Page 87 of The Lady Knows Best

It wanted but twelve minutes to the hour.

“Surely, some small delay won’t matter . . .” pleaded Alistair.

Miles pulled from his greatcoat pocket the leather pouch of guineas he’d intended to scatter among the village well-wishers following the wedding and dropped it on the nearest bundle. “How much?”

The printer glanced between the sketch on the broadsheet and Miles, assumed self-preservation was the motive for the bribe, and shook his head. “I’m paid by Mrs. Goode.”

Snatching up the purse, Miles dropped it back into his pocket as he crossed the room to Daphne. Here, closer to the clank and creak of the press, he could hardly hear himself think. He stopped just a few inches from the bundle on which she sat, and though he didn’t speak and she didn’t look up, she scrambled to her feet and spread her skirts with her hands, evidently an attempt to hide the contents of the pile of broadsheets on which she had been sitting.

The press clattered to a stop as the last page slid off the stack onto the floor beside them. His ears rang with the sudden stillness, but he nonetheless heard Daphne sigh.

“I’ve ruined everything,” she said, releasing her skirts and then taking an ineffectual swipe at the inky fingerprints she’d left behind. “Including Bell’s dress.”

Miles reached beneath her chin with his forefinger and lifted her face to his. “I liked the blue one better anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I . . . I tried.... Nearly four.” Her eyes were pinned on something just over his shoulder, evidently the clock. “At least there’s still a few hours left in the day. You haven’t yet lost your wager.” She drew in a ragged breath. “Though perhaps you no longer want . . .”

“No,” he agreed. “I don’t.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and her lips began to quiver as she nodded her understanding.

Slowly, gently, he slid his fingers along her jaw, until he was cupping the side of her face and could wipe the tears from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. Reluctantly, she looked up and met his gaze.

“We’ll wed on Monday,” he said. “The second of July. I don’t ever want anyone to say I married to win a bet, or even to please my grandmother. Let there never be a question in your mind, or anyone else’s—I love you, Daphne, and I always will.”

The strangled noise that burst from her as she launched herself into his arms muffled the chime of the hour—and the arrival of Lady Stalbridge and Lord Manwaring.

“I say,” said Manwaring, snatching up one of the broadsheets and studying it, “that’s a handsome fellow. Vaguely familiar face.”

With Daphne still clinging to his chest, Miles turned in time to see Lady Stalbridge fixing him, or perhaps Daphne, with an assessing look. Then she reached into her reticule and handed something to the printer. “There’s been an error. On behalf of Mrs. Goode, I ask you to stop the distribution of this broadsheet. There’s an additional payment there to ensure you destroy all copies.”

The printer looked bemused, but he nodded his acceptance of the new orders and motioned for his assistant to begin collecting the bundles that lay about the room. Miles reached out a hand to rescue one copy from the nearest stack. “For posterity’s sake,” he explained with a grin. “The artwork alone may be worth something one day.”

The red-haired artist, Miss C., still stood beside Alistair and appeared unable to make up her mind whether to be flattered or affronted by his comment. Color flushed across her freckled cheekbones as she adjusted her spectacles.

“Here,” Miles said, extracting himself from Daphne’s embrace just enough to reach into his breast pocket. He held up the folded pages Bellis had given him. “Print this in its stead.”

“You haven’t even read what she wrote,” Alistair protested.

Miles glanced down at Daphne. He could see by the look in her eyes that she recognized the paper, though as Alistair’s words sank in, her expression shifted to something almost chiding.

“She didn’t write it for me. This is what she wanted to tell the world.” He waved the papers toward Lady Stalbridge, who stepped forward to collect them from him with a smile. “And while I won’t deny that the truth may sometimes sting, in the end, I trust Miss Busy B.”

CHAPTER 27

After Daphne had washed her face and hands, combed and re-pinned her hair, and let the maid refresh Bell’s dress as best she could, she joined Lady Stalbridge in the stylish drawing room of Lord Manwaring’s town home. The countess stood at the window, watching the carriage being loaded on the street below.

“Ah, there is Lord Ryland,” she said, “back from escorting Miss Cooper home. I wonder what they discussed?”

“That presumes they spoke to one another at all,” said Daphne.

“Too true.” Lady Stalbridge turned from the window and smiled. “I do not think you and Lord Deveraux will suffer from any such awkwardness.”

“Will I not be riding in your carriage, ma’am?”

Once more, Lord and Lady Stalbridge were preparing to escort her from London to Hertfordshire, and as the next day was Sunday and not a day for travel, they had hurried their servants around to be ready to leave yet that evening. On an early summer night, the sunset would be late enough that they would have daylight almost to the end of their journey.

“Oh”—she waved off Daphne’s concern with a flutter of her fingers and came to sit down in a gold-and-green striped chair—“I don’t think we need to worry overmuch about propriety. You’ll ride in Lord Deveraux’s curricle, and Lord Ryland may come with us. We shall soon be on our way to the wedding of the Season . . . again.”