Harriet promised to save me from such a fate.”

“Good news that. For you do recall that Miss Nashe beat you there, and we both know how ruthless she can be.”

Once again, Daphne had the sense of him riding to her rescue, like a Lancelot to slay the evil queen—a costume Miss Nashe ought to consider.

Lord Henry leaned over. “I deplore masquerade balls.”

“So do I,” she agreed without thinking. And there it was, another moment when she discovered something else in common with Lord Henry.

It gave her shivers, as if to tell her to pay attention to this man. But that was madness. For certainly her reasons—disliking old, mangy costumes and overdone Aphrodites—could hardly be the same reasons as his. And just to test her theory, she asked as casually as she might, “What are your reasons?”

“Graying matrons done up as Aphrodite and some old costume my sister thinks will be ‘divine’ on me but instead smells like a horse blanket.”

Daphne cringed. Oh, good heavens. Truly, how many times did she have to tell herself that she and Lord Henry held nothing in common, only to have that dratted man prove her wrong?

Or right.

She wasn’t too sure which it was.

Before he could say more, Lady Juniper came bustling out. “There you are, Henry. Good heavens, you’ll end up being the Nave of Hearts if you don’t go in there and claim a costume.” Suddenly she spied Daphne at his side and her brows rose slightly. It was clear on her face that while she might be the widow of Lord Juniper, she was a Seldon at heart.

Her? What the devil are you doing with a Dale?

But if anything, Lady Juniper held good manners in high regard, and she whisked the shock off her face to say in a polite, albeit a bit strained, fashion, “Yes, well, there you are, Miss Dale. The ladies are choosing their costumes across the hall in the morning room. The light is better in there.” She pointed the way, but her strained expression seemed more inclined to pointing toward the front door, which opened to the driveway, which joined the road back to London.

But before the lady could do more, there was a clamor inside the morning room, and she had to rush off to solve yet another emergency.

Daphne went to follow, but Lord Henry caught her by the arm.

“You have no intention of telling me who you were waiting for, do you?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Then so be it,” he said. But instead of letting her go, he pulled her closer. “But know that I think whoever he is, he’s a demmed lucky fellow if he’s won your heart.” He bowed over her hand and placed a lingering kiss on her fingertips. Then having released his grasp and flashed a smoldering glance, not unlike the one from last night—the one that had left her trembling—he disappeared into the ballroom.

And left her alone. To find her Dishforth.

Then suddenly he was back at her side. “You had best leave Mr. Muggins out here in the hall,” he told her.

“Why?” Daphne felt as she always did when he arrived at her side . . . a little taken aback. Just as she had the first moment she’d laid eyes on him.

“As I recall, my mother had a particular costume she loved—a water sprite, I think it was, but the hemline is done in blue feathers.” Then he leaned over and whispered, “If you find it, offer it to Miss Nashe.”

And then her Lancelot was gone. Yet again.

Offer it to Miss Nashe.

Daphne pressed her lips together as she walked into the morning room. Why that wretched, awful man! How devilish of him to put such a notion in her head.

But demmed if she didn’t take a quick, furtive glance around the room for just that gown. The one with the feathered hem.

Better that than consider what else Lord Henry had just said.

But know that I think whoever he is, he’s a demmed lucky fellow if he’s won your heart.

She couldn’t help herself; she looked over her shoulder. Whatever did he mean by that?

Had he been teasing her, like he had when he’d suggested she offer the feathered costume to Miss Nashe?

Or had he meant every word?

But before she could consider anything else, Harriet and Tabitha came bounding forward and towed her across the room, the entire space awash in gowns and props and splashes of color. The other ladies were holding up velvet gowns made for a princess, fairy gowns of changeable silk that shimmered in the light, and gaudy ensembles that spoke of the gilded times from the previous century.

“We saved the best costume for you,” Harriet told her, guiding her past the others, including Miss Nashe and her mother, who appeared affronted by the meager choices left them.

“I must confess, we came down early and hid it before Miss Nashe arrived,” Tabitha said, her eyes dancing with mirth. “This costume is perfect, and I wasn’t about to let her wear it.”

Daphne made a note to mention to her old friend that just because she was marrying a Seldon, she needn’t take on their mischievous ways. But it wasn’t until they got to the far corner and Harriet dug the dress out from beneath a pile of silks and brocades that Daphne became convinced that Tabitha had utterly forgotten her vicarage roots.

She and Harriet thought this the perfect gown?

From all around the room, there was a chorus of gasps and then a round of “ah’s.” For indeed the costume was stunning.

And utterly scandalous.

“Cleopatra?” Daphne managed, eyeing the diaphanous silk and shaking her head at the deep V that made up the front of the gown. “You want me to dress as the Queen of the Nile?”

“Why not?” Tabitha asked, looking over at the costume as if the gown had come from Mrs. Welling’s stodgy shop in Kempton.

“Because that gown is . . . I would look . . . I cannot,” she said, shaking her head. She looked over at Harriet. “You should wear it. Your coloring makes you a better Cleopatra than I.”

“Me?” Harriet blushed and shook her head. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. No, I cannot. Besides, you have more nerve. And Tabitha and I are in agreement that once Dishforth sees you in this gown, he will no longer remain in the shadows. He’ll have no choice but to come forth and claim you.”

Claim her? If he didn’t take one look and judge her to be a reckless jade, that is. That gown would give poor, sensible Dishforth apoplexy.

Though whatever would it do to Lord Henry? a wicked little voice whispered.

Tabitha joined in. “Would you prefer that we offer the gown to Miss Nashe?”

The three of them turned in unison and looked over at the girl, who stood with her mother frowning at the last remaining costume, a shepherdess gown with far too many flounces. Poor Miss Nashe looked as if she would like to stick the crook she was holding into someone, if only to gain a better costume.

Namely Daphne.

Harriet leaned in and whispered. “Do you want her to arrive at the ball and be the Queen of not only the Nile but of the night as well?”

If only her friends didn’t know her so well. Daphne took another glance at the gown and knew the woman who wore it would never be forgotten.

And even though she had no doubts she’d be in Mr. Dishforth’s arms tonight, there was a small part of her that worried that the ardent plea she’d penned this morning and had left in the salver would not bring him out of hiding.

However, such a gown . . .

Taking it from Harriet, she walked over to the large mirror that had been brought down from one of the bedchambers and held it up to herself to gauge how it would fit.

Perfectly, if Harriet and Tabitha’s grins were any indication.

And Daphne knew with all her heart that if this gown didn’t bring Dishforth out of hiding, he’d end his days wondering why he hadn’t summoned the nerve to claim her.

Then again, as she eyed the scandalous, seductive silk one more time, she had to wonder if it was Dishforth or Lord Henry she was trying to tempt.

“Oh, maman! Here is the perfect gown!” Miss Nashe cried out in triumph, holding aloft a gorgeous green silk—a nymph’s costume—hemmed in feathers.

Tabitha sucked in a deep breath. “No. Miss Nashe, you mustn’t—”

Daphne whirled around and clapped her hand over Tabitha’s mouth.

Harriet, seeing Daphne’s intent, stepped in front of her friends and then chimed in. Loudly. “You had best take that away, Miss Nashe, before Lady Clare arrives.”

The implication being that Lady Clare, who outranked all of the other unmarried ladies, could claim it as her own.

Something not even Miss Nashe and her bountiful dowry could protest. Not unless she wanted to appear the grasping mushroom.

Meanwhile, Tabitha was trying to wiggle free of Daphne’s grasp, her eyes wide and furious. “Oh-mmm—waaa—”

Miss Nashe, gown in hand, hurried from the morning room, her mother in her wake.

That was when the barking commenced.