Page 6 of The Lady Knows Best

“Nonsense. There’s nothing here about me. Surely people have better things to do than pretend to parse the identity of a man in a letter sent to a stranger for bad advice.”

Alistair poured himself a cup of coffee, adding a dollop of milk and two lumps of sugar with the ease of a man who did not have the sword of Damocles hanging over his head. He stirred the concoction, then rapped the tiny spoon against the edge of his cup—its chime rang in Miles’s head like an absurd tinkling death knell—and paused to drink before saying, “I recommend you read Miss Busy B.’s reply.”

Strictly speaking, he already knew the advice Miss Grey must have received. The visit from Mr. Grey and his unctuous solicitor yesterday afternoon had been more than sufficient to make clear where things stood. But curiosity niggled at Miles. Along with a thread of hope that he could yet find some way to manage the situation to his advantage. He focused once more on the page.

Dear Miss A. G., the answer began.

Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square.

Arabella Grey.

A muscle twitched near his eye, and the fine thread of hope, the one by which the sword of Damocles was suspended, began to fray.

It has long been the fashion to insist that a reformed rake makes the best husband.

Miss Busy B. disagrees.

The platitude is illogical. It presumes rakes are capable of being reformed. But in the whole history of mankind, what evidence to support such a claim has been offered? Certainly, the so-called gentleman who sought your hand has provided none.

Dedicated readers of the Magazine for Misses know it has always been our view that young ladies must seek and welcome the truth, the better to know and speak their own minds. As to the question of what you must do, we feel it is far preferable to be a contented spinster than a miserable wife. If you are determined to marry eventually, however, fear not for your reputation or future prospects. A true gentleman—and we feel sure one still exists, even in this day and age—will not resent the strength and wisdom you have shown in turning your back on the devil himself.

The thread of hope snapped as Miles brought his teeth together with an audible click. That devil, Deveraux. He’d borne the epithet almost as long as he’d borne the title. Its appearance in the pages of the magazine was unlikely to be a coincidence.

If Alistair was right, every eligible miss in London for the Season, and most of their parents, would now feel themselves within their rights to give Miles the cut direct. A title, a fortune, and a handsome face had smoothed many a rough path for him—paths his own bad behavior had roughened, to be fair.

But it would be some time before society was prepared to forgive him for what he’d done to Arabella Grey—and driven her to do, in turn.

And time was the one thing he didn’t have.

“Who the hell is she?” he ground out, clanking his cup onto its saucer, still resting on the table. “This Miss Busybody. . .”

“Miss Busy B.,” Alistair corrected, gesturing toward the illustration at the top of the page with the tip of his spoon. “A play on the clever, industrious insect, one presumes. And to answer your question: no one knows. According to my sister, this column is the first of its sort to appear in the magazine.”

Despite his throbbing temples, Miles began to thumb through the pages, uncertain what he sought. Surely there must be some clue as to who wrote and published the thing? But everything looked so . . . ordinary.

Only upon more careful inspection did he begin to see what Alistair had meant. The reviews were more sharply critical and opinionated than would generally be expected, given that they purported to be written by young ladies. And he rather suspected that the pattern for an embroidery sampler would spell out something shocking if any young lady ever bothered to complete it. Even the fashion plates were . . . well, cartoonish, somehow. Mocking.

Squinting, Miles tilted his head one way, the picture the other.

Alistair twitched the magazine from his fingers and closed it.

“Say,” Miles protested, “that looked an awfully lot like—”

“Find a promising new biscuit recipe, Deveraux?”

“It was you. But why did the artist draw you with a stick up your—?”

“Coat?” Alistair interjected. “I haven’t the faintest idea. Someone identified only as Miss C. sketches the ‘Unfashionable Plates,’ as they’re known. Apparently, she enjoys making people appear ridiculous.”

In spite of his own predicament, Miles struggled to repress a grin. Alistair had always been rather . . . dull, in matters of dress particularly. His bevy of sisters, elder and younger, had been trying to coax him into better choices for years.

“Enough about me,” Alistair said, folding the magazine and tucking it into his breast pocket. “What will you do?”

“Do?” Miles poured more coffee into his cup, though he was already more sober than he wished. “Why, I shall accept my invitation to Lady Clearwater’s ball this evening, of course. It would seem I’m in search of a bride.”

“But . . .” Astonishment made Alistair’s objection catch in his throat.

“But first, I believe I’ll write to Miss Busy B. and thank her. Somewhere out there is a silly, romantic-minded young lady who read that letter and fancies herself up to the challenge of taming that devil, Deveraux.”