And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake (14 page)

“Well, then I suppose there is nothing left to be done,” Hen said, in a way that left her brother and nephew fully advised that she was washing her hands of all of it.

“Nothing to be done?” Zillah exclaimed, waking once more. “The Dales are at our doorstep! Preston, fetch my father’s flintlock. The pistol, not the Brown Bess. I know how to load it.”

And no one doubted that she did.

“M
iss Nashe, you’ve made quite the collection of conquests at dinner this evening,” Lady Essex declared. The ladies had all retired to the sitting room to await the gentlemen, who were partaking of their port and cigars.

Dinner had been a lengthy and painful affair as far as Daphne was concerned.

She’d been seated at the far end of the table, wedged between the new vicar, who’d eaten as if he might know something the rest of them were not party to—that this might be the last supper—and Harriet’s brother, Mr. Chaunce Hathaway, who worked doing who-knew-what for the Home Office. It was impossible to determine the particulars because he rarely spoke.

So Daphne had had little to do over the various courses but follow Chaunce’s silent example and study the room.

If anything, it had given her time to clear the peel Lady Essex had rung over her on the dangers and perils of straying so far afield with a gentleman, even if he was a dull stick like Lord Henry Seldon.

Dull stick, indeed, she would have liked to have told the old girl. Try wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Had he truly kissed her like that, or had she imagined it all? It had happened so fast. His lips upon hers, his hands exploring her, leaving a trail of desire that had continued to whisper and tease her every time she’d dared slant a glance in his direction.

How could a kiss from the wrong man—and yes, there were no doubt in her mind that Lord Henry Seldon was entirely the wrong man—have left her feeling so . . .
undone
? Right down to the soles of her boots.

Thank goodness she’d come to her senses when she had and remembered who and what she was.

Miss Daphne Dale. A proper miss. A sensible lady. In love with another.

Whom you’ve never met. Never kissed . . .

There were more important things than kissing, she’d told herself.

Though, for the life of her, she hadn’t been able to think of one. Not when she looked at Lord Henry.

Which she had done her best not to do. Especially since he’d been seated beside Miss Nashe and making a great show of it—in all his handsome glory, teasing her (and Lord Astbury) for winning the treasure hunt. And when not showering his charms down upon the heiress, he’d been flirting outrageously with Lady Alicia and even sending a few charming sorties out to Lady Clare.

Wretched man! Certainly Mr. Dishforth would never behave in such a rakish manner.

Yet as dinner had progressed, Daphne had realized her search for Mr. Dishforth might not be an easy matter.

However would she discover which of these gentlemen was Dishforth short of standing up and just asking the man to reveal his identity.

Daphne’s fingers had curled around the arms of her chair and she’d been about to push herself to her feet and do just that—demand to know who Mr. Dishforth was—but she’d stopped short when she’d realized Lady Essex had her steady gaze fixed in her direction.

“Bother,” Daphne had muttered as she’d slumped back into her seat, for publicly admitting to such a folly a would be exactly the sort of unladylike display that would have Lady Essex shipping her back to Kempton in irons.

If only she’d been seated beside Lord Astbury. After all, he was, as Tabitha pointed out, the most likely candidate.

He was certainly handsome enough, as Phi avowed the man was. But then again, all around the table were handsome fellows—Captain Bramston and his craggy, rugged features and dark eyes; Lord Rawcliffe, with his aristocratic bearing; Kipps, who was hailed as the most charming and dashing Corinthian who had ever graced a London ballroom; and even Lord Cowley, who was known more for his academic leanings but still had a poet’s bohemian air about him.

All of them fit Phi’s nearsighted description of the elusive Mr. Dishforth. Even worse, Daphne supposed she would also have to include Lord Henry on that list—for he was also handsome.

Too handsome.

Still, it wasn’t as if he could be Dishforth. . . .

But don’t you wish he were,
a wry voice had whispered in her ear as she’d recalled that dangerous kiss in the folly.

Thud. Thud Thud.
Lady Zillah Seldon pounded her cane to the floor, bringing Daphne’s attentions back to the sitting room. “In my day, I was considered quite the catch, just as you are, Miss Nashe. Best not waste your opportunities. Another Season, gel, and you’ll be on the shelf.”

“My lady, I have no idea what you mean,” Miss Nashe demurred, her fan fluttering delicately even as her eyes narrowed.

Lady Alicia came to her friend’s rescue. “Miss Nashe has a way of stealing the heart of every man in the room. She cannot help it.”

Daphne tamped down the urge to gag. Truly? This is what they taught at the Bath finishing school these two had gone on and on about while at the table?

A Bath school offers a lady a chance to shine above all others,
Miss Nashe had said, letting her gaze fall on the ladies who hadn’t had the privilege.

Which had singled out all the guests from Kempton. Save Lady Essex. But then again, Lady Essex had gone to her finishing school in the previous century. And not in Bath, but a perfectly respectable establishment in Tunbridge Wells, not that Daphne would expect Miss Nashe to agree.

“You could hardly miss Lord Henry,” Lady Essex said in her forthright manner. “He was clearly vying for your attentions.”

“Oh, yes, my dear,” Mrs. Nashe enthused. “And the Earl of Kipps couldn’t tear his gaze away from you.”

“You quite held every man’s attention, my dear,” Lady Clare said, a slight pinch to her nose as she said the words.

“They are all such excellent gentlemen,” Miss Nashe preened ever so slightly now that she had the notice of the entire room.

“Most excellent,” Lady Alicia echoed in fervent agreement.

Daphne glanced over to where Harriet and Tabitha stood, and then at the large vase of pink and white roses on the table beside them.
Oh, wouldn’t Miss Nashe look so much better with a bit of a soaking?

Harriet glanced at the vase as well and covered her mouth to keep from laughing, while Tabitha gave a slight shake of her head.
That would never do, Daphne.

Ever the vicar’s daughter was Tabitha.

But then again, Tabitha had stopped Daphne on more than one occasion from doing much the same thing—dashing something over a lady’s head. Make that most Thursdays, at the Kempton Society meeting, where the horribly well-to-do Miss Anne Fielding was always preening and prancing about Lady Essex’s salon, what with her new hat, or travels to Bath, or the well-appointed carriage her father had promised.

Daphne’s gaze narrowed as she measured this latest incarnation of her old nemesis. Either the room was not lit as well as it should have been, or good heavens, Miss Nashe bore a startling resemblance to Miss Fielding.

It was one of those moments that every lady of modest means and limited connections knew only too well.

When she realizes she is doomed to be surrounded by the Miss Fieldings and Miss Nashes and the rest of their ilk forever.

For there it was. Daphne’s Achilles’ heel. Raised a Dale on stories of her family’s lofty place in society, in England’s history, and yet . . . the Kempton Dales were hardly considered fashionable.

For the most part, they were overlooked and oft-forgotten.

Still, she’d come to London with such grand plans—and a bit of pin money her mother had set aside over the years. With a few new gowns, and the right introductions, she would find her chance to shine bright, to show one and all that she was a Dale worthy of recognition.

But in London she found herself shuttled to one side and then the other as just another girl from the country with no dowry and a lack of good connections.

Nor were her Dale relations much help. Whyever would Great-Aunt Damaris put Daphne forth when there were cousins aplenty with hefty dowries to dangle over Society?

The Daphnes and Phis of the family were left to wrestle for the affections of family leftovers, such as the Right Honorable Mr. Matheus Dale.

And while Daphne had spent most of her years dreaming of a lofty marriage to a man with an equally elevated income, it had taken Tabitha’s engagement to, of all people, the Duke of Preston to make her realize it wasn’t rank or money that made a good marriage.

Just one glance at how Preston looked at Tabitha quite stole one’s breath away.

Then along had come Mr. Dishforth, and Daphne had stopped worrying over her lack of dowry or connections. She could only hope that one day, when they met, he would look at her as if she was his entire world. Never mind that she was only poor Daphne Dale of the Kempton Dales, or that she came with naught but a hundred pounds; he would love her for who she was, who she dreamed of being.

Yet it was nigh on impossible not to feel that familiar stab of jealousy, that niggle of worry that Miss Nashe and her money would steal away the only thing she had left: the pending affections of Mr. Dishforth.

That didn’t seem so much to ask. Just to let her find her Dishforth.

Miss Nashe, now having moved to the very center of the room—for certainly someone in the corner might not be able to see her if she remained sitting on the settee—continued her discussion with Lady Essex on the virtues of the various gentlemen.

“What of Lord Astbury?” Lady Essex asked. “How lucky for you to be paired with him today. And to win so quickly. Why, it was almost as if he couldn’t wait to bring you back.”

Miss Nashe turned slightly and smiled. “The marquess is ever so clever and was most determined to win. For my sake. And of course he was most conscious of my social standing. I believe he could drive to China and back without getting lost.” She shot a speculative glance in Daphne’s direction.

Daphne didn’t rise to the bait.

What was it Harriet always said?
Just because someone throws a hook in the water doesn’t mean you have to bite.

Daphne had no intention of paying Miss Nashe any heed, let alone biting at anything she tossed out.

“Such a lovely prize,” Harriet rushed in to say. “A pearl necklace.”

Miss Nashe fingered the strand around her neck. “Yes, quite quaint. Mother insisted I wear it.”

Daphne glanced over at Tabitha, who had chosen the prize.
Don’t bite. . .

“Now Lord Astbury can choose whomever he wants for the unmasking ball,” Lady Alicia enthused, having missed the undercurrents around her. She smiled at her friend, confident that Miss Nashe would be that cherished prize.

“But remember, only from the available ladies,” Miss Nashe said with a coy flutter of her fan, implying that she would not be among that group.

And neither will I,
Daphne vowed.
I’ll find Mr. Dishforth. Tonight if I must. Even if I have to stand up and demand he step forward.

Which she hoped she didn’t have to resort to.

“I find it all so romantic,” Lady Alicia continued. “Especially how Lord Henry and the Earl of Kipps were vying over you at dinner.”

While nearly always the picture of composure, Miss Nashe snapped a dark glance at her dearest bosom friend. One could only assume that Lady Alicia had let spill a confidence: that the heiress had set her cap for one of them.

Lord Henry or the Earl of Kipps.

But like any Bath-educated heiress who hoped to rise quickly in society, Miss Nashe recovered quickly. “I do so prefer a man who is handsome and well turned out.” She paused to make sure everyone was looking at her when she said, “I thought Lord Henry looked quite dashing tonight, while the earl is so . . . so . . . strikingly noble.”

“Most decidedly,” Lady Essex agreed. “If anything, it simply becomes a matter of whether a lady prefers the security of wealth and connections—”

Meaning Lord Henry.

“—or the addition of a coronet to one’s jewel case.”

Which would make the lady the next Countess of Kipps.

Miss Nashe didn’t so much as nod in agreement, but let a sly smile tip at her lips. She had made her decision as to which man she wanted, but she was keeping her choice a closely guarded secret.

Yet given the gleam of avarice in the girl’s eyes, Daphne could make a good guess as to her intentions. To catch the earl’s eye and his hand.

Despite the fact that Kipps had pockets to let—through his own imprudence and recklessness—he was an earl.

Foolish chit. Lord Henry is twice the man Kipps will ever be,
Daphne thought, the vehemence of those words resounding through her like the echoes of St. Edwards’s sturdy bell.

Yet what if she does prefer Lord Henry over the Earl of Kipps?

The question prodded at Daphne more than she cared to admit.

And as if to tug at that nagging thread, Harriet and Tabitha joined her on the settee.

“Lord Henry,” Tabitha whispered.

“No, I wager Kipps,” Harriet countered. “As Benedict might say”—referring to her brother in the navy— “half pay will never suit Miss Nashe.”

Meaning a mere second son, with just an honorific title like Lord Henry, was not up to her lofty aspirations.

“What do you think, Daphne?” Tabitha asked, smoothing out her skirt even as the door opened and the gentlemen began to arrive, sending a nervous flutter of fans and whispers through the sitting room.

“I think you should have stricken her from the guest list before the invitations went out,” Daphne said, smiling politely at the heiress across the room.

F
or the better part of the evening, Henry had done his ingenuous best to discover Miss Spooner’s identity.

And to prove that the lady’s similarities to Miss Dale were a ridiculous coincidence.

However, his search had been for naught.