And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,114

guiding the children inside for the luncheon, then back to her husband. “Tonight,” she whispered.

There had been many such nights since their madcap wedding. After Preston had finally coerced the vicar into marrying them, there had been the scene with Crispin and Damaris.

At first, the viscount had been incredulous at Roxley’s demands, even when the earl had produced the signed and witnessed Special License, as well as the trembling vicar to attest to the validity of the marriage. But after opening Daphne’s door and finding a grinning Henry Seldon in her bedroom, that had been all the evidence Crispin Dale had needed to wash his hands of his sullied cousin.

Oh, their marriage had caused more than just a dustup; even Daphne’s parents had refused to acknowledge the newlyweds. Hen wouldn’t speak to either of them for months, not until they’d announced that Daphne was increasing. That also managed to ease the tensions with the Dales—for being a prolific lot, the Dales adored children. Lots of them.

Daphne’s parents were the first to send their congratulations.

And Zillah? Well, Zillah had been the most shocking.

For they hadn’t heard a word from her in over a year, until the gossip made the rounds that a little Seldon would be making his or her debut in the spring. And then Zillah had arrived, knitting in hand, and with all her trunks.

For while the Dales were prolific, the Seldons regarded babies as something close to the second coming. And Zillah was going to be there when this newest Seldon arrived.

Then Zillah had stayed, she and Daphne finding much in common in their love of the growing brood. The Seldon relic had lived happily with them at Stowting Mote until just this past winter, when the old girl had finally gone in her sleep, a quiet, peaceful ending to a long and scandalous life.

The children missed the old girl and the hours they’d spent with her by the piano listening to her play.

That was the reason for this journey north. Zillah had left them a collection of houses, this last one in Scotland, of all places.

“I had no idea she had so much property,” Henry had said, shaking his head when the solicitor had brought her will to the house. Six in all. One for each of their children, and a spare one in Scotland that they’d decided to go visit.

“Shall we?” Daphne asked, tugging his thoughts back to the present.

“Yes, of course,” Henry said. Taking her hand in his, they walked into the public room, only to find the entire place packed, nearly every bench and stool filled.

Henry had never seen an inn so crowded.

“Mama, it’s him! It’s—” young Harriet whispered as she caught her mother’s hand and pulled her forward.

The boys shushed their sister and stopped her rush to tattle, but now the cat was out of the bag.

“Who, Harry?” Henry asked, brushing his hand over his daughter’s fair head. “Who is it?”

The children shared a guilty glance until Christopher, the eldest, piped up. “Mr. Dishforth.”

“Wha-a—at?” Henry and Daphne said at once.

Harriet pointed to a spot near the fireplace where an old man sat hunched on a stool, the entire room fixed on his every word.

“How can this—” Henry began, but all around them, the crowd added their own “Ssshh!” to stop his words, while Daphne gaped in wonder.

“So I stole my dearest Adelaide away from the villainous nobleman who had locked her away, and we rode north—” the old man was saying.

Henry was about to get up and protest when he spied the mischievous light in Daphne’s eyes and so he followed her lead and listened to the tale of Abernathy Dishforth and his dearest Adelaide. The story vaguely resembled their mad-cap dash, for this one contained a host of villains: highwaymen, broken wheels, their carriage nearly tumbling down a rocky ravine.

The crowd around them listened avidly, cheering when the couple made it to Gretna Green, and there was hardly a dry eye in the house as Mr. Dishforth related Adelaide’s sad passing of late.

Henry leaned forward and whispered in Daphne’s ear, “This is the devil who’s been dunning me all these years.”

For indeed, several times a year, bills from inns and public houses along Manchester Road would arrive addressed to Lord Henry Seldon for the expense and care of one Abernathy Dishforth.

Henry and Daphne had long suspected that someone, a con artist of sorts, had heard their story all those years ago and occasionally put the tale to good use. Now it seemed