And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,10
like that harridan aunt of his, Lady Essex. “Why because you’ve checked the door three times in as many minutes, and you’ve surveyed the dance floor twice. Who is she?”
“No one,” Henry tried. “You must be—”
“My dear man, don’t try and flummox me. I make my living telling bouncers. Who is she?” And then he stood there, poised and ready for Henry’s confession.
Henry pressed his lips together, for certainly he hadn’t told a living soul what he’d done—answering that letter and engaging in a correspondence with some ridiculously named chit, Miss Spooner. At least Henry hoped that wasn’t her real name.
Nor did he want to make a confession to the likes of Roxley. Yet something was different about the earl tonight. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t arrived in a cloud of brandy, and the man’s eyes were sharp and clear.
“I . . . that is . . .” Henry began.
Roxley held up a hand to stave him off. “Will have to wait. There’s my aunt. In full sail with Lady Jersey in her wake.” He shuddered. “I’m doomed if that pair catches me.” He edged into the alcove behind them, then opened the door to the gardens just wide enough to slip out. “Good luck with your search. I fear I must step out for the time being.” He went to leave but then turned around and added, “A word of advice—whatever it is you were about to confide, don’t tell your sister.” He nodded across the way and then was gone.
Henry glanced in that direction and spied Hen and Preston engaged in what appeared to be a terse conversation. Most likely a continuation of the debate he’d interrupted earlier this morning. Even as it played out once again in his thoughts, he still couldn’t believe what his family expected of him.
“Preston, the only solution is to see that he doesn’t meet her. Not right away.” Then Hen had glanced up and found Henry standing in the doorway and her mouth had snapped shut.
“Who doesn’t meet whom?” he’d asked.
Hen cringed, but to her credit, she recovered quickly as she shared a glance with Preston that said all too clearly, Do not say another word.
Why was it, when Hen was conspiring, she seemed to forget that they were twins, and, as such, he knew all her tricks? Henry had no doubt exactly who was one of the parties that was to be kept separated.
Him.
But what lady Hen was trying to keep him from? Usually his sister was dragging all sorts of debutantes and misses and Lady Most-Excellently-Bred past him for his inspection.
Now there was a woman she didn’t want him to meet? She would have managed to pique his curiosity if not for his overriding passion to discover the identity of Miss Spooner. Still, it wouldn’t do to let Hen think she’d managed to gain the upper hand.
Not this time.
“Come now, Hen, are you saying that some breathtaking Incognito is going to be in our home tonight and you don’t want me to take up with her?” Henry winked broadly at Preston.
“Nothing of the sort,” Hen informed him.
Henry’s gaze narrowed as Preston and Hen exchanged a pair of guilty glances.
“Out with it,” he told them, folding his arms across his chest. “You know how I deplore surprises.”
“You tell him,” Hen ordered Preston. As the oldest (having arrived mere minutes earlier than Henry), she thought it her right to delegate the worst of whatever needed to be done.
“Me?” Preston shook his head, exercising his position as head of the family. “It would be best coming from you.”
Hen wasn’t so easily cowed, and had her argument at the ready, even as she made her literal escape by crossing the room to the sideboard. “It won’t be best any way around it. Besides, she is your responsibility. Certainly not mine.”
This was followed by a discerning little sniff, the one Hen made when she discovered herself straying into lowly waters. Having been born the daughter of a duke, his sister was not one to step down from her lofty perch of privilege willingly.
Henry turned back to Preston, brow cocked and waiting for a response.
Steeling his shoulders, Preston came out with it. “One of our guests tonight is a Dale—”
Henry barked out a laugh. A Dale! How utterly preposterous. And he continued to laugh until he realized neither his nephew or sister were joining him. “You’re jesting,” he’d said to Preston, giving him a slight punch in the arm.