Page 68 of The Lady Knows Best

To say nothing of its master.

Lady Deveraux’s needle slowed as Miss Palmer neared the end of the chapter, but it returned to its usual quicksilver pace as soon as the book was closed. “That Mr. Ratliff never disappoints, does he?”

“No indeed,” agreed Daphne. “Though I confess I have wondered now and again whether the author might not be a woman.”

Miss Palmer’s eyes flared, but Lady Deveraux nodded contemplatively. “An interesting notion. It’s a fact there aren’t too many men who truly understand the appeal of the supposed villain to a gently bred young lady. I like you, Miss Burke.”

“I’m glad, ma’am. Very glad.”

“I should think you would be.” The viscountess leaned toward her and spoke in what was probably intended as a whisper. “Don’t think I don’t know what you and my grandson are up to.”

Heat bloomed in Daphne’s belly and spread upward through her chest, her throat, her cheeks with the speed of wildfire. “I don’t know what you—”

“The party you’re planning. At the week’s end. For my birthday.” She spoke as if each detail ought to be sparking understanding in Daphne’s mind.

Which it had, though not precisely as Lady Deveraux had intended.

“Lady Deveraux fancies that his lordship intends to make a grand announcement at her birthday party,” explained Miss Palmer, brimming with excitement herself. “I did tell her not to get her hopes up. A house party with new friends may be all he has in mind.”

But her mischievous expression revealed as clearly as words could have done that she did not really believe that was the extent of it. She, too, expected an announcement, one pertaining to Daphne.

Thankfully, they were joined a few moments later by the Stalbridges and Bellis. Lord Ryland arrived shortly after that and greeted them in a raspy voice.

“Palmer,” Lady Deveraux ordered, “ring for some tea with honey for Lord Ryland.”

“That’s not neces—” began the earl.

But Lady Deveraux dismissed his protest with a flick of her hand, yarn and all. “Now see what you made me do,” she scolded.

The next half an hour was pleasantly spent. Lord Ryland took up the chair Daphne vacated, obediently sipping his honey-sweetened tea with one hand while he kept Eileen from Lady Deveraux’s yarn basket with the other. Miss Palmer, Lady Stalbridge, and Daphne sat apart in a small group of chairs debating various theories about the identity of Robin Ratliff, while Bell leafed through the book itself, her eyebrows rising fractionally higher every few pages. Lord Stalbridge moved from window to window, admiring the view and remarking on the improving weather.

When Lord Deveraux arrived, it was a few moments before anyone noticed.

Lord Stalbridge spoke first. “It would seem the skies are falling in line with your plan, Deveraux.”

Much as she had last night, Daphne glanced up to find him watching her from the doorway. Neither the present brightness of the room nor the fact that both of them were now fully dressed made as much difference as it ought; her cheeks still prickled with a flush of awareness.

“I should hate to interrupt your amusements here,” Miles declared, breaking his gaze and sauntering across the room to clap Ryland on the shoulder.

“Pshaw,” said his grandmother. “They are all restless to be doing something, I’m sure.”

“Will you join us, ma’am?” asked Lady Stalbridge.

“To poke around my own house?” She pulled a face. “But I should like to go into the village this afternoon. Want a few words with the vicar—I’ll have none of his sour sermons on my birthday.”

Miles laughed and kissed her cheek. “Of course, Grandmama. Shall we be off?” he asked the others. They rose and obediently followed him from the room.

Daphne listened with interest, more to the pride in his voice when he spoke of his home than to many of the details. As Bell had predicted, there were old paintings galore, but some newer ones too. Daphne thought that Miles lingered for a moment over a portrait of his parents, a somber-looking young couple dressed in what was likely to have been their wedding finery. He favored his father, she decided after a brief study, though he had his mother’s warm brown eyes.

In the drawing room, he pointed out a painting of the house as it had once been, small and relatively unassuming, before the addition and renovation undertaken in the time of Queen Anne. Only Lord Stalbridge expressed interest in seeing the old portion of the building, and Miles declared himself at the earl’s disposal, after they had visited the library.

Daphne would have given much not to cross the threshold of that room at present, though sunlight revealed a warm, handsome space with mahogany wainscotting and damask-covered furnishings in deep shades of blue and green. She dared a glance toward the chessboard, only to discover that all appeared in perfect order, the pieces arrayed for play and two polished wooden chairs to either side, awaiting worthy opponents.

In a sort of trance, she approached the round table and traced an uncertain fingertip along its edge, as if expecting to discover it was a mirage. Perhaps she had dreamed the whole thing. The others were milling about, admiring the collection of books or the elaborately carved mantelpiece. Their murmured conversations gave cover to Miles’s approach.

“Just one casualty,” he said, slipping something cool into her hand.

She looked down at her palm to find the black knight, arm upraised, his marble broadsword snapped off at the hilt.