And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(3)

“The ladies who wrote these letters did so with great care. They are expecting responses. You cannot just burn them to suit your mood,” she said, looking down at the basket of notes she held. “You must reply to them. All of them.”

Too busy hoping that the overwhelming eau du floral rising from the pages would leave his sister overcome, Henry gave scant regard to what she was saying. All he could hope was that when Hen was out cold on the floor, he’d have enough time to consign them to the flames before she came to.

But not even the happy image of these annoying reminders of Preston’s prank roasting over the coals could overshadow what Hen was saying.

What she wanted him to do: answer them.

Henry stilled. Answer them? All of them?

A notion that Preston found quite amusing. “Yes, Henry, I quite agree,” the duke said. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint so many ladies. That would hardly be sensible.”

Henry ignored Preston and faced down his sister. “You can’t seriously expect me to write to all those women?”

“But of course! Each one of these poor, dear souls is awaiting your answer. Most likely watching the post as we speak.”

He let out a graveled snort at the image of lovelorn spinsters all over London—and from the return addresses, a good part of England—sitting by their front doors in hopes true love was about to arrive in a scrap of paper, sealed with a wafer. “That is ridiculous.”

“It is not,” Hen said, in that tone of hers that Henry knew all too well meant she would brook no opposition. Hen carried the basket to the table and began sorting through the feminine appeals. “Do you recall what I was like when Lord Michaels was courting me and how distraught I was when I did not hear from him for two days straight?”

Both Henry and Preston groaned at the mere mention of that bounder’s name.

Michaels being her second husband. There had been three to date—with her most recent venture, Lord Juniper, having died suddenly nearly six months earlier. Hence the widow’s weeds and the onset of Hen’s sentimental side.

“I had no idea if he loved me or not,” she declared, clutching a few of the letters to her breast, as if to make a desperate point. That is until the competing florals doused over the letters made her sneeze and she had to surrender the missives back into the basket.

“Didn’t stop you from marrying him when he did bother to show up,” Henry muttered. Then again, he’d never approved of Lord Michaels. A mere baron and barely that.

Hen sniffed. “Be that as it may, those two days, when I knew not what he was thinking, those were the longest, worst two days of my life.”

“Really, Hen? Isn’t that doing it up a bit? The worst two days of your life?” Henry shook his head and glared at the basket of letters. They were making this the worst week of his life.

“You must answer these,” she repeated, wagging a finger at her brother. “If only to let these ladies know that they have been deceived, just as you were, and you are most sorry for any distress this will cause them.”

“Make Preston apologize,” Henry told her, pointing toward the real culprit in all this. “He placed the ad.”

“Yes, well, you know he will never do that,” Hen said with a dismissive wave.

“And I wouldn’t have placed it if you hadn’t been so prosy that night,” Preston complained. “Going on and on about how I’d ruined the family’s good name.” He picked up his paper. “I would remind you both, we are Seldons. We have never had a good name.”

“Exactly,” Henry said, latching onto the notion with an idea of his own. “When these ladies discover who has written them, and they nose it about how they’ve been ill-used by a Seldon, don’t you think, Hen, that this will only go to sully our family name further? Might even leave you cut from Almack’s.”

Both he and Preston eyed her speculatively. For while Preston was in name the head of the family, neither of them naysaid Hen. Not if they knew what was good for them.

And it very nearly worked.

Nearly.

“There is no reason for you to sign your own name,” she pointed out. “Sign it . . .” She tapped her fingers against her lips and then smiled. “I know! Sign it ‘Mr. Dishforth.’ ”

“Dishforth!” Henry exclaimed, for it had been some time since that name had been uttered under their roof.

“Dishforth! Of course! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself, Hen,” Preston said with an approving nod. Of course he would approve. Dishforth—Henry’s invention when they were children—had become Preston’s shining hero. If something got broken or the apple tart disappeared and all that was left was a plate of crumbs, the always culpable and ever rapscallion “Mr. Dishforth” was blamed, much to the annoyance of their nannies and tutors.