Page 2 of The Lady Knows Best

Grosvenor Square was large enough that the detail did not provide much of a clue as to the letter writer’s identity. But it still made Daphne’s ears prick up with interest. Grosvenor Square was the neighborhood in which Daphne and Bell lived when in London, at Finch House with their eldest sister and her husband, Cami and Gabriel, the Marquess and Marchioness of Ashborough.

“The young lady writes that her father has arranged a match for her,” the woman continued, glancing down now and then at the letter, “with a well-to-do man who has a rather notorious reputation, it would seem. As so many unfortunate young women do, she hoped and believed she could persuade the man to change his ways.” A murmur of sympathy rose around the table, and several of them shook their heads. The woman with reddish hair clutched the stack of magazines tighter to her chest and fixed her mouth in prim lines of disapproval at the letter writer’s credulity. “And on the very evening of the dinner party to announce their betrothal, the young woman happened upon her husband-to-be in the dark with another woman . . .” The older woman paused in her recitation, as if reluctant to finish the sentence, and her voice dropped to a scandalized whisper as she glanced down and read the words: “. . . playing chess.”

The collective gasp that rose from the others muffled the sound of Daphne’s. She wasn’t sure exactly what playing chess might be a euphemism for—wasn’t sure she wanted to know—but she could guess that Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square had seen something shocking indeed.

“She must call off the wedding,” Daphne declared before she could stop herself.

A wave of alarm spread through the room’s occupants, which the older woman stilled with a motion of her hand as she rose. “Who’s there?” she demanded. “Show yourself.”

Squaring her shoulders, Daphne rounded the corner of the bookshelf and stood before them on trembling legs.

“Why, it’s Miss Burke,” the older woman said.

Facing her now, and free of the bookcase’s shadow, Daphne recognized her as Lady Stalbridge, one of the women who regularly attended her sister Cami’s literary salons. “Yes, ma’am,” Daphne confessed, and curtsied.

When she rose, every eye in the room was fixed on her, but none more shrewd than Lady Stalbridge’s, which were a considerably brighter shade of blue than Daphne’s own. “I’m so pleased you were able to accept my invitation to join us here today,” the countess said after a moment, in a tone that brooked no contradiction, though of course there had been no such invitation.

Daphne glanced toward Eileen, who had curled into a tighter circle, preparing to sleep. One of her pink-hued ears flicked, as if dismissing her own role in dragging Daphne into this situation.

Why would Lady Stalbridge lie to cover up Daphne’s eavesdropping?

“Miss Burke is sister to Lady Ashborough, the authoress,” she explained to the others. Eyebrows shot up around the table. “It would mean a great deal to our little magazine to have your sister’s approval,” she went on, and suddenly Daphne understood why she hadn’t been driven away in a huff. “And of course I would be most delighted if your other sister, the Duchess of Raynham, could be prevailed upon to contribute a piece about women and natural philosophy. I’m sure our readers would find it inspirational.”

Daphne smiled weakly and nodded her understanding. Of course. How foolish of her to imagine, even for a moment, that Lady Stalbridge had been willing to fabricate an invitation to today’s meeting because she wanted Daphne herself.

Daphne was the only ordinary member of an extraordinary family.

Five of the six Burke children had been blessed with good looks, genius, and daring. Cami and Erica were as different as chalk and cheese, but both striking in appearance and brilliant. Cami, the Marchioness of Ashborough, wrote famous political novels, while Erica, the Duchess of Raynham, had earned renown for her botanical discoveries and had once even addressed a meeting of The Royal Society.

Paris, the eldest Burke brother, was a respected barrister and an MP. Galen, her other brother, had written three volumes of poetry so profound and so popular the word laureate had occasionally been bandied about by the reviewers. And all of them, together with their parents and spouses, showered pretty and vivacious Bellis, the baby of the family, with attention and praise.

Daphne had grown up in their shadows. Nothing about her stood out, no streak of brilliance or burst of artistic passion. She was the sort of young woman for whom adverbs had been invented: reasonably intelligent, tolerably musical, moderately pretty. All except for her hair, which was a shade of brown for which modifiers were not needed. Neither light nor dark. Not golden brown, like Bell’s. A far cry from Cami’s raven tresses or Erica’s fiery red curls.

Over the years, Daphne had learned to make her peace with it. Her spot in her siblings’ shadows was comfortable enough—or, if not precisely comfortable, then familiar, which amounted to much the same thing.

What more than her family connections could Daphne Burke possibly have to offer the Magazine for Misses?

Nevertheless, Lady Stalbridge took a step backward and, with a sweep of her arm, welcomed Daphne into the room. “Join us, won’t you?” she said, nodding toward the remaining empty chair. “Allow me to introduce you to the others.”

Daphne glanced around the table at the fresh faces studying her in turn. Evidently, it was a magazine not just for misses, but almost entirely by them. With a vague nod toward the two young women nearest her, she perched uncertainly on the edge of an unforgiving wooden seat.

Resuming her own chair at the head of the table, Lady Stalbridge nodded toward a young woman about Bell’s age, with coffee-colored hair and a pert nose. “Miss Julia Addison shares with our readers her exceptional knowledge of the theater, while Lady Clarissa Sutliffe”—the one with the blond ringlets waggled her fingertips in a wave of acknowledgment—“has a passion for books and music. Miss Theodosia Nelson writes about matters of national importance.” Here a brown-skinned woman with dark eyes smiled in greeting. “And of course our artist, Miss Constantia Cooper”—the ginger-haired woman with freckles grudgingly tipped her chin—“has a keen eye for fashion.”

That last revelation was the most surprising; Miss Cooper’s dress was plain to the point of severe, and her coiffure appeared to be anchored in place by a pencil. From behind her spectacles, Miss Cooper was eyeing Daphne, too, and there was something unsettling about the penetration of her glare, as if she knew Daphne had no business being there.

“I take it from your outburst, Miss Burke,” Miss Cooper said, “that you are no unfortunate victim of a conduct manual education.”

Conduct manuals urged a young lady to control her body, her words, her thoughts, even her dreams—in short, to shrink, even sacrifice herself—all in the service of appealing to an eligible man who was, by his very nature, unworthy of her notice and yet, somehow, necessary to her livelihood.

Daphne proudly shook her head. Such lessons had not been a feature of anyone’s upbringing in the Burke household.

“So, tell us,” Miss Cooper went on, “why do you think the letter writer ought to break off her engagement? Rather a risky proposition for a young lady.”

Daphne refused to shy away from Miss Cooper’s sharp look, though she had to swallow twice before she could speak. “Because I . . . because I believe in love.”

The other woman choked back a huff of derisive laughter. “You would do well to remember, Miss Burke, that one of the aims of the Magazine for Misses is to promote rational conduct.”

That phrase even appeared on the magazine’s masthead, which proclaimed a mission to improve wisdom and promote rational conduct among young persons of the fair sex.