Page 82 of The Lady Knows Best

“Well, I . . . I wasn’t really sure how to—I don’t make a habit of snooping, you know,” she tried to defend herself. “And I was in a bit of a hurry. Afraid you’d come back and think—”

But Daphne hardly heard her sister. She was pawing through the box, unfolding pages and scanning them, searching . . . searching . . . “Oh, my God.”

“What?” Bell demanded, her voice sharp with panic. “I swear I didn’t take anything.”

A folded set of pages clutched in her hand, Daphne spun back to face her and tried to form the word no, but in the end could only shake her head. She didn’t blame Bell for what had happened.

Not knowing the contents of the desk had been rearranged, Daphne had reached inside to retrieve the recently finished essay, expecting it to be on top where she had left it, and without looking, had handed those papers to Lady Stalbridge. Except . . .

“This is the second essay,” she said, shaking the papers she held. “The one I wanted to publish.”

Bell reached out and took the pages from her before she could crumple them. “So, then, if this is the right essay, you must have given Lady Stalbridge the wr—Oh.”

Daphne could guess from Bell’s expression that her sister had told at least one fib.

She had read more than a few words of the first essay. Enough to know that Miles would never forgive Daphne if those words saw the light of day.

“I have to—” Daphne jumped to her feet and paced toward the door, then back again. Her pale and frantic reflection in the looking glass startled her. A few moments ago, she had seen . . . well, some hint of the woman Miles saw, the one that filled his eyes with hunger and delight. She had seen herself as a bride. His bride. And now . . .

“I have to go to London and try to stop this,” she said, knowing even as she said it how impossible it was.

“You can’t journey all that way alone,” Bell insisted. “I’ll go with you.”

“No.” Daphne snatched up the bonnet and tied its green ribbons beneath her chin. “You have to stay here. Lord Ryland will be expecting—and you’re the only one who can—”

“I’ll manage things—don’t worry.” Bell leaned in to kiss her cheek. “But be careful.”

Daphne nodded, though she hardly needed the warning. Despite her misgivings, and the fact that she was not dressed for riding, she was going to have to put the Widow of St. Albans through her paces—such as they were—at least to the next village, where she could hopefully board a London-bound stage and reach the printer in time to stop the essay from being published.

It was a mad scheme, hardly worthy of the name plan. But it had to succeed. Because if she failed, she would be left to cry over yesterday’s dream of a future here with Miles like so much spilt ink.

* * *

Miles wasn’t sure how many more of Mrs. Yearsley’s mildly reproachful smiles he could bear. Did the vicar’s wife fear his footsteps would wear a trench in the transept? Surely a bridegroom was allowed to work off a bit of nervousness by pacing—especially when the bride had been expected by ten o’clock, and the last notes of that hour had long since pealed.

But he paused to oblige her and was glad he did, for the clatter of his boot heels against stone had drowned out the jangle of harness.

They were finally here.

Miles hurried toward the door, but Alistair beat him inside, looking hurriedly around the church before meeting Miles’s gaze. His expression was stark. He shook his head.

“What’s that supposed to mean, old man?” Miles demanded with considerably more cheerfulness than he felt. His pulse was clattering, but his heart still did not seem to have the energy to move his suddenly congealed blood through his veins. He had to grip the side of a pew to keep from stumbling. “Where’s Daphne?”

Alistair extended his hands, motioning him to stay where he was, urging calm. Then he shook his head at the Yearsleys, who stood huddled in the doorway to the vestry, watching anxiously. The vicar, seeming to understand the meaning of that gesture, led his wife inside and shut the door.

Turning back to Miles, Alistair said quietly, “She’s gone. The stableboy said she asked for the Widow of St. Albans to be saddled just after nine this morning.”

Remembering where he was, Miles didn’t swear. But he did sink onto the nearest pew. “Gone?”

What a bloody fool he’d been, trusting her with a horse.

Trusting her with his heart.

“Yes. Bellis says she—”

The heavy oak door creaked open again, just far enough for Daphne’s younger sister to slip inside the church. “I thought we’d agreed that I would explain. Since it’s all my fault—mine and Eileen’s.” She stopped at the end of the aisle and stood, wringing her gloved hands, making the reticule dangling from her wrist dance, looking even younger than she was.

“Eileen?” Miles echoed.