And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(97)

“This is hardly funny,” Henry told him, finding nothing amusing in any of it.

“I never said it was. But you must admit”—Preston shook a little, then composed himself enough to finish—“she’s in love with another man who happens to be you.”

“Oh, good God, you are not helping.”

“I suppose I’m not,” Preston said. “But when you do tell her, I might suggest telling her in a letter. Especially if she takes after Kendrick’s Dale bride.”

Henry groaned. “She’ll hunt me down. Determined minx.”

Preston went over to the sideboard and filled two glasses with brandy. He handed one to Henry.

Henry raised his glass in a mock toast. “Demmed Dishforth. Bloody, rotten fellow.”

“He’s supposed to get us out of fixes, not make our lives a tangled mess,” Preston mused.

Henry glanced over at him. “What did you say?”

“Dishforth. He’s ever so unreliable, and such a horribly unfeeling creature,” he said, using the line Hen had once given their nanny about one of Dishforth’s alleged crimes. It had become one of those oft-repeated sayings between the three of them.

What a horribly unfeeling creature Mr. Dishforth can be. Ever so unreliable.

“That’s it!” Henry said. Raising his glass, he added, “To Dishforth, may he prove himself such a horribly unfeeling creature that she’ll have nothing to do with him.”

Daphne hurried up the stairs and down the first hall she came to, only to discover she was on the wrong floor, and in the wrong wing.

Glancing around, she realized she was standing in front of the music room, and from inside came a crash of the keys.

She whirled around and found Lady Zillah making a beeline for her. The lady seemed to have lost most of her infirmities; fiery determination marked her every step.

“You there!” the lady said, shaking a bony finger at her.

There was no hope of fleeing now.

Lady Zillah came to a stop before her and took in her disheveled appearance with a quick glance and a very loud snort. “Bah! Get in here, Miss Dale. I will have a word with you.”

Daphne found herself rooted in place, for inside the music room was a large fireplace, and even though it was August, there was a good blaze roaring away.

“Don’t keep me waiting!” Lady Zillah chided as she turned back toward the piano. “Any niece of Damaris Dale would have better manners than that.”

She would if she wasn’t so uncertain whether or not the crone before her wasn’t about to pop her in the fireplace.

But Daphne was also Damaris’s niece, so with her head held high, albeit missing hairpins, she strode into the music room as if this was to be merely a friendly chat.

Lady Zillah sat with her back ramrod straight, and she took another look at Daphne before she began with the honesty for which she was famous.

“If you think that rapscallion nephew of mine will marry you even now after he’s obviously tumbled you—”

“My lady!” Daphne burst out.

“Was it him, or wasn’t it?” Lady Zillah demanded. When Daphne refused to answer, Lady Zillah took her silence as confirmation.

The interview went rather downhill from there, and ended with Lady Zillah stalking out of the music room in high dudgeons.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.





Chapter 13



Come with me, Miss Spooner. Run away and be my bride. I shall await your answer at the inn in the village. My coach and my heart await you.

Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner




Early the next morning, with Dishforth’s latest note tucked into her pocket, Daphne stole down the stairs. The entire house was quiet, save for Mr. Muggins, who continued to dog her every step.

Literally.

She turned to the Irish terrier and scratched his head. “Sit here, Mr. Muggins. And wait for Tabitha.”

And then she closed the front door behind her and went down the drive, taking a deep breath and committing herself to the plan before her.

The one outlined in Dishforth’s note, the one she’d found waiting for her, having been slipped under her door during the night. So he had discovered her identity after all.

Yet it was his words that took her breath away.

He loved her still, despite their missed chances, and hoped she’d understand.

Daphne had read those lines twice. Perhaps three times. He loved her. Still.