Page 18 of The Lady Knows Best

Constantia tapped the end of her pencil against her paper. “You have a dog named Twelve?”

“His mother was called Elf, you see,” Daphne explained. “You wouldn’t believe it to look at him now, but he was the runt of her last litter. Bell and I were studying German at the time and since zwölf follows elf . . .” Constantia’s expression remained resignedly disapproving. “Well, I thought it was clever,” Daphne finished weakly.

Lips pursed, Constantia glanced between them before returning her attention to her drawing. “Lady Stalbridge won’t be here for half an hour, at least.”

“Why are you here so early?”

“I came to work,” she explained, her voice and her posture stiff. “Undisturbed.”

“Oh, right. Yes. Well, pretend Zwolf and I aren’t here. I’ll just—I’ll read,” Daphne said, picking up a book that was lying nearby and motioning for the dog to lie down beneath the table.

She opened to the title page: The Justification of a Sinner; Being the Maine Argument of the Epistle to the Galatians.

In keeping with the rules of Latin, from which the dusty volume might have been translated a hundred and fifty years or so earlier, Justification had been spelled with an I. Thus it appeared at first glance as if the titular sinner was to be lustified. Daphne resolutely bit back a snicker. The book did not promise much in the way of entertainment, beyond that bit of unfortunate typography, but it might at least serve as a distraction.

Even deft feats of textual exegesis by “a Reverend and Learned Divine” were unable to engage her interest, however—or keep her thoughts from wandering back to last night.

If only she had never accepted Lord Deveraux’s invitation to dance . . .

Though he had been quite the handsomest man she had ever danced with.

But what difference did his looks make? Why, it would be traitorous for her to find him attractive. He had knowledge that could put an end to her time here, even undercut the success of the magazine itself. He was a scoundrel who cared about nothing but winning that ridiculous bet.

“For pity’s sake!” Constantia snapped her pencil flat on the table and sucked in a breath that threatened to pull all the air from the room. “What is in that book?”

“It’s, uh . . .” Daphne glanced down at the open page, the one over which her eyes had been sliding for the past few minutes without taking in a single word. “It’s a treatise on St. Paul’s epistle to the Galatians. Why?”

“Because your sighs are ruffling my papers. I had no idea you felt so strongly about theology.”

Daphne was spared from having to concoct an excuse for her behavior by the arrival of Lady Stalbridge. “Good news, ladies,” the countess sang as she tugged off her gloves. “Every last copy of the latest issue of the Magazine for Misses has already been sold.”

Constantia leaped to her feet and shook Lady Stalbridge’s hand; Daphne too rose and expressed her excitement at the news. And while Lady Stalbridge removed her bonnet and explained her hopes for a larger printing next month, Daphne and Constantia even shared a cool nod of mutual satisfaction.

Only after Lady Stalbridge had seated herself and withdrawn her notes for the meeting from a neat leather satchel did Daphne venture the question that had been weighing on her for hours.

“Did you know that Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square was Arabella Grey?”

Lady Stalbridge squared a stack of papers and gave a discreet cough. “Perhaps I . . . suspected. When the letter writer mentioned a wager, I happened to recall something Oliver had told me. . . .”

Oliver was Lord Manwaring, Lady Stalbridge’s stepson; only those admitted to this room knew that he was also the mind behind the famous, but fictitious, Mrs. Goode.

“Once you had composed your exceptional reply, I realized it contained a message many of our readers needed to hear. So I said nothing more of my suspicions. Though in truth,” she added sheepishly, “I did not think Miss Grey would act on your advice in quite such spectacular fashion.”

“You did not think she would be permitted to act on it, you mean,” corrected Constantia. “Miss Grey has a despotic and improvident father, just the sort of man who would be eager to claim Lord Deveraux for a son-in-law.”

“Given the circumstances, then,” Daphne ventured, “don’t you think it’s possible Miss Grey will be persuaded to marry Lord Deveraux after all?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Theodosia Nelson, as she breezed into the room. A West Indian heiress, she penned newsy notes about current events—actually a column about politics, abolition, and the war, full of information generally deemed inappropriate for the audience of the magazine. Her secret ambition was to write for The Times.

“Haven’t you heard the latest?” When Theodosia plucked off her bonnet, dark brown curls sprang free, perfectly framing her brown face and eyes. “Arabella Grey has eloped! Disappeared in the night with the son of a Welsh coal merchant. They’re said to be desperately in love.”

“Oh, won’t her papa be fit to be tied,” said Lady Stalbridge with unexpected glee.

Theodosia shrugged. “I daresay he’ll bring himself to forgive his daughter. Her new husband is said to be terribly rich.”

Their chatter washed over Daphne in waves. She was delighted for Miss Grey, of course. Impressed, too, by her feigned devastation the night before, at the ball—a ruse, she supposed, to divert her family from her plans. Why, her mother had probably insisted that she needed to retire early and rest without interruption, giving her the perfect opportunity to escape.

But now who was Daphne to find to satisfy Lord Deveraux’s list of demands?