And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,84

again resorting to a solicitor’s meandering ways. “Besides, I’ve had mistresses in the past.”

Preston sighed, looking a bit bored. “Yes, but you’ve hardly ever been in a fix over one of them.”

“I am not in ‘a fix.’ ”

“So you keep saying, but let us look at the facts.” Preston held up one hand. “Late nights.” He ticked off one finger. “Haunting the salver.” Another fell. “And composing business letters that should be the domain of your secretary, but for whatever reason you are insisting on composing them yourself so they remain private.” The third finger went down, and it was as if a spark lit inside the duke as he tallied the facts at hand.

Henry watched in horror as the duke silently mouthed that last word again, as if testing it. Private.

Preston shook his head. “No. That advertisement! Oh, you didn’t?! It cannot be.”

Without a ducal glare to call upon or the practiced gambler’s instincts to help him, Henry’s expression must have given Preston every bit of confirmation he needed.

He caught Henry by the elbow and towed him to the other side of the room, well out of earshot. “Tell me you didn’t answer one of those demmed lonely hearts letters.”

Gone was the mocking light in Preston’s eyes, his larkish demeanor having fled. Panic marked his every word.

Because for all their teasing and ribbing back and forth, they were family. And they were all they had.

And Henry knew this, even as he suddenly longed to confide in someone. Because it was exactly as Preston had said: he was in over his head.

Not just with the letters and Miss Spooner. There was Miss Dale as well.

“I had no intention—” he began.

Preston paled. Actually grew a bit white. His mouth opened as if he had something to say, but nothing came out.

Henry couldn’t have shocked his nephew more if he had claimed to have taken up with the Princess Royal.

“But it isn’t like you think,” he continued hastily on. In for a penny, in for a pound . . .

“Hen doesn’t—” Preston began.

“No!” Henry shuddered.

“Yes, of course not. If she knew, she would have wrung your neck by now.” Preston scratched his chin and drew a deep breath. “Tell me everything.”

Knowing this was the best course, Henry spilled the entire story, starting from the moment the letter had fallen from the basket until he’d arrived at his present predicament.

Though he left out everything to do with Miss Dale. There was confession, and then there was finding oneself being carted off to Bedlam.

And Henry knew the difference.

“Do you know which of the ladies it is?”

“That’s just it,” Henry confessed. “I haven’t the slightest notion.” So this wasn’t quite the truth either. He could hardly tell Preston that he suspected it was Daphne Dale.

Rather hoped it was. Then again, it could be Miss Nashe.

His dismay must have shown on his face. But luckily for Henry, if there was anyone who could see a way out of this mire, it was Preston. And it turned out he had just the solution.

“And you say this gel is in the library, right now, waiting for you?”

“Yes. At least that’s the plan.”

“That’s excellent news,” Preston said, his eyes once again alight with mischief.

“Excellent for you, perhaps—you aren’t the one who has to endure the surprise and possible shock of it.”

“Who says you have to go into the room not knowing who your Miss Dishes—”

“Spooner.”

“Yes, yes, Spooner. Who says you have to go in uninformed? You always are going on and on about how one can’t go into a partnership without knowing exactly who you are doing business with—”

“Certainly,” Henry agreed. “But what does that have to do with finding out who Miss Spooner is?”

“Everything,” Preston said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go see who this lady love of yours is.”

Henry caught him by the arm. “You are not going in there with me.”

“I have no intention of doing that. Would make you look like an utter coward, arriving with a second and all. But I would think a man of your business inclinations wouldn’t mind arriving forearmed.”

“Preston, whatever are you going on about?”

And so the duke told him.

Daphne didn’t know whether she was disappointed or relieved when she entered the library and found no one in there.

“If anything, I have a few moments to compose myself,” she said to Mr. Muggins as they both looked about the large, well-appointed room.

It was all as it had been this morning when she’d penned her note to Dishforth. Bookshelves lined three