Page 9 of The Lady Knows Best

“Everyone calls it that,” her sister countered. “See here, I’ve kept my promise not to tell Cami I caught you reading the thing, but surely you can’t expect me not to poke a little fun?”

Privately, Daphne felt certain that her eldest sister would be willing to concede the necessity of occasional misconduct—Bellis seemed to be the only member of the Burke clan likely to make a match by following the rules. But as Daphne’s secret was rather larger than leafing through the magazine, she hadn’t wanted to put the matter to the test.

“What if it wasn’t silly advice?” she insisted. “If he’s willing to lay wagers involving ladies, Lord Deveraux is a worse scoundrel than anyone suspected.” He may be a scoundrel, but she’s the one who’ll suffer. . . . “What if the person who answered Miss Grey’s letter truly believed that telling her to call it off was the best thing?”

Daphne hadn’t realized she was gripping the iron railing with both hands until Bell laid her fingertips along her sleeve. “Daph?”

All at once, her thin kid gloves were no barrier to the cold metal, and she shuddered. “I d-did believe it. I do believe it. Lord Deveraux is nothing more than a tomcat. Faithless, amoral . . . Why, I might well have saved Miss Grey from the pox!” She felt as though she had shouted the final word, though in truth her voice had dropped to a whisper.

Bell’s fingers bit into her forearm. “You? You wrote that answer?”

Daphne nodded uncertainly. “That day I followed Eileen into Porter’s, I stumbled on a staff meeting. And now, I—I’m Miss Busy B.”

Bell blinked.

“You won’t say anything?” Daphne pleaded belatedly. In the rush of guilt over Miss Grey’s grief, Daphne had forgotten Lady Stalbridge’s only hard and fast rule: tell no one.

Her sister was studying her face, and Daphne looked back, searching for some sign of her childhood co-conspirator.

A frown darted between Bell’s brows. “I can’t believe you think you need to ask.” Then she linked the little fingers of their right hands and shook them, at the same time giving a decisive nod, their long-ago sign of an unbreakable sisterly vow. “You always did like ordering people about. But what are you going to do now?”

“Do?”

“I mean, are you going to tell Miss Grey you made a mistake?”

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Daphne insisted. “She’ll see that herself, when the scandal dies down and a more suitable gentleman presents himself.”

“He won’t be as handsome as Lord Deveraux.”

Imagine calling things off with a man who looks like that . . .

A man who kisses like that ...

“Looks aren’t everything, Bell.”

Her sister chuckled, rather disbelievingly, then sobered. “Are you going to quit writing for the magazine?”

Daphne squeezed their still-joined fingers. “No.”

After a moment, Bell nodded again. “Good. Your column is my new favorite item—after the Unfashionable Plates, naturally.”

“You mean you—you’ve been reading—?”

“Of course, silly,” she said with a shrug and a laugh. “Everyone is.”

Behind them, the orchestra struck up a tune and strains of music filtered out into the night air. Bell sent a longing glance over her shoulder. “You should go dance,” Daphne said.

“I can’t leave you here alone.”

“I’ll come inside in another moment.” Daphne tipped her chin to the night sky. “I haven’t a partner waiting for me.”

“If you’re sure . . .” Though hesitant, Bell slipped her hand free and turned to go.

Daphne drew a deeper, steadier breath, luxuriating in the scent of wisteria blossoms. Not difficult, on such a night, to imagine the stars did hold the answers, some knowledge of the future, which they parsed out in mysterious patterns and sly winks.

The sound of footsteps dragged her gaze back to earth. A gentleman had entered the balcony from another set of doors. When he spied her, he started in surprise, paused as if weighing his options, then began to make his way toward her with a slow, easy stride. Not quite a prowl.

Daphne’s stomach, which had at last begun to settle, performed an uneasy somersault. Of all the men to interrupt her solitary reflections.