Page 55 of The Lady Knows Best

Frost dipped his head, revealing nothing about whether the news surprised or dismayed him, as was only fitting. “Very good, ma’am. I’ll see to it that your things are sent up—including a dish of milk. Will there be anything else?”

“Hot water?”

“Already ordered, ma’am. Dinner will be at six o’clock. In the meantime, shall I send some up refreshments, or would you prefer to take tea in the winter parlor, with Lady Deveraux?”

Those two words drove the air from her lungs. Lady Deveraux. He was already married? Then what sort of game had he been playing—the wager, Miss Grey, all of it?

It’s probably his mother, her brain interjected rationally, trying to calm her racing pulse.

But he’s an orphan, some other part of her countered. Everyone knows that. It’s said to be why he’s so wild.

“Who is—?” Bell began. Leave it to her to cut right to the heart of the matter, even if it required interrogating servants.

Lady Stalbridge, who was still standing in the doorway to her own chamber, cut across Bell’s question. “Tea in the winter parlor sounds lovely,” she said, in a perfectly cool and collected manner. “In half an hour? Will that suit her ladyship?”

“Of course, my lady.” Frost explained where the winter parlor was to be found. “I’ll see to your things,” he finished, though he waited for Daphne’s nod of dismissal, which required a nudge from Bell.

“But who is Lady Deveraux?” Bell demanded to know as soon as the butler was out of earshot.

“Lord Deveraux’s grandmother,” said Lady Stalbridge, with an indulgent though slightly annoyed glance toward her husband. “Apparently.”

“I met her,” said Lord Stalbridge, “several years ago. When I first inherited the earldom, I took a notion to introduce myself to all my new neighbors—Ferncliffe is only seventeen miles from here. When I called at Lyneham Park, Lord Deveraux was away from home. I had the pleasure of making Lady Deveraux’s acquaintance instead. I would have mentioned her, but I assumed you already knew, Miss Burke—and of course, there was always the possibility that she was no longer . . .” He made a circle in the air with one hand, rather than speak the morbid words aloud. “She was elderly and frail, even then. But an extraordinary woman. She raised him, you know. Your betrothed.”

Daphne could only shake her head. Being brought up in the country by one’s grandmother was not the sort of life experience one bragged about to cement one’s status as a rake.

“She must be so proud of the man he’s become,” said Lady Stalbridge. Her tone of voice made it impossible to determine whether she meant the words to be sincere or cutting.

And on that note, they all retreated into their separate chambers to freshen up before tea.

“His grandmother,” Bell repeated with a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking her head as she unhooked the catch on Eileen’s basket and set the cat free to roam. “Do you know, for a moment I thought—”

“You’ve been reading too many novels,” Daphne chided, rather than reveal her own alarm. Her heart was still racing, though now the speed of her pulse was driven as much by guilt as surprise. Had she really imagined he’d lured her here, like the villain in some gothic romance, even extended an invitation to the most powerful and protective members of her family, all the while plotting to commit bigamy under his wife’s nose?

She was in danger of putting too much stock in her own essay.

In a matter of moments, trunks, bags, and cannisters of hot water began to arrive. Daphne washed her face and, with a maid’s assistance, changed into a dress of sprigged muslin that Cami’s lady’s maid had packed with special care to avoid it becoming wrinkled on the journey. “You will want to look nice from the start,” she had insisted, “without waiting for some poor girl to heat an iron.”

While the same maid assisted Bell in changing her gown, Daphne strolled to the window and looked down. She wasn’t quite sure what she had expected of Lyneham Park, but a garden that put the Dowager Duchess of Raynham’s to shame hadn’t been a part of it. It was a large house, but not so big that one could never really feel comfortable. Impressive without any sign of showiness—unless one counted the riot of roses below. Even then, the flowers were restrained by borders of carefully trimmed shrubbery.

This sort of home and estate weren’t maintained through absence and indifference. Someone cared a great deal. And even if that someone was the steward, he still would be acting on the wishes of—

She snapped off the thought—or tried to. Rather like a green twig, it bent instead of breaking.

She did not know how to reconcile this place with the Miles she knew.

Or, more accurately, with the Miles Miss Busy B. had created.

Perhaps the answer lay in Lady Deveraux’s character. Perhaps she was a dragon who demanded everything here be kept in perfect order and who had the servants trembling to fulfill her every unreasonable wish. Perhaps she had exerted such terrible authority that Miles had been driven to escape as soon as he could, been driven to rebel against the rules, to sample every pleasure that had been forbidden to him. . . .

“Are you ready?” Daphne called out impatiently to Bell, eager to test her hypothesis.

“Not quite. Go along without me,” Bell urged. “I don’t wish to keep Lord and Lady Stalbridge waiting, and I’m sure I can find my way.”

With a nod of understanding and agreement, Daphne stepped across the corridor to discover that Lord and Lady Stalbridge’s trunks had only just been brought up—precedence had been given, quite unaccountably, to fetching and unpacking Daphne’s things.

“There must have been some misunderstanding,” she began.

But Lady Stalbridge waved away her explanation. “It’s quite natural that you be the guest of honor,” she said. “Go along. We shan’t be a moment.”