And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,52
venture a guess as to how long the old girl might have left, knowing Zillah she’d give it her all and last another quarter of a century, if only to make good on a grudge.
“I had a bit of a dustup with the viscount,” he admitted. He didn’t have to say which one.
“You not only crossed the line but you also managed to happen upon him?” Preston said, raking his hand through his hair and beginning to stalk about the room.
“Yes, I fear so,” Henry told him, his gaze following the duke warily.
“What is this?” Zillah demanded, her hand cupped to her ear.
His sister was more than willing to enlighten her, for it hadn’t taken her long to catch up. “Apparently, Henry strayed across the boundary onto Langdale, Auntie.”
Zillah’s eyes widened. And then she let fly. “Lord Henry Arthur George Baldwin Seldon! How could you? There are just three rules we Seldons live by—”
Oh, no, Henry winced. Not the rules.
She held up her bony fingers and ticked them off in order. “A Seldon serves his king. He does his duty by his family. And he never, I mean ever, crosses that line.”
“Yes, right, but it isn’t well marked,” Henry said in his defense, not that any of them were listening.
“What happened?” Preston demanded in a voice that reminded one and all he was the duke.
Henry related Crispin’s demands and Miss Dale’s obstinate refusal to acquiesce.
“I despise that man,” Hen said, shaking her head.
“You made much the same observation about Michaels,” Henry reminded her.
Hen’s nose wrinkled. “At least he wasn’t a Dale.”
“Might as well have been,” Zillah muttered.
They all ignored her, no matter that they agreed.
“What do you think will come of this?” Preston asked.
“Miss Dale believes he will write Damaris Dale.”
All four Seldons shuddered at the mention of that lady’s name.
“How unfortunate burning witches has gone out of fashion,” Zillah said, spitting at the coals in the grate like one would to ward off an evil spirit.
No one argued with her.
Henry weighed his next words carefully. There was still the matter of Mr. Muggins’s indiscretion . . . but perhaps that would be better mentioned after dinner. And after Preston had partaken in a brandy or two.
“Miss Dale believes that once her family is apprised of her whereabouts, someone will be dispatched to bring her home.”
Hen got to her feet. “Are you suggesting her parents are unaware she is here?”
“So it seems.”
His sister sank back down into her chair, white-faced at the very thought of it. “Whyever would she come here against her family’s wishes?”
“Tabitha is her best friend,” Preston said, raising a defense for Miss Dale. For whatever reason, he held a soft spot when it came to this particular Dale, for this wasn’t the first time he’d championed her cause. “I suspect she was willing to set aside tradition to see her best friend married.”
Hen nodded in concession, but Henry held his tongue.
He wasn’t about to voice his own suspicions until he had some concrete proof.
If Daphne Dale was . . . was . . . her . . . his Miss Spooner . . . Henry stilled. No, it couldn’t be true. Even if he’d been all but convinced as much the night of the ball. Yet now he knew that had been a grave mistake, one he didn’t want to repeat.
All he had to do was prove Miss Dale’s uncanny choice of words was mere happenstance.
Like her choice of that blasted red gown.
Or her sudden inexplicable appearance at a Seldon house party.
Henry flinched as the evidence began to mount against him.
Zillah, who’d been nodding again, jerked back awake. “Whyever are we discussing Damaris Dale?”
“Her niece is here,” Hen explained. “Miss Dale. You met her earlier.”
“Dale?” Zillah shook her head. “I thought her name was Hale.” This time she turned her wrath on Preston—a deliverance of sorts for Henry. “Good heavens, young man!” she bleated. “That you have to lower yourself to include Dales just to fill out your house party convinces me you’ve brought this family to the very depths of shame.” She squinted at Preston, then at the others, and then sort of nodded off again.
Much to everyone’s relief.
“How long do we have?” Preston asked quietly, sneaking a glance at their great-aunt to make sure she was still dozing.
“A fortnight at the most, I imagine,” Henry said.
“Unless Crispin Dale decides to come storming over here beforehand, if only to make a scene,” Hen pointed out.
She needn’t sound so pleased with the notion. Then again, there