The Lady Knows Best

Book 1: Goode's Guide to Misconduct

by Susanna Craig

Genres: Regency Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

The women behind the popular, scandalous periodical Mrs. Goode’s Magazine for Misses, also known as Goode’s Guide to Misconduct, are daring, witty, clever, and wise, just like their publication … especially in romance.
Serving as the advice columnist “Miss Busy B.” for an often-subversive ladies’ magazine is the perfect outlet for Daphne Burke’s outspoken nature. But when she advises a young lady of the ton to break off her engagement to a notorious rake, the consequences take Daphne beyond the page and into her real life.
Miles, Viscount Deveraux, sometimes known as “that devil Deveraux,” needs a respectable bride by the end of the Season, and he’s bet a fortune that he can get one. Now, his fiancée has not only changed her mind—but done it publicly, in a letter to London’s most infamous magazine. With the stakes high and time
short, it seems reasonable to him that the columnist responsible should come to his rescue and marry him instead.
Fortunately for Miles, Daphne is eager to escape the pressures of the London marriage mart. She agrees to a courtship. But at the end of two weeks, she intends to turn him down in a big, splashy scandal that will ruin her reputation and set her free. There’s just one shocking wrinkle: Who knew being ruined by a
rake could be so much fun?

Release date: April 25, 2023

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

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 silver. When she cleared her throat, all eyes turned to her, including Eileen’s. Could she be Mrs. Goode?

“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.”

Daphne refused to shy away from Miss Cooper’s sharp look, though she had to swallow twice before she could speak. “Because I . . . because I believe in love.”

The other woman choked back a huff of derisive laughter. “You would do well to remember, Miss Burke, that one of the aims of the Magazine for Misses is to promote rational conduct.”

That phrase even appeared on the magazine’s masthead, which proclaimed a mission to improve wisdom and promote rational conduct among young persons of the fair sex.

“Scoff if you will,” Daphne replied, favoring Miss Cooper with a patronizing smile, “but I have witnessed the power of a love match firsthand, and many times over.” She had seen it in her eldest siblings’ marriages, and in her parents. “This man”—she gestured toward the letter Lady Stalbridge still held—“does not love his bride-to-be. I doubt he even is capable of it. And I also question whether any father who could arrange such a match truly loves his child. She will be better off a spinster than yoked forever to a cad.”

A murmur of approval greeted her speech. Miss Nelson nodded. “Well said.”

“I wonder, ma’ am,” said Miss Addison to Lady Stalbridge after a moment, “whether we oughtn’t to consider making an advice column a regular feature of the magazine?”

Lady Stalbridge’s lips curved in an expression of thoughtful interest. She weighed the matter for several minutes while the others looked on. At last she said, “What say you, Miss Burke?”

“Consider the sort of advice she is prepared to offer,” Miss Cooper objected. “Worse than ‘listen to your parents.’ Listen to your heart,” she sneered.

“Personally, I prefer to use my head,” Daphne replied evenly. “And I should recommend that others do the same.”

Someone at the table, perhaps Miss Addison, choked back a triumphant giggle.

“If you join us,” added the young Lady Clarissa, “and if there’s time, perhaps you could round out your first month’s column by advising someone how to persuade her papa that a young lady can pursue a career as a concert pianist without any loss of reputation or respectability.”

Daphne could easily guess the identity of the young lady in need of guidance on such a subject. But she could not help but wonder about her father, who was unlikely to be persuadable on such a point, though Lady Clarissa was perfectly in the right, as far as Daphne was concerned. “I would suggest changing the instrument,” she suggested with a nod of encouragement. “In your letter. Just to preserve anonymity.”

“Yes,” agreed Lady Stalbridge. “Outside this room, we guard everyone’s identity strenuously, including that of Mrs. Goode. As I’m sure you know, the Magazine for Misses does not always receive a warm welcome. Sadly, too many still believe young ladies incapable of forming—to say nothing of expressing—sensible opinions on matters of both education and entertainment.”

As a girl, Daphne had wished to become a teacher. Gradually, however, she had come to understand that teachers were most often impoverished young woman with no other choice. To choose such a profession might be seen as a slight to her family, as if her father and brothers and brothers-in-law were incapable of supporting her in comfort. It might be taking a situation from a young woman desperate for the sort of respectable independence a teaching post afforded, as her sister-in-law Rosamund, Paris’s wife, had once been.

But she hadn’t given up entirely on the dream until the day Bell had looked her in the eye and exclaimed, “You just want an excuse to order people around!”

“So, Miss Burke,” Lady Stalbridge prompted, “what do you say?”

Daphne still suspected that she was wanted primarily for the possibility of persuading her famous elder sisters to participate in the venture. Or that the offer was merely a means of ensuring her silence.

But joining the Magazine for Misses as an advice columnist would finally give Daphne an opportunity to make her own mark on the world—if anyone listened.

“Daph?”

Bell’s voice. From inside the bookshop, though not yet close enough to have overheard anything.

“I accept,” Daphne said, leaping to her feet and snatching up Eileen, who squeaked in protest. “But I have to go. I’ll be in touch.”

Lady Stalbridge stood, too, and handed her Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square’s letter, even as she laid a finger across her lips to remind Daphne of the necessity of secrecy.

Daphne bobbed her head, tucked the letter into her reticule, and left. The swish of her skirts nearly toppled a stack of books as she hurried back toward the front of the shop. “Careful now, miss.” The clerk, who had at last deigned to make an appearance, paused in the act of helping another customer to admonish her.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she replied without slowing her steps.

Bell, who was standing just inside the door, turned toward the sound of her hurrying feet. “There you are! Were you hiding?”

It took several moments for Daphne to realize her sister was speaking to the cat.

Bell lifted Eileen from Daphne’s arms, deposited her once more into the basket dangling from her forearm, and tapped her pink nose. “You naughty girl. You made Daphne get all dirty.”

Daphne glanced down to discover a streak of dust down the front of her skirts and a goodly collection of white fur on her dark green spencer.

“I’m sorry it took so long. I was—” she began, though uncertain what explanation she could offer. But Bell was already off. After a few fruitless swipes at her clothing, Daphne followed her sister out of the bookshop and into the bright spring morning.

Daphne had spent a great deal of time in England since her three eldest siblings’ marriages, but she had always preferred Dublin to London. Now, however, the prospect of being able to meet regularly with the staff of the Magazine for Misses gave the city a fresh appeal.

She imagined the friends she would make among its writers, even Constantia Cooper—all of them dedicated to the prospect of improving wisdom and promoting rational conduct. She, Daphne, would advise other young women how to make good choices and attain their dreams.

And unlike Bell, they might even listen!

Cautiously, she wended her way into the throng of shoppers, trying at least to keep her sister, and the Finch House footman who had accompanied them on this excursion, in her sight. Bell never moved more quickly than when she’d been given permission to purchase a new bonnet.

The milliner’s was only slightly less crowded than the pavement outside. As Bell pushed her way to the counter, Daphne hung back, content to daydream as she pretended to examine a display of gloves. A few moments later, her attention was caught by a gentleman who, though standing on the street, appeared to be looking right at her through the gilt-lettered shop window.

Fashionably and expensively dressed, Viscount Deveraux was the sort of man who always carried himself as if he knew how handsome he was, with his brown eyes, straight nose and sculpted jaw, and careless waves of dark blond hair just visible beneath the brim of his tall beaver hat. If the gossips could be believed, his looks were not all he had to offer the women who were willing to brave the scandal of being associated with such a rake.

He was accompanied this morning by his friend, the Earl of Ryland, who was dark-clad as usual and somber-faced. Lord Ryland was every inch the gentleman, surely a better friend than a man like Lord Deveraux deserved, but rumored to be too indebted to pursue a bride who did not bring a fortune.

Daphne had been introduced to both of them in passing at some event early in the Season. Lord Ryland had been flawlessly polite; Lord Deveraux, she was quite sure, had forgotten her name the moment it was spoken. He had hardly even met her eye.

So why was he now looking her up and down while wearing an unusually pleased expression?

When Lord Ryland spoke to him, drawing away his notice, she belatedly realized he had been studying his own reflection in the glass. His warm smile of approval had been all for himself.

Rolling her eyes, she dragged her gaze back to the gloves and began to make mental notes on her answer to Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square. This afternoon, she would find some way to send a draft to Lady Stalbridge.

“People call him ‘that devil Deveraux,’ you know.” Bell appeared at her elbow with a hatbox in each hand. At Daphne’s raised eyebrow, she laughed and gave a little shrug, as if to say, I couldn’t possibly be expected to choose. “They don’t even bother to whisper when they say it. I pity the girl he is going to marry.”

Daphne bobbed her head in agreement. The story sounded familiar, and why shouldn’t it? That particular affliction—a loveless, faithless union—was a common one around Town. At one and twenty, Daphne had hoped to avoid the indignity of the marriage mart entirely. But she couldn’t very well leave Bell to navigate the rake-infested waters of a London Season on her own.

Daphne followed her sister from the shop, eager to get home, review the letter from Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square, and begin writing out her answer. In her head, she tried out a few particularly cutting phrases sure to put the chess-playing rogue in his place. Occasionally, she caught her gaze wandering to the broad shoulders of the fair-haired gentleman several yards in front of her. Just the sort of devil she had in mind....

A few days later

Miles, Viscount Deveraux, did not look up as booted footsteps approached and came to a stop beside his chair. Nor again when the fellow to whom the boots belonged said with an exasperated sigh, “I feared I’d find you here.”

Alistair Haythorne, the Earl of Ryland’s voice. Just what was needed to put the cap on this overflowing chamber pot of a day. Miles lifted his glass to his lips, intending to toss back another swallow or two.

But no brandy seared the back of his throat. When had he finished his drink?

Unrumpled as always, Alistair called for coffee, signaling to a waiter even as he plucked the empty tumbler from Miles’s hand with a grimace of distaste. Before Miles could curl his fingers into an . . .