And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(66)

She acknowledged him with one of her wide smiles and came into the room. It was then that Henry noticed that the girl had brought with her an ornately decorated writing box.

“Here I thought myself so unique, getting up early to catch up on my correspondence, only to find myself in such crowded company,” Miss Nashe said. “But we make an excellent trio, do we not?”

Henry had the sense the girl was including him and Mr. Muggins and not the other lady in the room. Apparently so did Miss Dale.

“Yes, rather,” she remarked, glancing up at Miss Nashe.

Was it Henry’s imagination, or was Miss Dale once again making up lines for Miss Nashe?

Oh, the expectations placed on one when one is mentioned daily in the social columns is exhausting.

He stifled a laugh, and both ladies looked up at him. “Ah, nothing. Just that dog of Tabitha’s. Um, he’s looking at my plate again.” He waved a hand at Mr. Muggins. “I shall not share my breakfast.”

“And don’t ever,” Miss Nashe advised. “Dogs become horrible beggars when they are allowed in the dining areas.” She glanced again at Miss Dale as if she held her responsible for this crime.

Miss Dale smiled at Miss Nashe as she reached over to her own plate and slid a sausage off it for Mr. Muggins, which the dog caught with practiced ease.

Ah, so that was how the lines were going to be drawn. Henry had the sense of being caught between the English and the French.

And not for every farthing he possessed would he declare which side was which.

Miss Nashe sniffed, then delicately turned her back to Miss Dale, snubbing her. She settled her writing box on the table and began to carefully select from inside everything she needed. “I have so many letters to catch up on. Why, the attentions afforded me never seem to end.”

Henry didn’t dare look down the table at Miss Dale. She’d have that wicked light in her eyes, and he knew, just knew, he would be able to hear exactly what the lady was thinking. Still, he couldn’t keep himself from chuckling, and when both ladies glanced up at him, he waved them off and made his way to his seat. “I just remembered an invitation I must turn down. Regrettably so.”

Miss Dale made a most inelegant snort, but from Miss Nashe he received nothing but sympathy.

“Oh, my dear Lord Henry, I so understand your dilemma. Isn’t it a trial to be so pressed upon from every corner of Society?” she mused.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Henry agreed.

There was no need to look in Miss Dale’s direction to discover her thoughts. Her pen was screeching anew, as if carving her sentiments into the very table.

“Oh dear heavens, how your pen scratches, Miss Dale,” the other girl said with a delicate shudder. “Miss Emery always said at school that using a less than sharpened quill shows a disregard for one’s composition. A lady’s handwriting must be delicate and precise, so as to distinguish her from her lessers.”

The heiress’s censorious words would have been easy to dismiss as utter snobbery, but within the lady’s admonishment rang something Henry hadn’t considered.

What had that pompous chit just said?

A lady’s handwriting . . . so as to distinguish her from her lessers.

That was it. Gazing down the table at the two ladies quietly writing their letters—well, one of them quietly composing—his heart pounded.

Handwriting. Miss Spooner’s distinctive script. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Why, he could spot her scrawl from across the foyer.

And here were two examples right before him. Henry began to push back from the table, but he had to stop himself.

Demmit, he had no good excuse to go ambling down to the other end of the table to peer over Miss Nashe’s shoulder to see if her handwriting matched the very familiar hand of Miss Spooner.

And what about Miss Dale’s?

He cleared his throat in an effort to force that thought out of his head. No, he wouldn’t venture that far in his quest. Stealing a glance down the table, he found her bent over her page, her teeth nipping at her bottom lip as she was lost in her composition.

Scratch. Screetch. Scratch.

Henry shuddered. The infernal noise was enough to peel the gilt paper from the walls. And yet . . . he had to admit that delicate was not the word he would use to describe Miss Spooner’s determined penmanship.

And watching Miss Dale write was like watching a mad artist paint. Her words flowed from her pen with passion and . . . dare he admit it? . . . purpose and determination.