And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,38

of this to the duke.”

“I won’t,” her friend swore.

Seeing the outright pessimism on Harriet’s face, Daphne had no choice but to continue on. “I was merely caught up in the romance of a ball and the very idea of meeting him. If I had been in a more sensible frame of mind, I would never have made such a mistake. The very idea! Lord Henry, indeed. Why, it is too ridiculous to consider.”

“Yes, well,” Tabitha mused, slanting a glance at Harriet. “Might I suggest that instead of hiding in here, you resume your search in person. We are all summoned outside.” She moved forward and plucked up Daphne’s notebook, handing it off to Pansy, who was hovering behind with Daphne’s hat and a shawl at the ready.

“Whatever is going on?” Daphne asked as Tabitha hustled her and Harriet through one long hall, and then another.

“House party obligations,” Harriet filled in from behind.

Daphne was about to protest that she had better tasks at hand than tea on the lawn or embroidery when Tabitha led them out the front door and down the steps.

To her amazement, the entire house party stood about the wide gravel mews of Owle Park. Out along the curved drive that lay beyond sat a collection of carriages, gigs and carts awaiting whatever the duke had planned.

But more to the point were the gentlemen.

Daphne’s gaze flitted from one to the next. “Is this all of them?”

Tabitha’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Yes. Much more revealing than guest lists and entries copied from Debrett’s.”

“Now all you must do is find him,” Harriet added, waving at Lady Essex, who was standing near another elderly matron.

It was at that moment that Daphne’s gaze came to an unwanted halt on Lord Henry.

He was strolling about through the throng of guests, and she could see why she might have mistaken him for Dishforth. There were glaring similarities between Preston’s uncle and her true love—certainly they shared the same sure stance and confident bearing she’d witnessed the other day on Christopher Street.

If only she had seen the man up close, for the more she looked around, she realized nearly all the men in attendance carried themselves thusly.

Good heavens, it was just her luck to be at the house party with every handsome man in England. So much for going by Phi’s near-sighted description.

“Have you been introduced to all of them, Tabitha?” she asked.

“I have,” she offered but said nothing more.

Harriet nudged her with her shoulder. “Stop being a tease and tell us who they are. Before Daphne trips you.”

Tabitha smirked. “She wouldn’t dare try that stunt twice.”

Daphne ignored them both and marched down the steps, her friends following her quickly.

Once they’d finished laughing.

As they strolled across the yard, Mr. Muggins following at their heels, Daphne tipped her head ever so slightly toward the first man before them. “Whoever is that?”

“Which one?” Tabitha asked, shielding her eyes.

Harriet laughed. “The one who looks like a pirate.”

For indeed there was a gentleman who did resemble a privateer of old—from his rugged, tanned countenance, his untamed crop of dark hair, to the nonchalance of his dress. He leaned heavily on a cane but at the same time gestured wildly as he conversed with another man.

“That is Captain Bramston,” Tabitha told them.

“Bramston?!” Harriet gasped. “The Captain Bramston?”

All three ladies gazed over at England’s newest hero. Daphne knew the name well, for his naval daring had figured prominently in the papers for years, and his prominence had continued once he’d been sent home to London to recuperate.

“He is a cousin or some such to Lady Juniper and Lord Henry, on their mother’s side. He also brought his sister, Lady Clare,” Tabitha supplied as they continued past the captain, who doffed his hat and winked as they passed.

“So he’s not a Seldon, then,” Daphne remarked.

Harriet let out a low whistle. “He’s handsome enough to be one.”

“And a bit devilish,” Daphne noted, wondering if perhaps behind all the man’s bluster lay Dishforth’s sensible soul. It didn’t seem possible, so she moved to the next possible candidate. “And who is that with the captain?”

“Believe it or not, the Earl of Rawcliffe,” Tabitha told them.

“Rawcliffe?” they both gasped, their gazes pivoting back to the man who, in Kempton, was as infamous as he was absent. The earl held the living that had been Tabitha’s father’s until his death, and that Tabitha’s uncle, Reverend Timmons, now held.

“Yes, he’s back in England. Has been since the beginning of the Season. Preston mentioned seeing him at White’s, and