Page 4 of The Lady Knows Best

The milliner’s was only slightly less crowded than the pavement outside. As Bell pushed her way to the counter, Daphne hung back, content to daydream as she pretended to examine a display of gloves. A few moments later, her attention was caught by a gentleman who, though standing on the street, appeared to be looking right at her through the gilt-lettered shop window.

Fashionably and expensively dressed, Viscount Deveraux was the sort of man who always carried himself as if he knew how handsome he was, with his brown eyes, straight nose and sculpted jaw, and careless waves of dark blond hair just visible beneath the brim of his tall beaver hat. If the gossips could be believed, his looks were not all he had to offer the women who were willing to brave the scandal of being associated with such a rake.

He was accompanied this morning by his friend, the Earl of Ryland, who was dark-clad as usual and somber-faced. Lord Ryland was every inch the gentleman, surely a better friend than a man like Lord Deveraux deserved, but rumored to be too indebted to pursue a bride who did not bring a fortune.

Daphne had been introduced to both of them in passing at some event early in the Season. Lord Ryland had been flawlessly polite; Lord Deveraux, she was quite sure, had forgotten her name the moment it was spoken. He had hardly even met her eye.

So why was he now looking her up and down while wearing an unusually pleased expression?

When Lord Ryland spoke to him, drawing away his notice, she belatedly realized he had been studying his own reflection in the glass. His warm smile of approval had been all for himself.

Rolling her eyes, she dragged her gaze back to the gloves and began to make mental notes on her answer to Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square. This afternoon, she would find some way to send a draft to Lady Stalbridge.

“People call him ‘that devil Deveraux,’ you know.” Bell appeared at her elbow with a hatbox in each hand. At Daphne’s raised eyebrow, she laughed and gave a little shrug, as if to say, I couldn’t possibly be expected to choose. “They don’t even bother to whisper when they say it. I pity the girl he is going to marry.”

Daphne bobbed her head in agreement. The story sounded familiar, and why shouldn’t it? That particular affliction—a loveless, faithless union—was a common one around Town. At one and twenty, Daphne had hoped to avoid the indignity of the marriage mart entirely. But she couldn’t very well leave Bell to navigate the rake-infested waters of a London Season on her own.

Daphne followed her sister from the shop, eager to get home, review the letter from Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square, and begin writing out her answer. In her head, she tried out a few particularly cutting phrases sure to put the chess-playing rogue in his place. Occasionally, she caught her gaze wandering to the broad shoulders of the fair-haired gentleman several yards in front of her. Just the sort of devil she had in mind....

CHAPTER 2

A few days later

Miles, Viscount Deveraux, did not look up as booted footsteps approached and came to a stop beside his chair. Nor again when the fellow to whom the boots belonged said with an exasperated sigh, “I feared I’d find you here.”

Alistair Haythorne, the Earl of Ryland’s voice. Just what was needed to put the cap on this overflowing chamber pot of a day. Miles lifted his glass to his lips, intending to toss back another swallow or two.

But no brandy seared the back of his throat. When had he finished his drink?

Unrumpled as always, Alistair called for coffee, signaling to a waiter even as he plucked the empty tumbler from Miles’s hand with a grimace of distaste. Before Miles could curl his fingers into an answering fist, Alistair slapped a magazine against his palm, in place of the drink.

Miles blinked at the tattered paper cover, trying to bring the print into focus. “What’s this?”

“The explanation for your present misery.”

“If I am miserable at present,” Miles retorted defensively, pushing himself more upright in the deep leather chair, “blame the lack of brandy, not . . .” He squinted, blinked, squinted again. The letters danced before him. “. . . Mrs. Goode’s Magazine for Misshus—er, Misses.”

A ladies’ magazine? He could just make out some folderol about rational conduct and wisdom. He peered at Alistair in disbelief.

They’d known one another for . . . well, Miles’s head was in no condition to do sums. A very long time. Since they’d begun at Eton together. Three days into their first term, an older boy had made some snide remark that had caused Alistair’s slight shoulders to slump and tears to spring into his eyes. Miles—bold and comparatively brawny—had instinctively come to the smaller boy’s defense.

They’d both been soundly thrashed, first by the older boy and then by the headmaster. But out of their shared misery had sprung a lifelong, if unlikely, friendship. Alistair had seen to it that Miles passed most of his classes and, in recent years, took his seat in the House of Lords, at least on occasion; Miles had made sure Alistair hadn’t been picked last for every game of cricket and even coaxed him to indulge in a spot of fun, once in a while.

Miles prayed his old friend was having him on now. “And here I thought I was bearing up reasonably well under the latest news about bonnet trimmings for this season,” he said, tossing the ladies’ magazine onto the table. It knocked the empty tumbler onto the carpet before skidding to a halt.

Alistair didn’t smile. “You’re hiding in your club and drunk before noon.” He snatched up the magazine as a servant arrived with the coffee tray and deposited it on the table between them. When the servant bent to retrieve the glass from the floor, he and Alistair shared a glance that could only be described as commiseration. As soon as he’d gone, Alistair added in a lower voice, “And everyone knows why.”

“Word’s abroad that Miss Grey won’t have me, eh?” Miles blew out a breath and slumped low in the chair again.

He supposed it was inevitable that a notice in the morning edition of The Times calling off the wedding of the Season would spark chatter, no matter how small the print.

“Worse,” Alistair declared, making no effort to soften the blow. “Word’s abroad why Miss Grey won’t have you. And worst of all”—he gestured with the rolled-up magazine—“the news is circulating among the young ladies themselves.”

Miles eyed the magazine more intently, even as he wished Alistair would stop waving it about and making his head spin. “A gossip column can hardly be considered news.” He’d been the subject of tittle-tattle too often to muster anything like fear.

“If I were you, Deveraux,” Alistair cautioned, “I would not be quite so dismissive about this particular publication. Mrs. Goode’s Magazine for Misses may not have been around for long, but it’s earned quite a fearsome reputation.” His voice dropped lower. “It promotes freethinking and rule breaking among young ladies. Magazine for Mischief, people have even taken to calling it. Or worse, Goode’s Guide to Misconduct.”

Mrs. Goode, the formidable persona behind the popular if controversial book of domestic advice, Mrs. Goode’s Guide to Homekeeping, had evidently lent her name to the periodical. “Magazine for Misses . . .” Miles mused, recalling what he’d read on the cover. He leaned forward and sloshed some coffee into a cup. Ordinarily he would have added milk and sugar—he liked things sweet, especially his women—but today, the bitter draught just suited his mood. “Misses . . . misses’ conduct . . . misconduct—heh!” He laughed darkly.