Page 21 of The Lady Knows Best

Well, she would know soon enough, for at that moment, the hum of voices, its pitch already reflective of an audience made up mostly of women, rose sharply. The cause? Lord Deveraux’s athletic figure framed by the doorway.

Tonight he wore a coat of dark blue over a gold and ivory waistcoat, a combination of hues that set off his coloring perfectly. Instead of scanning the room in proud defiance, as he had at the Clearwaters’ ball, he now exuded that boyish charm that had succeeded in disarming so many women.

When setting down the qualities and characteristics young women ought to be wary of, that crooked smile would be high on her list.

Lady Stalbridge turned her head, not enough to meet Daphne’s eye, but enough that she could see the triumphant smile curling the countess’s lips.

Daphne gnawed the inside of her cheek. Despite Lady Stalbridge’s insistence that he would come, Daphne had still dared to hope for one more night’s reprieve.

She did not see where he took his seat, for just then a longcase clock struck eight. At that signal, a pair of liveried footmen stepped forward to douse most of the candles in the sconces along the room’s walls, leaving only the candelabras nearest the pianoforte untouched, casting the audience into dimness and drawing the eye toward the performers.

Lady Estley entered first. She was a small, plain woman with mousy brown hair, a few years younger than her husband. After tipping her head to acknowledge the applause, she gestured for her daughter to join her. Lady Clarissa Sutliffe, all pink-cheeked nervousness and excitement, stepped to the pianoforte, seated herself, and began to play. The careful, precise notes of Bach and Mozart flowed from her fingertips with ease, and once she had finished several solo pieces, her mother joined her at the keyboard to play a haunting, lyrical duet that brought a lump to Daphne’s throat. Whispers soon made it known that the piece had been composed by Lady Estley for the occasion of her daughter’s musical debut.

Lady Clarissa Sutliffe had been blessed with her father’s good looks and her mother’s talent. Daphne had no difficulty imagining a packed concert hall, listening in awe as Clarissa played. She recalled the mission of the Magazine for Misses, the general agreement among the staff that young women must not be forced to squander their gifts simply on account of their sex.

“Daph,” Bell said, under cover of thunderous applause, “are you all right?”

Daphne nodded and swallowed hard, twice, as the pressure in her throat threatened to find relief in tears. “Perfectly well.”

The performance, the memory, the magazine’s mission had only firmed her resolve about what must be done.

After curtsying to acknowledge the adulation, Lady Estley held up a hand for silence. The footmen began to relight the candles that had been snuffed.

“Thank you,” Lady Estley said. “We will now pause for some refreshment. Afterward, it is our hope that some of our guests will entertain us.”

While almost everyone else moved toward the groaning tables at the back of the room, Daphne stepped to the front to congratulate Lady Estley and Lady Clarissa on their triumph. When they had moved on to speak with someone else, she paused to admire the beautiful instrument on which they had played, a far cry from the tinkling spinet on which she’d learned, so many years ago and so many miles away.

She was lost in thought, her fingertips trailing soundlessly over the keys, when a hand appeared at her elbow, proffering a cup of lemonade.

“Are you preparing to delight us next, Miss Burke?” asked Lord Deveraux.

“No.” She accepted the cup only to have something else to do with her hands. “I did not expect to see you here tonight, my lord.”

“Why not?” He tipped his head to the side and smiled one of those half smiles that could make a woman’s breath catch—if she were susceptible to such nonsense. “I enjoy music.”

“True enjoyment of music is often reason enough to avoid such entertainments,” Daphne said. “Though admittedly this one has been an exception to the rule.”

His smile grew to a laugh. “How severe you are, Miss Burke. And you have not taken a sip of your drink, so I cannot blame the lemonade for making your tongue so tart.”

There was something suggestive in those words—in almost everything he said, and she despised the prickle of heat that rose to her cheeks as he spoke them.

Two young ladies approached the pianoforte, tittering as they sidled past the viscount to reach the credenza, where sheet music had been thoughtfully provided for potential performers to peruse. Whatever their parents might say to the matter, at least some of the young ladies of the ton were evidently willing to overlook the sins of that devil Deveraux.

Daphne had in her hands the power to put an end to all that.

With a flick of her wrist, she downed the dainty cup of lemonade in a single gulp, its sharp sweetness stinging the back of her throat. “My lord,” she choked out, “we need to talk.”

He was looking at the fair-haired and fashionably gowned young ladies near the window. When they had passed, his gaze had followed them automatically. Daphne would very much have liked to dismiss his behavior as ogling. But as he turned toward her, she glimpsed a sort of weariness in the fixed, though still charming, smile on his face, nothing of genuine interest in those two giggling girls.

His expression when he looked at Daphne, however, was . . . well, intrigued. One golden-brown brow arched. “Oh?”

“I have given your—my—this predicament a great deal of thought, and—”

Surprise flickered into his face. He lifted a finger to his lips, a call for quiet. “I’m not sure this is the time or the place, Miss Burke.”

Perhaps not, but if she waited, she would lose her nerve.

“Very well.” She glanced around at the milling company. Everyone seemed to be absorbed in food and conversation. The floor plan of this house was a mirror of Gabriel and Cami’s house on the other side of the square. Which meant . . . “Directly above us will be a small room.” At Finch House, Cami had claimed it as a place to do her writing. Whatever purpose it served in the Estley household, it was unlikely to be among the public spaces this evening. “I’ll go first, pretend to be looking for the ladies’ retiring room, if anyone asks.”