And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(40)

She eyed him yet again, sending a skeptical, scathing glance that said she highly doubted he was capable of such a gentlemanly concession.

Henry’s eyes narrowed, murderously so, but even still, he picked up his plate and stomped down to the end of the long table, well away from her.

And once he was well settled, she handed Mr. Muggins the last of her sausages and arose, having suddenly lost her appetite. As Lord Henry gaped at her, Daphne left the morning room at a serene pace despite the glowering storm cloud rising behind her.

Daphne spent a good part of the morning in the quiet of the library, comparing the guest list she’d purloined from Tabitha’s desk drawer to her own list of possible candidates. She’d come quickly to the conclusion that she had her work cut out for her, for nearly half a dozen of the gentlemen assembled could be the man she sought.

“Bother, Mr. Muggins! However will I narrow the field?” she asked the now ever-present terrier.

Mr. Muggins scrambled to his feet, his ears at attention, and it was only after he’d raced to the door that Daphne heard the telltale click of Tabitha’s sensible boots.

Her friend poked her head in the library. “Here she is, Harriet,” she called out. And to Daphne she said, “We have been hunting for you all over. Whatever are you doing?” she asked as Harriet appeared at her shoulder.

“What else? Trying to discover who Dishforth might be.” Daphne quickly folded her papers and notes into her notebook, tying it shut.

“Perhaps you’d need only look as far as Lord Henry,” Harriet suggested.

Daphne bristled. Not this again. Ever since Tabitha’s engagement ball, Harriet had been unrelenting in her conviction that Lord Henry must be Mr. Dishforth.

“How many times must I say it, Harriet? Lord Henry is not my Mr. Dishforth.”

“But at the ball—”

“Yes, yes, I might have been misled into thinking he was Mr. Dishforth, but can’t you see how wrong I was?”

Tabitha and Harriet exchanged a pair of skeptical glances.

“Daphne,” the future duchess began, “why don’t I ask Preston if he knows—”

Daphne cut Tabitha off in an instant. “No! You mustn’t! What if he were to mention it to Lord Henry?”

“Might clear this all up,” Harriet muttered under her breath.

Daphne ignored her, as did Tabitha.

“The night of the engagement ball was mortifying enough—” Daphne began. “Please, Tabitha, I beg of you, don’t mention any of this to the duke.”

“I won’t,” her friend swore.

Seeing the outright pessimism on Harriet’s face, Daphne had no choice but to continue on. “I was merely caught up in the romance of a ball and the very idea of meeting him. If I had been in a more sensible frame of mind, I would never have made such a mistake. The very idea! Lord Henry, indeed. Why, it is too ridiculous to consider.”

“Yes, well,” Tabitha mused, slanting a glance at Harriet. “Might I suggest that instead of hiding in here, you resume your search in person. We are all summoned outside.” She moved forward and plucked up Daphne’s notebook, handing it off to Pansy, who was hovering behind with Daphne’s hat and a shawl at the ready.

“Whatever is going on?” Daphne asked as Tabitha hustled her and Harriet through one long hall, and then another.

“House party obligations,” Harriet filled in from behind.

Daphne was about to protest that she had better tasks at hand than tea on the lawn or embroidery when Tabitha led them out the front door and down the steps.

To her amazement, the entire house party stood about the wide gravel mews of Owle Park. Out along the curved drive that lay beyond sat a collection of carriages, gigs and carts awaiting whatever the duke had planned.

But more to the point were the gentlemen.

Daphne’s gaze flitted from one to the next. “Is this all of them?”

Tabitha’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Yes. Much more revealing than guest lists and entries copied from Debrett’s.”

“Now all you must do is find him,” Harriet added, waving at Lady Essex, who was standing near another elderly matron.

It was at that moment that Daphne’s gaze came to an unwanted halt on Lord Henry.

He was strolling about through the throng of guests, and she could see why she might have mistaken him for Dishforth. There were glaring similarities between Preston’s uncle and her true love—certainly they shared the same sure stance and confident bearing she’d witnessed the other day on Christopher Street.