Page 81 of The Lady Knows Best

“A curricle ride?” Daphne sent her sister a curious glance. “That sounds lovely.”

“Doesn’t it?” agreed Bell, disappearing momentarily into her room and reemerging with something draped over her arm. “I thought you might want to borrow this for the occasion.”

Daphne had eventually managed to tease the wedding plans out of Miles the day before. But she wasn’t sure how much even her sister knew about how the day was to unfold, until Bell held up a dress so new she had not yet worn it.

The muslin was palest pink, almost white—the color of an apple blossom about to burst into bloom—and so delicate it seemed to float. Its only adornment was a band of dark brown silk at the hem, embroidered with pink roses. From behind her back, Bell pulled a high crowned chip bonnet, trimmed with more roses and the crisp green ribbon she’d purchased in the village.

For good manners’ sake, Daphne knew she ought to protest her sister’s generosity, to say I couldn’t possibly, or some such thing. But when she imagined Miles’s face when he saw her in that gown, her pulse began to thrum. “It’s perfect, Bell. Thank you.”

“Come on, then.” Bell motioned with the armful of fabric. “Ring for the maid.”

Daphne climbed out of bed and went to the bell pull. The maid soon arrived with hot water, so that both sisters could wash. Then the flurry of dressing began, with every detail suddenly more significant than it ever had been: the silkiness of her cambric shift; the clocked stockings that reminded Daphne of Miles’s fascination yesterday with her legs, how he had eventually untied her garters with his teeth; the dress itself, airy perfection that made her feel . . . well, like a bride.

When it was time to arrange her hair, she sat down at the dressing table, and Eileen came, too, still eager to explore. While Daphne, Bell, and the maid were discussing which style would go best with the hat, the cat jumped on top of the dressing table—or intended to. The maid had pushed Daphne’s writing desk aside; one edge hung over the front of the table, with the result that when Eileen landed, her weight caused the writing desk to tip. Without a quick reaction on the part of the maid, it would have been upended entirely and landed on the floor.

“Eileen,” scolded Bell, though the cat had disappeared beneath the bed. “Not again.”

The maid placed three hairpins while Daphne chewed on those words. “What do you mean, again?” she finally asked.

“Ohhh.” Bell gave a rather nervous laugh and tried to wave her concern away. “It’s nothing, really.”

Four more hairpins. “Nothing?”

“Truly. She tried the same thing the other day, that’s all. Though I suppose . . .”

Daphne knew a guilty look on her younger sister’s face when she saw one. In the mirror, she sent a glance to the maid, who nodded and hurriedly placed three more pins, then bobbed a curtsy and left. Daphne spun on the dressing table stool to face Bell. “You suppose what?”

“Well, I suppose you might say she succeeded.”

“She knocked over my writing desk, you mean. Did anything fall out?” She tried frantically to remember if she’d locked it.

Bell stood and paced a few steps away. She was wringing her hangs in front of her. “Only . . . everything.”

“What?”

“When I was delayed, fetching that book for Miss Palmer? That’s what took me so long. Papers were spread across the floor—you know how Eileen is with paper. And she’d been chewing on a quill. It’s a wonder the cork in the ink bottle held—”

“Did you read anything?” Daphne demanded.

Wide-eyed, Bell started to shake her head. Then her lips parted and shaped a silent well ...

“You did.” She was on her feet without having realized she’d risen. “What—what did you read?”

“Just a few words, truly. Something about . . . about rakes. I . . . I . . . I assumed it must have to do with the magazine. And with Lord Deveraux?”

Daphne felt her nostrils flaring as she tried to draw in a steadying breath. “Yes. Miss Busy B. has been . . . on assignment, I suppose you could say. I was to let him court me. I came to Lyneham Park with the intention of learning enough to write an essay, something that would expose his worst flaws and make it impossible for him to humiliate some other poor young lady the way he did Miss Grey.”

Bell was breathing hard, too, her shock evident. After a moment, she said simply, “But?”

Daphne sank back down to the dressing table stool, looking down at her lap as she knitted her fingers together. “But I . . . I changed my mind. I wrote a different essay instead. And I gave that one to Lady Stalbridge to take to, er, Mrs. Goode, for the magazine. I daresay it’s already gone to print.”

Bell swallowed noisily. “Oh, thank goodness.” Daphne lifted her gaze to her sister’s face. “Because I like Lord Deveraux. And I think he truly likes you too. But those few words I read? Well . . .” A dramatic shiver passed through her. “I should hope he never sees them.”

“He won’t,” Daphne vowed, spinning around to face the dressing table and lifting the lid of the writing desk. “I’ll just burn them . . . Bell?”

“Hmm?”

The contents of the box were in total disarray, once neatly folded stacks now shuffled together with scraps. “When you put things back, did you put them back exactly as they were?”