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“You didn’t tell her?”
    “We hadn’t the time,” Daphne replied.
    Chaunce groaned, raking a hand through his dark, tousled hair. “How long does it take to tell someone that the man she loves is marrying another?”

 

    Chapter 2
    . . . and woman.
    Miss Darby in reply to Lt. Throckmorten
    from Miss Darby’s Reckless Bargain
    I t had been a fortnight since his meeting with Mr. Murray and in that time, and much to his chagrin, Roxley had managed to make the man’s daughter society’s newest Original.
    All over the ton , from drawing rooms to ballrooms, the same refrain was heard.
    Whoever is this Miss Murray? For if Roxley was courting her—poor dear Roxley, so down on his luck—she must be someone .
    And so, they all rushed to claim an acquaintance with her.
    For his part, Roxley had high hopes some bounder would come along and sweep her off her feet, stealing his march, but unfortunately, the gel came with a grim-faced chaperone in tow, Miss Watson, a dragon of a spinster, whose beady gaze was enough to turn away even the most determined fortune hunter.
    Worse, Miss Murray’s schoolmate from Mrs. Plumley’s in Bath, the former Miss Edith Nashe, who had used her heiress status to move up the social ladder and was now the Countess of Kipps, had latched on to her “dearest friend” to ensure that as long as the girl was in the spotlight of society’s notice, she was right there to “help.”
    As the countess was this evening, having dispatched Miss Watson to the wallflower section and taken up the role of Miss Murray’s dutiful chaperone.
    At least Lady Kipps took some of the burden off his shoulders, leaving him a moment or two to ponder his investigations. So far he’d managed to stave off Mr. Murray’s demands for the last fortnight, but his time was nearly up. He’d spent every waking moment he could salvage to determine who was behind this meticulously plotted ruin.
    And yet every time he thought he’d discovered something, every time he pressed a lead or a hint at some deception, the answer eluded him like a whiff of smoke.
    One moment it was there for him to grasp and the next it was gone.
    But what wasn’t gone was the never-ending sense of foreboding, a madness of sorts that haunted him wherever he went.
    Why? The question hammered his every thought. Why?
    The old Roxley would have made a ribald quip about the entire situation and suggested a séance with Madame Sybille to solve the problem.
    He was getting to the point where even that might be in order.
    So for the hundredth time this night, he made yet another sweep of the crowded room. And this time as the press of people shifted, his gaze fell on a tall, dark-headed figure on the opposite side of the room.
    Harry? His heart wrenched.
    He shook his head and looked again, but whoever he’d spied had once again been swallowed up in the crowd.
    Harriet Hathaway, indeed! He was going mad.
    “You were telling Miss Murray about your parents, my lord,” Lady Kipps said, nudging him out of his reverie. “I must say I find their story ever so tragic.” She smiled at Miss Murray. “His dear parents . . . so very young, so very much in love. Coming home from the Continent . . . when their carriage overturned.” Her handkerchief rose to her dry eyes, though it was a touching attempt at sympathy. “Isn’t that so, my lord?”
    “Yes, they died in the accident,” he replied, still distracted by that brief moment when he’d thought he’d seen Harry.
    “They were killed?” Miss Murray gasped, her white-gloved fingers coming to rest on his sleeve. “How terrible for you, my lord!”
    Once again she looked up into his eyes as if expecting something from him.
    As if he didn’t know what she expected. Her father had made it abundantly clear in the note he’d sent around this evening.
    Make your proposal tonight, my lord, or else.
    And yet as Roxley forced himself to look down at the lady by his side, his heart prodded him to scan the