And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,66

to the room, he could hear Miss Nashe’s voice, slightly raised from its usually well-modulated tones.

Something about the pinched notes gave Henry pause, and so instead of returning to the room, or getting caught lolling about the door, as if he’d been eavesdropping, he slipped into the butler’s pantry to the side.

The footman standing near the slightly opened door gave a bit of a start. Apparently Henry wasn’t the only one intrigued by the conversation inside.

Instead of chiding the man for listening in—how could he when he had every intention of doing the very same thing?—he whispered to the fellow, “Will you go see if cook has some more scones baked?”

Thus dismissed, the footman yielded the prime spot at the door, and Henry stepped up to where he could hear Miss Nashe saying in a smug, loud voice, “A girl in your situation and a man of his wealth and lands, why wouldn’t you set your cap so far above your station?”

Henry bristled with annoyance. How dare this mushroom accuse Miss Dale of such toady behavior, when clearly it was Miss Nashe who was scraping and clawing her way above her lot in life.

Miss Dale was, after all, a Dale, something Henry could appreciate.

For while the Seldons and the Dales might disdain each other, never once when England had been threatened had the two families ever shirked their duties. They’d stood shoulder to shoulder at Agincourt, in the fields of Flodden, and at Bosworth and Blenheim.

Something the Nashes couldn’t claim.

Miss Dale had the blood of heroes in her veins. So who was this Miss Nashe to snub her? Who was this dressed-up cit who had Society all a-dither? Quite frankly, he’d rather kiss a Dale.

Henry paused. Oh, bother. He already had.

And it seemed the puffed-up heiress wasn’t done.

“Miss Dale, you seem quite intelligent despite your lack of finish and must know the only reason you are here, in this company, is because of Miss Timmons’s dear and simple affection for her former friends.”

Once again, Henry held back from bursting into the room, for he was quite certain, nay he was completely positive, Miss Dale would give this chit the set-down she deserved.

He stole a peek in the room, listening to Miss Nashe’s haughty opinions, and never once did Miss Dale bat an eye or give way to the dark emotions that were certainly bubbling up in Henry’s chest.

No, she sat there, serene and calm. Hands folded in her lap, her expression bland.

Then he remembered something his mother had told Hen on more than one occasion, especially when faced with the censure that often came of being a Seldon: A true lady never lowers herself to argue with her lessers. A well-bred lady always rises above the rabble.

And apparently it was a dictum that Miss Daphne Dale held as well. But of course she would. She was a lady.

Just then, Miss Nashe gathered up her belongings and went marching from the room, as if she held the higher ground.

He was about to push the door open and congratulate Miss Dale on her noble composure when he heard her sputter, “As if I’m chasing Lord Henry!” There was once again the indignant rattle of china. “Nor am I lingering after the man.”

Henry felt a bit chagrined. She needn’t sound adamant. And bother it all, who the devil was she talking to?

Taking a peek, he found her ruffling Mr. Muggin’s bristled head, confessing her secrets to the mutt.

Go in there, a very Seldon voice inside him urged.

“And say what?” he whispered back. Because if he went in there now, he knew what he’d find out.

For hadn’t his list of possible suspects gone down to a single name?

A name he dared not say aloud for fear his heart would hear it and refuse to let go.

Chapter 9

I’m ever so glad. I try to be above such things, but I will confess a longing for silk gowns and a handsome partner in life.

Found in a letter from Miss Spooner to Mr. Dishforth

Somewhere in Owle Park, someone was playing a piano. Not the distinct tinkling of a lady at the pianoforte, but a grand piano being played with passion. The music—full of longing and desire—lured Daphne from her determined course to find a copy of Debrett’s.

Whoever could play with such fire?

She wandered through the maze of halls and wings with Mr. Muggins at her heels. The terrier cast more than one glance at her that said very clearly that she was going in the wrong direction