The lady knows best, p.1
The Lady Knows Best, page 1
PRAISE FOR SUSANNA CRAIG
“With Who’s That Earl, Susanna Craig is off to a great start in her new Love and Let Spy series. The settings and characters come alive, the romance is full of spark, and the prose is as smooth as the best Scotch whisky.”
—Sherry Thomas, author of the Lady Sherlock series
“Evocative writing, a delightful Scottish setting, and fully realized characters made this a joy to read. This spy hero and writer heroine touched my heart.”
—New York Times bestselling author Sabrina Jeffries
“Susanna Craig creates a delightful story full of wit and intrigue.”
—USA Today bestselling author Ella Quinn
“The marvelous first Love and Let Spy Regency romance from Craig offers an author and a former soldier a second chance at love in the midst of a gripping mystery. Craig delights with a fast-paced, intrigue-filled plot and expertly developed characters. Regency fans will eagerly anticipate future installments.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review on Who’s That Earl
“With gorgeous, contemplative phrasing, absorbing characters and a clever and unpredictable story line, The Duke’s Suspicion is a remarkable must-read.”
—Kathy Altman, USA Today bestselling author, on The Duke’s Suspicion
Also by Susanna Craig
The Love & Let Spy Series
Who’s That Earl
One Thing Leads to a Lover
Better Off Wed
Every Rogue Has His Charm
The Runaway Desires Series
To Kiss a Thief
To Tempt an Heiress
To Seduce a Stranger
The Rogues & Rebels Series
The Companion’s Secret
The Duke’s Suspicion
The Lady’s Deception
Goode’s Guide to Misconduct
Nice Earls Do
The Lady Knows Best
The Lady Plays with Fire (Coming in 2023!)
THE LADY KNOWS BEST
GOODE’S GUIDE TO MISCONDUCT
Susanna Craig
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Teaser chapter
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2023 by Susan Kroeg
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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ISBN: 978-1-4201-5479-5
ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-5480-1 (eBook)
For Clare,
who inspires me more than she knows—
keep playing; keep writing; keep dreaming!
CHAPTER 1
London, late May 1810
Daphne Burke had not called anyone an eejit for a very long time.
At least, not aloud.
But on the day Eileen escaped her confinement—the basket in which Daphne’s younger sister, Bellis, had insisted upon carrying the sleek white cat, like a living fashion accessory, as they strolled down Bond Street—Daphne’s streak broke.
“Ladies do not hurl insults,” Bell had the nerve to remind her, in a perfect imitation of the first words spoken to them by their one and only governess.
With a roll of her eyes, Daphne stepped around her sister to follow the cat into Porter’s Bookshop. “Then I guess it’s settled: I’m no lady.”
Porter’s specialized in the old, rare, and unusual. No gothic novels or fashionable volumes of sentimental poetry here. It was dimly lit, a little musty, and on this particular spring morning, empty, despite the crowds of shoppers on the street. Not even a clerk was in sight.
Just over the threshold, Daphne paused to draw a calming breath, the scents of paper and ink and leather far better at restoring her spirits than anything bottled in a lady’s vinaigrette. In exchange for a few moments’ peace and quiet, she almost didn’t mind going on a wild goose—er, cat—chase.
“Eileen?”
The stacks and shelves of books absorbed her whisper. She strained to pick up any familiar sound: claws against a wooden table leg, the crinkle of paper beneath a paw, a delicate feline sneeze.
Silence.
The cat could be anywhere.
“Here, puss-puss-puss.”
Nothing.
Peering into every shadowed corner, Daphne made her way deeper and deeper into the bookshop. Nearly at the back, she spotted Eileen’s long white tail as it whisked through the crack of an open door. A storeroom, perhaps, or an office. Daphne sent a glance over her shoulder, but still no sign of a clerk.
The door opened wider at the slightest pressure of her hand. Her view, however, was obstructed by another tall, overstuffed bookshelf. Hearing voices, she paused and peered into the narrow gap above a row of books.
The room beyond was larger and brighter than Daphne had expected, with a tall though grimy window beside the shop’s back door. A desk, strewn with papers and ledgers, was tucked into the corner near the window, and on the floor next to it were more books, stacked even more haphazardly than in the shop, if such a thing were possible.
An oval table filled the center of the room. Around it sat several women, most of them quite young, none of whom Daphne recognized.
All of them started when Eileen jumped onto the center of the worn oak table.
“I didn’t know Porter’s kept a cat on the premises,” said the youngest of them, who could not have been much more than fifteen, her hair arranged in perfect blond ringlets. Her fingers gripped the edge of the table, as if she were restraining herself from reaching out to pet Eileen.
“Probably to keep away the mice,” declared another, snatching up a stack of what looked like magazines, apparently to save them from the cat. She was some years older, twenty-six or -seven, Daphne guessed, with frizzy, ginger-blond hair and a scattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose, just visible beneath her spectacles. “But we still have one more item to finalize,” she went on, determined to otherwise ignore the distraction, “before the next issue of the Magazine for Misses goes to print tomorrow.”
Daphne sucked in a breath, and the effort of staying silent while doing so made her eyes grow wide. The woman could only be referring to Mrs. Goode’s Magazine for Misses.
Daphne had read every issue of the new publication and admired its philosophy immensely. Rather than diminishing the capacity of young women and trivializing their dreams of something greater, the periodical offered knowledge and education of a different sort than most ladies’ magazines.
Under the guise of a staid cover and imbued with the respectability of the author of the famous book, Mrs. Goode’s Guide to Homekeeping, the Magazine for Misses provided young women with information on much more than the latest fashions: columns about politics, legislative matters, and the war with France; reviews of interesting books and scandalous plays; satirical cartoons . . . all penned anonymously, of course, to keep safe the identity of those who risked their reputations to tell young women things most of society believed young women ought not to know. The Magazine for Mischief, Daphne had often heard it called.
When Bell had caught Daphne reading the second issue, Daphne had bribed her to secrecy.
How was she to explain her intrusion upon a meeting of the magazine’s staff? She should go, before she was noticed. Except . . .
In seeming compliance with the order to get back to work, Eileen sprawled across the table and began to rasp her pink tongue over one front paw. Papers rustled beneath her as she washed behind her left ear.
At the head of the table, with her back to the door, sat a woman whose dark hair was highlighted by a distinctive streak of silve
“Yesterday afternoon,” she began, “when I collected the post addressed to the magazine, I found a letter from a reader seeking advice.” She reached out and carefully slid a folded paper from beneath the cat. “She signs herself ‘Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square.’”
Grosvenor Square was large enough that the detail did not provide much of a clue as to the letter writer’s identity. But it still made Daphne’s ears prick up with interest. Grosvenor Square was the neighborhood in which Daphne and Bell lived when in London, at Finch House with their eldest sister and her husband, Cami and Gabriel, the Marquess and Marchioness of Ashborough.
“The young lady writes that her father has arranged a match for her,” the woman continued, glancing down now and then at the letter, “with a well-to-do man who has a rather notorious reputation, it would seem. As so many unfortunate young women do, she hoped and believed she could persuade the man to change his ways.” A murmur of sympathy rose around the table, and several of them shook their heads. The woman with reddish hair clutched the stack of magazines tighter to her chest and fixed her mouth in prim lines of disapproval at the letter writer’s credulity. “And on the very evening of the dinner party to announce their betrothal, the young woman happened upon her husband-to-be in the dark with another woman . . .” The older woman paused in her recitation, as if reluctant to finish the sentence, and her voice dropped to a scandalized whisper as she glanced down and read the words: “. . . playing chess.”
The collective gasp that rose from the others muffled the sound of Daphne’s. She wasn’t sure exactly what playing chess might be a euphemism for—wasn’t sure she wanted to know—but she could guess that Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square had seen something shocking indeed.
“She must call off the wedding,” Daphne declared before she could stop herself.
A wave of alarm spread through the room’s occupants, which the older woman stilled with a motion of her hand as she rose. “Who’s there?” she demanded. “Show yourself.”
Squaring her shoulders, Daphne rounded the corner of the bookshelf and stood before them on trembling legs.
“Why, it’s Miss Burke,” the older woman said.
Facing her now, and free of the bookcase’s shadow, Daphne recognized her as Lady Stalbridge, one of the women who regularly attended her sister Cami’s literary salons. “Yes, ma’am,” Daphne confessed, and curtsied.
When she rose, every eye in the room was fixed on her, but none more shrewd than Lady Stalbridge’s, which were a considerably brighter shade of blue than Daphne’s own. “I’m so pleased you were able to accept my invitation to join us here today,” the countess said after a moment, in a tone that brooked no contradiction, though of course there had been no such invitation.
Daphne glanced toward Eileen, who had curled into a tighter circle, preparing to sleep. One of her pink-hued ears flicked, as if dismissing her own role in dragging Daphne into this situation.
Why would Lady Stalbridge lie to cover up Daphne’s eavesdropping?
“Miss Burke is sister to Lady Ashborough, the authoress,” she explained to the others. Eyebrows shot up around the table. “It would mean a great deal to our little magazine to have your sister’s approval,” she went on, and suddenly Daphne understood why she hadn’t been driven away in a huff. “And of course I would be most delighted if your other sister, the Duchess of Raynham, could be prevailed upon to contribute a piece about women and natural philosophy. I’m sure our readers would find it inspirational.”
Daphne smiled weakly and nodded her understanding. Of course. How foolish of her to imagine, even for a moment, that Lady Stalbridge had been willing to fabricate an invitation to today’s meeting because she wanted Daphne herself.
Daphne was the only ordinary member of an extraordinary family.
Five of the six Burke children had been blessed with good looks, genius, and daring. Cami and Erica were as different as chalk and cheese, but both striking in appearance and brilliant. Cami, the Marchioness of Ashborough, wrote famous political novels, while Erica, the Duchess of Raynham, had earned renown for her botanical discoveries and had once even addressed a meeting of The Royal Society.
Paris, the eldest Burke brother, was a respected barrister and an MP. Galen, her other brother, had written three volumes of poetry so profound and so popular the word laureate had occasionally been bandied about by the reviewers. And all of them, together with their parents and spouses, showered pretty and vivacious Bellis, the baby of the family, with attention and praise.
Daphne had grown up in their shadows. Nothing about her stood out, no streak of brilliance or burst of artistic passion. She was the sort of young woman for whom adverbs had been invented: reasonably intelligent, tolerably musical, moderately pretty. All except for her hair, which was a shade of brown for which modifiers were not needed. Neither light nor dark. Not golden brown, like Bell’s. A far cry from Cami’s raven tresses or Erica’s fiery red curls.
Over the years, Daphne had learned to make her peace with it. Her spot in her siblings’ shadows was comfortable enough—or, if not precisely comfortable, then familiar, which amounted to much the same thing.
What more than her family connections could Daphne Burke possibly have to offer the Magazine for Misses?
Nevertheless, Lady Stalbridge took a step backward and, with a sweep of her arm, welcomed Daphne into the room. “Join us, won’t you?” she said, nodding toward the remaining empty chair. “Allow me to introduce you to the others.”
Daphne glanced around the table at the fresh faces studying her in turn. Evidently, it was a magazine not just for misses, but almost entirely by them. With a vague nod toward the two young women nearest her, she perched uncertainly on the edge of an unforgiving wooden seat.
Resuming her own chair at the head of the table, Lady Stalbridge nodded toward a young woman about Bell’s age, with coffee-colored hair and a pert nose. “Miss Julia Addison shares with our readers her exceptional knowledge of the theater, while Lady Clarissa Sutliffe”—the one with the blond ringlets waggled her fingertips in a wave of acknowledgment—“has a passion for books and music. Miss Theodosia Nelson writes about matters of national importance.” Here a brown-skinned woman with dark eyes smiled in greeting. “And of course our artist, Miss Constantia Cooper”—the ginger-haired woman with freckles grudgingly tipped her chin—“has a keen eye for fashion.”
That last revelation was the most surprising; Miss Cooper’s dress was plain to the point of severe, and her coiffure appeared to be anchored in place by a pencil. From behind her spectacles, Miss Cooper was eyeing Daphne, too, and there was something unsettling about the penetration of her glare, as if she knew Daphne had no business being there.
“I take it from your outburst, Miss Burke,” Miss Cooper said, “that you are no unfortunate victim of a conduct manual education.”
Conduct manuals urged a young lady to control her body, her words, her thoughts, even her dreams—in short, to shrink, even sacrifice herself—all in the service of appealing to an eligible man who was, by his very nature, unworthy of her notice and yet, somehow, necessary to her livelihood.
Daphne proudly shook her head. Such lessons had not been a feature of anyone’s upbringing in the Burke household.
“So, tell us,” Miss Cooper went on, “why do you think the letter writer ought to break off her engagement? Rather a risky proposition for a young lady.”
