Page 1 of The Lady Knows Best

CHAPTER 1

London, late May 1810

Daphne Burke had not called anyone an eejit for a very long time.

At least, not aloud.

But on the day Eileen escaped her confinement—the basket in which Daphne’s younger sister, Bellis, had insisted upon carrying the sleek white cat, like a living fashion accessory, as they strolled down Bond Street—Daphne’s streak broke.

“Ladies do not hurl insults,” Bell had the nerve to remind her, in a perfect imitation of the first words spoken to them by their one and only governess.

With a roll of her eyes, Daphne stepped around her sister to follow the cat into Porter’s Bookshop. “Then I guess it’s settled: I’m no lady.”

Porter’s specialized in the old, rare, and unusual. No gothic novels or fashionable volumes of sentimental poetry here. It was dimly lit, a little musty, and on this particular spring morning, empty, despite the crowds of shoppers on the street. Not even a clerk was in sight.

Just over the threshold, Daphne paused to draw a calming breath, the scents of paper and ink and leather far better at restoring her spirits than anything bottled in a lady’s vinaigrette. In exchange for a few moments’ peace and quiet, she almost didn’t mind going on a wild goose—er, cat—chase.

“Eileen?”

The stacks and shelves of books absorbed her whisper. She strained to pick up any familiar sound: claws against a wooden table leg, the crinkle of paper beneath a paw, a delicate feline sneeze.

Silence.

The cat could be anywhere.

“Here, puss-puss-puss.”

Nothing.

Peering into every shadowed corner, Daphne made her way deeper and deeper into the bookshop. Nearly at the back, she spotted Eileen’s long white tail as it whisked through the crack of an open door. A storeroom, perhaps, or an office. Daphne sent a glance over her shoulder, but still no sign of a clerk.

The door opened wider at the slightest pressure of her hand. Her view, however, was obstructed by another tall, overstuffed bookshelf. Hearing voices, she paused and peered into the narrow gap above a row of books.

The room beyond was larger and brighter than Daphne had expected, with a tall though grimy window beside the shop’s back door. A desk, strewn with papers and ledgers, was tucked into the corner near the window, and on the floor next to it were more books, stacked even more haphazardly than in the shop, if such a thing were possible.

An oval table filled the center of the room. Around it sat several women, most of them quite young, none of whom Daphne recognized.

All of them started when Eileen jumped onto the center of the worn oak table.

“I didn’t know Porter’s kept a cat on the premises,” said the youngest of them, who could not have been much more than fifteen, her hair arranged in perfect blond ringlets. Her fingers gripped the edge of the table, as if she were restraining herself from reaching out to pet Eileen.

“Probably to keep away the mice,” declared another, snatching up a stack of what looked like magazines, apparently to save them from the cat. She was some years older, twenty-six or -seven, Daphne guessed, with frizzy, ginger-blond hair and a scattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose, just visible beneath her spectacles. “But we still have one more item to finalize,” she went on, determined to otherwise ignore the distraction, “before the next issue of the Magazine for Misses goes to print tomorrow.”

Daphne sucked in a breath, and the effort of staying silent while doing so made her eyes grow wide. The woman could only be referring to Mrs. Goode’s Magazine for Misses.

Daphne had read every issue of the new publication and admired its philosophy immensely. Rather than diminishing the capacity of young women and trivializing their dreams of something greater, the periodical offered knowledge and education of a different sort than most ladies’ magazines.

Under the guise of a staid cover and imbued with the respectability of the author of the famous book, Mrs. Goode’s Guide to Homekeeping, the Magazine for Misses provided young women with information on much more than the latest fashions: columns about politics, legislative matters, and the war with France; reviews of interesting books and scandalous plays; satirical cartoons . . . all penned anonymously, of course, to keep safe the identity of those who risked their reputations to tell young women things most of society believed young women ought not to know. The Magazine for Mischief, Daphne had often heard it called.

When Bell had caught Daphne reading the second issue, Daphne had bribed her to secrecy.

How was she to explain her intrusion upon a meeting of the magazine’s staff? She should go, before she was noticed. Except . . .

In seeming compliance with the order to get back to work, Eileen sprawled across the table and began to rasp her pink tongue over one front paw. Papers rustled beneath her as she washed behind her left ear.

At the head of the table, with her back to the door, sat a woman whose dark hair was highlighted by a distinctive streak of silver. When she cleared her throat, all eyes turned to her, including Eileen’s. Could she be Mrs. Goode?

“Yesterday afternoon,” she began, “when I collected the post addressed to the magazine, I found a letter from a reader seeking advice.” She reached out and carefully slid a folded paper from beneath the cat. “She signs herself ‘Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square.’”