Page 56 of The Lady Knows Best

So Daphne made her way alone to the far end of the corridor, where Frost had told her she would find the winter parlor. Contrary to its cold, gloomy name, it was a bright, window-filled room that had clearly been fitted up for a lady’s enjoyment, with delicate furniture and walls papered in wide, cheerful stripes of butter yellow and apple green, the least wintry shades imaginable.

Two women were seated near one another in a pair of chairs facing a window and the garden below. When Daphne entered, the woman on the left rose quickly and turned. She was plump, with light brown hair and a merry smile. Her hands, which she was holding up a few inches apart, were wrapped in purple yarn. “Ma’am,” she said to the other lady in an enthusiastic tone, “it seems Lord Deveraux’s guests have begun to arrive.”

“’Bout time,” said the older lady gruffly, without looking up from her needlework. And then she laughed. “Well, come and introduce yourself, since my grandson isn’t here to do it.”

Hesitantly, Daphne approached and circled around in front of the two women to drop a curtsy. “Pleased to meet you, my lady. I’m Daphne Burke.”

Lady Deveraux had probably always been a small woman, but the frailties of age had shrunken her further. Her presence, however, was considerably greater than her stature. As she spoke, she went on crocheting, though never glancing toward her needle. “I was not expecting a young lady among the guests,” she said. “And unmarried?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Daphne, somewhat taken aback by the question.

“Interesting.” She tilted her head to the side, and when the light struck full in her face, Daphne realized suddenly that Lady Deveraux was blind, or nearly so. A lack of sight did not seem to have diminished her perceptiveness in any other area, however. “Irish, yes? I can tell from your voice.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she answered again, bracing herself for some cutting remark. “From Dublin.”

The needle flashed, and the other woman, evidently Lady Deveraux’s companion, sat down in order to relieve some of the tension on the yarn. “I assume you did not travel all this way alone,” Lady Deveraux said after a moment.

“I came from London with my younger sister, Bellis, under the chaperonage of Lord and Lady Stalbridge.”

“Stalbridge,” she echoed, pausing. “Ah, yes. Of Ferncliffe. I met him once.”

Daphne, uncertain how else to respond, once more said, “Yes, ma’am,” and then added, “They’ll be joining us any moment. I was ready first and came ahead to the winter parlor, as your butler instructed.”

“Eager,” she said with a sort of chuckle that made the word less alarming to Daphne than it had been earlier that day. “I like that. Well, ring for tea, Palmer.”

Miss Palmer glanced at her yarn-encased hands, and then over her shoulder, at the bell pull near the door.

“May I—?” Daphne began.

Before she could finish her offer to go the bell, Miss Palmer smiled her gratitude and handed off the yarn, sliding it around Daphne’s hands. With a slight flicker of uncertainty, Daphne took her place in the chair beside Lady Deveraux.

“Now, tell me,” the viscountess began in a lower voice, “how did my scoundrel of a grandson lure you here for an old lady’s birthday celebration? Mind the yarn, child—not too taut—there’s a dear.”

Birthday celebration? Not a wedding?

Daphne felt suddenly if she’d walked onstage in the middle of a theatrical performance and taken up a part without knowing any of the lines. “Wh—I, er—”

“One presumes he lured Miss Burke with much the same bait he lures me, time after time,” declared Lord Ryland from the doorway. “Good company and fresh country air.” He was still clad in his riding clothes, looking more comfortable than she had ever seen him, though from his reddened eyes, she could guess the much-lauded country air didn’t entirely agree with him.

Lady Deveraux seemed content with his explanation and accepted a kiss on the cheek from him. “Did you find ought amiss at Lyneham?” she demanded.

“Never. You have been singularly blessed in your choice of steward, ma’am.”

Daphne was prepared to believe this formidable old lady ran the estate with a mere snap of her fingers, but Lady Deveraux demurred. “Deveraux’s choice, as you well know.”

A reference to Miles’s father, perhaps?

“And for what am I being slandered in my absence?” Miles called out as he sauntered into the room—then stopped the moment he laid eyes on Daphne. He snapped into a bow. “Miss Burke.”

She had considered him handsome when dressed for the ballroom, but this was a version of him she had never even thought to imagine, and would never have imagined could be so appealing, clad in worn buckskin breeches and a drab duster with mud on the hem and a tear on one sleeve. He gathered his gloves, crop, and hat in one hand and dragged the other through his sweat-dampened hair.

“You are . . . here. And”—his brown eyes darted between her and his grandmother—“here. And . . . alone?”

“Very astute,” chided his grandmother, who had handed off her needlework to Daphne and was struggling to rise with the assistance of a cane and Lord Ryland’s hand.

Miss Palmer scurried over to collect the yarn and needle from Daphne and laid them in a nearby basket.

Daphne stood and turned to face Miles. “Lord and Lady Stalbridge had planned to travel into Hertfordshire already and were good enough to bring me and Bellis.”