And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(6)

“Sssh!” Daphne tapped her finger to her lips. “Don’t even utter it aloud. She can hear everything.”

It was a miracle as it was that the old girl hadn’t discovered Daphne’s deepest, darkest secret—that she’d answered an advertisement in the paper from a gentleman seeking a wife.

There it was. And the gentleman had answered her. And then she had replied in kind. And so the exchange had gone on for the last month, all anonymous and mysterious and most likely beyond the pale and ruinous if anyone discovered the truth.

Certainly if Lady Essex found out that such a scandalous correspondence had been carried out right under her nose, the only notes Daphne would be composing would be answering the messages of condolences for Lady Essex’s fatal heart ailment.

“Do you think he’s here yet?” Tabitha asked, looking around the room.

Daphne shook her head, glancing as well at the crush of guests. “I have no idea. But he’ll be here, I just know it.”

Her own Mr. Dishforth. Daphne felt that telltale heat of a blush rising in her cheeks. At first their letters had been tentative and skeptical, but now their correspondence, which was carried out in a daily flurry of letters and notes, had suddenly taken a very intimate turn.

I would write more, but I have obligations this evening at an engagement party. Dare I hope my plans might intersect with yours?

Daphne pressed her fingers to her lips. An engagement party. Which could only mean he was here. At Tabitha and Preston’s ball. Her Mr. Dishforth.

Wear red if your plans take you to such a festivity, and I will find you.

So she’d donned her brand-new red satin gown and come with breathless anticipation of finally putting the mystery of Mr. Dishforth’s identity to rest.

Which would also stop Tabitha and Harriet from worrying over the entire situation. When they’d discovered what she’d done—was doing, rather—they’d been shocked.

“Daphne! How could you? An advertisement? In the paper?” Tabitha had said, clearly taken aback. “You have no idea who this Dishforth might be.”

Harriet had been more to the point. “This bounder could be exactly like that horrible man in Reading last year who advertised for a wife when he already had one in Leeds. Why, he could be one and the same!”

Daphne had cringed, for her Cousin Philomena, who’d been intercepting the letters being sent by Mr. Dishforth and passing them along to Daphne, had made the very same argument. Twice.

“You won’t tell Lady Essex, will you?” she’d begged. Lady Essex did not take her role as their chaperone in London lightly. If she caught wind of this illicit correspondence—given the spinster’s strict notions of suitable partis and proper courtship—Daphne’s chance to discover Mr. Dishforth’s identity would be lost.

Forever.

But luckily for Daphne, her friends, who were more like sisters to her, had agreed to keep her secret as long as she allowed them to have the final say in Mr. Dishforth’s suitability before Daphne did anything rash.

As if she, a proper and respectable Dale, of the Kempton Dales, would do anything less.

Still, Daphne shivered slightly as she recalled that last line from Mr. Dishforth’s recent missive. The one she hadn’t read aloud to her friends.

I will be the most insensible gentleman in the room. Insensible with desire for you.

Smiling to herself, she stole another glance around the room, hoping beyond hopes to find some way to distinguish the man she sought from the press of handsome lords and gentlemen who filled out the distinguished guest list.

“Daphne, don’t look now, but there is someone ahead who is paying you close heed,” Tabitha whispered.

Indeed there was. Daphne tried to be subtle as she looked up, well aware that any gentleman in this room could be him.

But immediately she shook her head. “Oh, heavens no!”

“Why not?” Tabitha asked.

“Look at the cut of that coat. It is not Weston,” Daphne said. No, complained. For if any of the three of them knew fashion, it was Daphne. “My Mr. Dishforth”—for he was her Dishforth—“would never use that much lace. And look at the overdone falls of that cravat.” She shuddered. “Why, with all those wrinkles it looks as if it has been tied by a stevedore.”

Tabitha laughed, for she was well used to Daphne’s discerning and mostly biting opinions on fashion. “No, no, you are correct,” she agreed as the rake sidled past them, casting an appreciative glance at Daphne’s décolletage.