Page 84 of The Lady Knows Best

“And then you’ll accompany her back to Lyneham?” Miles demanded of Alistair, who stood between them.

“No.” His greatcoat flared as he turned toward the door. “Yearsley will have to do the honors. Because I’m going with you. A hundred things might go wrong on the journey. I would not want you to be alone.”

Miles’s shoulders sagged as he nodded, grateful as always for Alistair’s friendship and understanding, though it wasn’t the journey that worried him.

It was what he might find at journey’s end.

CHAPTER 26

Daphne arrived at Porter’s just past midday to search for the name and direction of the printer, praying she was not too late.

The key to the back room was not on its usual hook, which meant she would find someone in the magazine’s makeshift office. With growing apprehension, she approached the door. If she could have brought herself to face Lady Stalbridge’s disappointment, she would have gone to Berkeley Square instead.

But once more, the room’s only occupant was Constantia Cooper, sketching away, though from a quick glance, it did not appear to be one of her usual outlandish cartoons.

With the tip of her pencil still pressed to the paper, Constantia looked Daphne up and down. “No animal companion this time? Or do you keep a dormouse in your pocket, in case of emergencies?”

Daphne tried to smile, but her lower lip began to wobble instead, thinking of how Eileen had brought her to this very room, and how the cat’s love of mischief had brought everything crashing down in the end.

Constantia’s expression changed. “Miss Burke?” She dropped the pencil, pushed away from the table, and stood. “Are you quite well?”

This time, Daphne managed to shake her head. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Constantia came around the table to stand before her. She did not lay a consoling hand on Daphne’s arm or offer an encouraging smile. “Sit down,” she ordered. “Before you faint.”

“I won’t,” Daphne promised, though she did rest a hand on the back of a nearby chair for support. “I haven’t time—to sit down, or to faint. I need to know whom Lady Stalbridge employs to print the magazine.”

“Why?” Constantia asked, her fair brows knitting together. “What’s happened?”

“The essay on rakes,” Daphne explained. “I . . . I had a change of heart.”

Constantia only blinked. Daphne knew she had never regarded hearts as reliable barometers for decision-making. She had announced as much at their very first meeting.

“It’s too late,” she said after a moment. “Lady Stalbridge delivered your text and my illustration yesterday. I daresay it’s already printed, perhaps even distributed to the booksellers.”

At least, Daphne consoled herself, she hadn’t heard any boys in the street hawking a broadsheet that promised to deliver the latest scandal about that devil, Deveraux.

“I have to try,” she insisted to Constantia.

Constantia only shook her head. And then, to Daphne’s shock, she picked up the key to the room from the table, snatched her pelisse from the coat rack, and gestured Daphne toward the door. When Daphne didn’t immediately move, she tapped her toe. “I thought you were in a great hurry.”

“Oh. Oh, yes,” Daphne agreed, moving past her. “It’s just that I did not expect—that is, I thought you would just tell me the direction, or write it down.”

“If I did that,” she answered in a low voice as they passed through the bookshop, “I wouldn’t be able to press for details about what happened.”

Constantia’s presence will be a comfort, Daphne told herself, although she wasn’t sure it was true. She was surprised to think that Constantia merely wanted to indulge in gossip—or perhaps she wanted to indulge in faultfinding, which would be no surprise at all.

She watched Constantia return the key to its usual place and ask the clerk to signal for a hackney. “They won’t stop for two women,” she said, with a roll of her eyes, “though I’m sure my coin spends as well as anyone’s.”

Having spent part of the day being jostled among strangers on a public stage, after first wrangling over the matter of purchasing a ticket for herself, Daphne was quite familiar with the ways in which young ladies’ movements were restricted. Perhaps she ought to suggest it as an issue for the magazine to take up.

Though after today, she doubted her voice would carry much weight among these women—or any weight at all.

The shop clerk was quick about his business. After Constantia had given the cab driver an address, the two of them were soon watching the familiar scenery of Mayfair slide by as they traveled eastward.

Constantia leaned against the squabs of the forward-facing seat, folded her arms over her chest, and regarded Daphne skeptically. “So. It would seem Miss Nelson was right.” At Daphne’s look of confusion, she elaborated. “She believed it would be dangerous for you to get close enough to Lord Deveraux to write that essay, remember?”

Daphne’s chest ached, pierced by the realization of all that she had likely lost. Perhaps Theodosia had been right, though she had been concerned more with ruined reputations than broken hearts.