And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(79)

Tabitha quickly shut the door and, leaning against it, began laughing until tears were running down her cheeks.

“Did you see her face?”

“That first bark! He did warn her.”

“Who would have thought her so fleet?”

“Or so vulgar?”

They all laughed again, this time falling onto the settee around Harriet and laughing until they could barely breathe.

Mr. Muggins sat at their feet, looking askance at each of them.

He saw nothing humorous in any of it. There had been feathers afoot, and as far as the Irish terrier was concerned, he’d saved them all from a fate most dire.

For the moment Miss Nashe had paraded out of the morning room with her prized costume, she’d been met by Mr. Muggins.

Now some might have seen that confection of green silk, French lace and dyed feathers as the most beautiful costume ever.

They, however, were not an Irish terrier with attitude.

It had taken Mr. Muggins about two seconds to decide that particular gown was a menace to Society.

Miss Nashe, who wasn’t about to relinquish her prize, found herself very quickly backed up against the opposite wall with the gown clutched to her bosom. Not even when faced with a half-mad dog would she release her hold on her prize.

Instead, her screams—sharp, shrieking tones that Lady Essex would later say were inherited from the gel’s fishwife forebears—had brought the entire house running.

Not that Mr. Muggins was going to let anyone near. Not when there were feathers afoot.

“That was a standoff for the history books,” Harriet declared.

Tabitha shook her head. “I still don’t see how she was able to make it nearly to the stairs before Mr. Muggins caught her.”

Mr. Muggins wasn’t the only one in the girls’ room looking askance over the entire scene. Daphne’s maid, Pansy, stood by the clothespress, her mouth set in disapproval over their unladylike display. She sniffed and went back to sorting out Daphne’s gowns.

Thus chastened, the trio of friends did their best to look remorseful, for certainly they would have to make it through dinner and the rest of the evening without falling into another case of the whoops.

“Oh, my goodness,” Tabitha exclaimed, bounding to her feet, “is that the time?”

Pansy glanced over at the mantel clock. “Yes, miss.” She then shot a pointed stare at her mistress, for the maid knew all too well how long it took Daphne to get dressed.

“No, it cannot be!” Daphne declared. “I’ve hardly had time to choose a gown!”

And she had every reason to find the perfect dress. For after the dust had settled on what Lady Essex had declared “the feather incident,” Daphne had discovered a single note in the salver.

Tonight. Yes, my dear Miss Spooner. Tonight.

Dishforth had replied to her. Promised to meet her.

Daphne’s hand went to her belly to soothe her restless nerves before she once again surveyed her choice of gowns. The blue one she was wearing would not do, she could see that now.

Oh, to finally meet Mr. Dishforth. This was exactly why she’d come to Owle Park, and now it was to happen.

It had to happen. Why, she’d spent the rest of the afternoon composing list after list of the perfect things to say when she met him.

My dear Mr. Dishforth . . .

At last we meet . . .

I am speechless . . .

No, no, that would never do. If she was truly speechless, she wouldn’t be able to manage that much.

Oh, dear, whatever was she going to say?

When we meet, mere words will never be enough, my dear Miss Spooner.

Ah, yes, leave it to Mr. Dishforth to have the perfect answer for such an awkward situation.

She turned from the pile of gowns on the bed and hugged herself. Everything would be perfect from here on out.

Whirling around, she faced her maid. “Where is my green gown?”

“Another one, miss?” Pansy asked. “You look pretty as a picture in that one.”

“No, this shade of blue won’t do.”

“Do what?” Harriet asked. Suffering no case of nerves, Harriet had dressed with her usual casual efficiency in a modest gown and had had Pansy pin her dark hair up in a simple crown of ringlets.

“Nothing,” Daphne told her. “I have the right to change my mind.”

“No one is arguing that,” Tabitha said. “But look at the time.”

“Oh, bother!” Daphne said. None of her gowns seemed to be right. Not for tonight. She paused, taking another look at the apple green muslin she’d had made in London just a few weeks earlier and that Pansy had fetched from the clothespress. But it was too much like the gown Miss Nashe had worn yesterday. As a day dress. “No. This just won’t do.”