And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake (25 page)

Because the lad by the fire was as stricken by them as if he had been the one abandoned. And so he improvised, if only to stop her crying—or so he later claimed, for he supposed his efforts would help the cause.

“He didn’t leave alone,” he told her. “He left with a woman. A right fancy one. He wasn’t the right one for you, miss. Not in the least.”

The room stilled. Completely and utterly. As if there wasn’t even a whiff of air in it. Not even the fire made a crackle. For there, in the middle of all this silence, was this grand bouncer, this unthinkable addition to Henry’s carefully wrought plans.

A grand herring of a fish tale that had one and all gaping—each for their own reasons.

And of course, it was Daphne who recovered first. “He left with a lady?”

“Yes,” the lad told her. “Oh, a beautiful, fancy lady.” He glanced over at Henry, as if expecting a nod of encouragement. And, not even waiting for that, he barreled on. “The lady, she wept when she arrived and found him here. Then the gentleman, a more handsome fellow you can’t imagine, he called her his ‘perfect love’ and begged for her hand in marriage. When she said ‘yes,’ he kissed her. Right here.” The boy pointed at his cheek. “Then she wept some more, and finally he summoned his driver and they left.” And if that wasn’t enough, he hastily added, “Oh, it was a grand sight to witness. The lady and gentleman so handsome and riding away in such a grand carriage. One fit for a king.”

Henry sank onto the nearest bench. For what could he do? Confess right now as she gaped dumbfounded at the lad and looked ready to faint? Tell her he’d lied and deceived her, if only to gain her hand?

But Henry soon found out that he didn’t know Daphne Dale all that well.

She whirled to the innkeeper. “That carriage, the one outside—”

“Yes, miss—”

“It’s for hire, isn’t it?”

“Yes, miss, but—”

“Then I would like to hire it.”

“You, miss?” He glanced up at Henry as if he didn’t know what to do first. Other than toss his romantically inclined stable lad down the nearest well.

Henry straightened, a terrible suspicion knotting in his gut.
No. She wouldn’t.

“Yes, I would like to hire it,” Daphne told the man, drawing out her reticule and pulling out the necessary coins. “I’ll need the fastest set you have so I can overtake Mr. Dishforth.”

Oh, yes, she would.

“You want to overtake him, miss?”

“But of course,” she replied.

Henry got to his feet. “Miss Dale, you cannot think to go after him—”

“But I must. There has been a terrible mistake, and I must save him.”

“Save him?” Henry and the innkeeper said at the same time, like a disbelieving chorus.

Henry’s Shakespearean comedy had taken a horribly tragic Greek turnabout.

Miss Dale gave them both a look of utter indignation. “But of course. Who else can save him but me? Someone must tell poor, simple, misled Mr. Dishforth that he has eloped with the wrong bride.”

Chapter 14

Miss Spooner, I have never been in love before. You’ll excuse me if—at some point—I make a terrible muddle of all of this, won’t you?

Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner

Owle Park

Eight hours later

“I
’m coming with you.”

Preston found Hen, valise in hand and jaw set, blocking his path to the front door. He looked over her shoulder to where his traveling coach waited in the drive beyond and frowned.

Hen’s expression was just as grim and determined. “He is my brother and I will see his reputation put to rights.”

“His reputation?” Preston shook his head. He didn’t have time for this.

Suddenly Zillah came marching up and took a stand beside Hen. “Well, of course, Henry’s reputation! He’s obviously been lured. Perhaps even drugged.” The old girl glanced up at Hen. “I’ve never believed that nonsense that Cornelius Seldon went willingly with that mad-as-a-hatter Doria Dale.”

Tabitha looked ready to leap into this squabble, if only to defend her bosom bow, but Preston cut her off. They would all need each other in the coming days and weeks, and this sniping didn’t serve anyone.

“You two,” he said, wagging a finger at Hen and Zillah, “need to reconcile yourselves to the fact that Henry is in love with Miss Dale—”

When they both looked ready to erupt in a bevy of protests, he summoned his most ducal glare.

Which, to his shock, actually worked. At least for now.

“Be advised that the only course for Henry and Miss Dale is to see them married. To each other,” he finished, making sure to close any loopholes.

“Married?!” This might have been a duet of protest, but a third voice had chimed in.

For there on the front steps had suddenly appeared none other than Crispin, Viscount Dale. “Married?” he repeated. “Over my dead body.”

“That can easily be arranged,” Zillah muttered.

Out from behind Tabitha came Mr. Muggins, who, spying his former adversary, let out a warning growl.

“Now what is all this?” Crispin demanded. “Where is my cousin?”

“Gone!” Hen told him. “She lured my dear brother to his ruin.”

“Lured? Daphne?” Lord Dale sputtered with indignation. “More like she was kidnapped!”

“Kidnapped!” came yet another protest from behind Crispin. “Where is my dearest niece?”

This was probably the first time Damaris Dale had ever uttered that phrase in reference to Daphne, but it wasn’t something the Seldons would know.

The tall, willowy figure of a matron came up the steps and took her place at Crispin’s side. In her wake hurried a slight young woman in the plain hand-me-down gown of a companion. She maintained a respectful distance a few steps down.

“I said, where is my niece?” the older woman repeated.

All three Seldons stilled, chilled to their marrow.

“Damaris!” Zillah hissed.

The Dale matriarch flicked a glance in her direction, then sniffed. Loudly. “Zillah. I didn’t think you were still alive.”

The pair eyed each other like old sparring partners, until Damaris’s gaze wavered over toward Mr. Muggins.

“Still breeding mongrels, are we?” She sniffed at the overgrown terrier. Then, having had enough of the Seldons, Damaris turned her attention to the viscount. “Where is our Daphne?”

“Gone,” he bit out. “Stolen by Lord Henry.”

“The ruinous, evil fiend!” she announced before she turned to her companion. “Summon Bow Street. Send word to Derby Dale in the Home Office that we have need of him. I’ll have Lord Henry Seldon dragged and tried through the courts until he’s—”

“Aunt Damaris, this is not helping,” Crispin told her.

And wonders upon wonders, she stopped and bowed her head slightly in deference, though she hardly looked pleased at being interrupted.

Then Harriet Hathaway, who up until now had been watching the drama play out from the grand staircase, waded into the fray. “Daphne hasn’t run away with Lord Henry but with Mr. Dishforth.”

“Dishforth?” they all said in a loud chorus.

Especially Hen, whose eyes went wide at the mention of the man’s name.

The duke cringed. Oh, demmit, this was going to be the devil’s own puzzle to explain.

Not that he had an explanation to give. He was of the same mind as Damaris Dale and inclined to send Bow Street after Henry. Or some sturdy hands from Bedlam.

“How the devil—”

“Who the devil—”

“When I catch this rogue!”

Everyone set up a clamor demanding answers, save Preston and Hen. And Tabitha noticed. “What do the two of you know of this Mr. Dishforth?”

Hen and Preston shared a guilty look.

“Preston!” Tabitha said in a tone that would stand her good stead once she was his duchess. “Who is this Dishforth?”

“There is no Dishforth,” Preston admitted, while Hen threw her hands up in the air and began pacing in tight circles as if she was trying to unravel all of this.

“But there must be,” Harriet insisted. “Daphne has been corresponding with him. Mr. Dishforth placed an advertisement in the paper seeking a wife. And Daphne answered it. They have been exchanging letters ever since. Here is one of the letters he wrote just recently.”

Hen rushed forward and took the paper from Harriet. After a quick glance, the color rushed from her face. “Oh, no! This cannot be. Not Dishforth! The demmed rogue.”

“Why, he seemed quite respectable when I met him,” Damaris’s bespectacled companion piped up.

When all eyes turned on the girl, she blushed deeply, already regretting her hasty words. “I warned Daphne this would all turn out bad,” she said in her own defense. “Tried to convince her—”

“We will discuss this later, Philomena,” Damaris told her.

Hen, meanwhile, had turned back to Preston and was shaking the note under his nose. “You know what this is, what this means.”

“What does it mean?” Tabitha asked, her solemn question lending a moment of calm to the rising panic in Hen’s voice.

“It’s Henry’s handwriting,” Preston told her, told all of them.

“Oh, I knew it all along!” Harriet declared. “Lord Henry is Mr. Dishforth. How perfect!”

Though as it turned out, no else seemed to be sharing her joy.

Especially not Damaris Dale. She rounded on Preston. “Now, Your Grace, explain all this. Immediately.” Her cane came down with a sharp rap.

Preston didn’t have time, for Hen, having added it all up, now turned on him, fury in her eyes. “That abominable advertisement of yours! This is all your doing,” she blasted, wagging an accusing finger at the duke. “You
and
Roxley.” She cast a disparaging glance at the earl, who was lounging on the stairs.

Roxley shrugged, as if he hadn’t the slightest notion of what she was saying. But he also did so as he took two steps back up the stairs, distancing himself from this growing scandal.

And then Preston explained all he knew—about the ad, about Henry’s part in all of it—with Tabitha, Harriet and Philomena filling in Daphne’s portion.

“I should have known
you
had a hand in this disgrace.” Lady Damaris wagged an aggrieved finger at Preston, sparing Roxley just a shuddering glance for his part. “Now tell me once and for all, where has your uncle taken my niece?”

“Gretna Green, I imagine,” Preston told her.

Damaris’s eyes widened, then narrowed into two tight slits. “I should have known. This is all my fault for turning a blind eye to Daphne’s stubborn determination to keep such company.” This was followed with a scathing glance at Tabitha.

“Never fear, Aunt Damaris,” Crispin told her, taking her hand. “I shall get our Daphne back.” Then he turned to Preston. “And woe be it to Lord Henry when I get my hands on him.”

“Is that necessary?” Preston demanded. “After all, we have every reason to believe they are in love.”

Honestly, he had no idea if that was true or not, but it was a far sight better than unleashing another civil war between their families.

Besides, the Seldons were sadly outnumbered.

“Love!
Harrumph
!” Damaris wagged a bony finger at them. “Be well reminded of what happened to Kendrick Seldon when he lured Miss Delicia Dale into an ill-advised elopement.”

With that said, the old girl turned and stormed over to her carriage, Crispin and Philomena in her wake.

Roxley had come down the steps to stand beside Preston, most likely to gain a better vantage point. He leaned over and asked, “Whatever happened to this Kendrick fellow?”

Preston told him, though not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

But the meaning of his words were clear as Roxley blanched, then flinched, his hand going to cover the upper part of his breeches, as if to ward off such a fate.

The Hornbill & Cross, Manchester Road

Twenty-four hours later

“A
nd that’s the whole story,” the posting lad told the overflowing room at the inn in Bradnop. He had arrived from Swinescote with the tale, having heard it from the lad who rode between Swinescote and Mackworth. “There isn’t a soul up and down the road who hasn’t heard of them. The runaway lovers. They say the lady is ever-so-pretty. She has eyes like June bells.”

There were sighs from some of the ladies, guffaws from the old duffers with their half-filled tankards.

“I don’t get them toffs,” a gruff old drover said from his stool near the fire. “Why doesn’t he just tell ’er there is no other fellow? That this Dishworth—”

“Dishforth,” the lad corrected.

“Eh, Dishworth, Dishforth, what does it matter if the plain truth is he don’t exist?”

“Oh, but Sulley, he does,” the serving girl told him. “Didn’t you listen to Timmy’s tale? Dishforth is this Lord Henry, and he must love his lady ever so much to go to such lengths to win her heart.”

Spitting into the fire, Sulley shook his head. “Well, this lady is going to find out the truth soon enough, that she’s been right deceived, and see if she doesn’t toss this fellow into the nearest ditch.”

There were nods about the room, including a solemn one from the innkeeper’s wife, who swung her ample hips easily through the crowded room as she refilled pitchers. “Right you are, Sulley,” she agreed as she topped off his cup.

Sulley grinned at the crowd and raised his tankard in triumph. Such a sight was a rare thing to see, considering Sulley had always been one of the most cantankerous coachmen on Manchester Road.

“Don’t you be taking on airs, John Sulley,” she scolded. “It is as fine a tale as I ever heard. And deservin’ of our help.”

“Help?” he sputtered, sending froth all over the front of his coat.

“Yes, help,” she said, casting a firm glare about the room. “We are going to help this gentleman win his lady love.”

“How can we do that, Mrs. Graham?” the lad asked, sitting up straight on his stool, eyes alight with the promise of mischief.

“By getting Mr. Dishforth to Gretna Green.”

“I think you’ve been drinking a bit too much of your own brew, missus,” Sulley told her. “There is no Mr. Dishforth.”

“There is now,” she said. And then she explained exactly what needed to be done.

S
imple.
Miss Dale thought Dishforth a simpleton.

Lord Henry crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in the seat of the hired carriage, glaring at the countryside whirling past.

To make matters worse, he had the sneaking suspicion she was utterly correct.

Dishforth was a simpleton. Which meant in actuality that he—as in Lord Henry Seldon—was a fool.

For what sort of man would find himself dashing toward Gretna Green with the woman he loved, but not, as one might suspect, with the intention of making a runaway marriage but to stop a man who didn’t exist from eloping with the figment of a stablehand’s overly fertile imagination?

The entire scenario was giving Lord Henry a severe megrim.

But obviously not one painful enough to get him to confess the truth.

For God’s sake, tell her everything,
he could almost hear Preston’s stern voice saying.

Lord Henry blew out a breath. Oh, yes, that would be sensible.
Miss Dale, you are chasing after a phantom. I know this because I am your beloved Dishforth. I have led you on this merry, ruinous adventure in hopes of your coming to your senses and realizing that I am the only man for you.

She’d kick him out of the carriage. Most likely on a blind corner. With some sharp object imbedded in his back—if she was feeling merciful.

Worse, he’d end up like Kendrick Seldon.

Henry flinched and then shuddered.

However had he gotten so mired into this tangle?

He glanced across the carriage to where Daphne sat, serene and calm, hands folded in her lap and eyes bright as she looked out the window.

She was the epitome of beguiling—one fair curl peeking out from beneath her bonnet, fluttering slightly in the breeze, a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and those lush pink lips of hers, the curve of which tempted a man to haul her close and kiss her senseless.

Well, tempted him, at the very least. Tempted him more than he cared to admit.

He knew what the seventh duke would tell him to do.

Kiss her, then follow it with a rousing session of tupping.
That solves any number of difficulties with the female persuasion. A good tupping always does.

Henry would argue that it had been kissing that had gotten him into this mess.

But who could blame him? She possessed the wiles of a courtesan and the eyes of a siren. One look, one glance and she’d entangled him, with no hope of escape.

At least not alive. He grimaced again.

“Lord Henry, is something on your mind?” she asked, peering up at him from beneath the brim of her bonnet.

Here it is . . . your chance. Screw up your courage, man, and tell her.

But while he was a Seldon through and through—for wasn’t he leading her to complete ruin with every passing mile?—the Seldons had one weakness.

They were horrible at confessing the truth. Especially when it came to love. His only hope was that she would grow weary of this chase and call it off. Disavow Dishforth. And then the field would be clear for him to . . .