And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,112

London garb.

Matheus Dale? Oh, they wouldn’t.

It seemed they would.

Not that anyone was going to explain their plans to her, not that they needed to. Given the haze of tears on Phi’s face, Daphne had her answer.

And late that night, Phi came to her door, to the room where they’d locked her in “for her own good.”

“Cousin?” Phi whispered as she scratched quietly at the door.

“Phi?” Daphne sat up, then rushed to the door, kneeling before it, her fingers pressed to the solid oak barring her escape. “Whatever is going to be done? They aren’t going to—” She couldn’t even finish the thought.

Matheus Dale?! She shuddered.

“Yes, I fear so!” Phi whispered back. “But they are awaiting a Special License.”

“Get me out,” Daphne begged.

“I cannot. Aunt Damaris has the key well hidden.”

Daphne sank deeper into the door. “Oh, Phi, I love him. With all my heart, I love him.”

“I’m so sorry, Daphne. So very sorry.”

And then Phi was gone.

Two days passed, with Daphne’s only contact being a surly old maid who had no use for pleas or entreaties.

Once Matheus came to the door to invite her downstairs to sup, and she tossed a vase at the panel in a defiant reply.

As night fell that second day, Daphne heard an odd sound. A ssssh that whispered loudly in the silence. She glanced over at the door and spied a note that had been shoved beneath.

Daphne leapt upon it, her heart hammering. And indeed, when she turned it over, she found it addressed to:

Miss Spooner.

She hugged it close, and then just as quickly ripped it open.

Open your window, my love. Let me in.

Open her window? Good heavens, she was on the third floor.

Yet when she got to her window, hauling back the heavy drapes, and then pulling and yanking the sash open, there was Lord Henry climbing up a rope that seemed to dangle from the roof above.

He swung himself into the room. “Minx!” he cried out as he opened his arms to her.

Daphne rushed to him. “How did you . . . Whatever were you thinking? . . . Oh, I am ever so glad you’ve come.”

“Yes, to all of that,” he told her, smoothing back her tumbled hair. “But first this.”

And then he kissed her, and all her worries and fears and the buckets of tears she’d shed were all forgotten. The moment his lips touched hers, she knew that everything would be as it should.

When they paused, if only to gasp for breath, she rushed to ask, “How did you know how to find me? Let alone—” She waved her hand at the open window as if she still couldn’t quite believe it.

“The stable lad,” he told her, kissing her brow and her cheeks, as if he couldn’t get enough of her.

“The stable lad?”

“Yes, the one from the inn who told that horrible bouncer about Dishforth.”

“Whatever has he to do with all this?”

“Apparently he feels quite wretched over his poor dissembling—”

“Oh my! He didn’t get sacked, did he?”

Henry shook his head. “Seems he’s a dab hand with horses, but not much for telling a lie.”

“He is that,” Daphne said with a laugh and then covered her mouth. “We must be quiet.”

He nodded and lowered his voice. “The boy came up to Owle Park this afternoon and offered to help.”

She shook her head. “I don’t see how he could.”

Henry’s eyes lit up with mischief. “His sister works here. She’s a chambermaid. Knows the house inside and out. She smuggled him and the rope up to the roof. Couldn’t manage the key. Still, it was all I needed. Some way to get inside, to get to you.”

“To rescue me,” she said, grinning at him. Her own knight-errant. Then she realized something else. “However do you intend to get me out?” She looked in horror at the rope hanging outside her window.

She rather preferred a rescue that involved the backstairs and a hasty retreat in a good carriage.

“I’m going to climb back out—”

Daphne was already shaking her head. “I can’t . . . I’ll never be able to—”

“You don’t have to. Roxley is going to come to the front door and insist you be released.”

“Whyever would Crispin release me just because the Earl of Roxley insists?”

“Once we are married, he’ll have no choice but to let my wife go.”

“Married?” she gasped.

“Yes, married,” he told her, his gaze searching her gaze for some sign of agreement. So to press his point—and also to reassure her he hadn’t gone stark raving mad—he opened up his coat