And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(88)

And Henry knew this, even as he suddenly longed to confide in someone. Because it was exactly as Preston had said: he was in over his head.

Not just with the letters and Miss Spooner. There was Miss Dale as well.

“I had no intention—” he began.

Preston paled. Actually grew a bit white. His mouth opened as if he had something to say, but nothing came out.

Henry couldn’t have shocked his nephew more if he had claimed to have taken up with the Princess Royal.

“But it isn’t like you think,” he continued hastily on. In for a penny, in for a pound . . .

“Hen doesn’t—” Preston began.

“No!” Henry shuddered.

“Yes, of course not. If she knew, she would have wrung your neck by now.” Preston scratched his chin and drew a deep breath. “Tell me everything.”

Knowing this was the best course, Henry spilled the entire story, starting from the moment the letter had fallen from the basket until he’d arrived at his present predicament.

Though he left out everything to do with Miss Dale. There was confession, and then there was finding oneself being carted off to Bedlam.

And Henry knew the difference.

“Do you know which of the ladies it is?”

“That’s just it,” Henry confessed. “I haven’t the slightest notion.” So this wasn’t quite the truth either. He could hardly tell Preston that he suspected it was Daphne Dale.

Rather hoped it was. Then again, it could be Miss Nashe.

His dismay must have shown on his face. But luckily for Henry, if there was anyone who could see a way out of this mire, it was Preston. And it turned out he had just the solution.

“And you say this gel is in the library, right now, waiting for you?”

“Yes. At least that’s the plan.”

“That’s excellent news,” Preston said, his eyes once again alight with mischief.

“Excellent for you, perhaps—you aren’t the one who has to endure the surprise and possible shock of it.”

“Who says you have to go into the room not knowing who your Miss Dishes—”

“Spooner.”

“Yes, yes, Spooner. Who says you have to go in uninformed? You always are going on and on about how one can’t go into a partnership without knowing exactly who you are doing business with—”

“Certainly,” Henry agreed. “But what does that have to do with finding out who Miss Spooner is?”

“Everything,” Preston said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go see who this lady love of yours is.”

Henry caught him by the arm. “You are not going in there with me.”

“I have no intention of doing that. Would make you look like an utter coward, arriving with a second and all. But I would think a man of your business inclinations wouldn’t mind arriving forearmed.”

“Preston, whatever are you going on about?”

And so the duke told him.

Daphne didn’t know whether she was disappointed or relieved when she entered the library and found no one in there.

“If anything, I have a few moments to compose myself,” she said to Mr. Muggins as they both looked about the large, well-appointed room.

It was all as it had been this morning when she’d penned her note to Dishforth. Bookshelves lined three of the walls, interrupted by several large paintings and a grand fireplace. French doors let out into the rose gardens. There was a map desk in the middle of the room, a collection of settees and a grand chair near the fireplace, and a few chairs and stools scattered in the corners, the sort that encouraged settling in for a cozy read. Thick carpets and green velvet curtains gave the large, rambling room a sense of studious decorum.

But at night, the corners were cast in shadows, and the room held an intimate, cozy appeal, the sort a Seldon could appreciate.

Well, she certainly hadn’t invited Mr. Dishforth here for that.

Smoothing out her skirt and doing her utmost to compose her nerves, Daphne tried to gauge the best place to sit and wait—a spot from which she would be seen at best advantage. But no matter where she tried—lolling on the settee, modestly composed on a straight-backed chair or feigning a bluestocking’s interest in some old, dusty tome—she felt only one thing: utterly foolish.

Mr. Muggins suffered from no such nerves. He plopped down on the rug before the hearth and let out a contented sigh.

Since she couldn’t very well follow his example, Daphne decided a dignified pose might be the best. Until, that is, she looked up at the portrait she’d found herself standing beneath.