Definitely Not Mr. Darcy (38 page)

Chloe yanked on the weathered ring that was set into the metal until the small square creaked open. There, just under the lid, was a basket with a note that read,
You have found the secret door outside the house without walls, but have you solved the puzzle in the poem? If so, you may place your answer here. If not, then you must go back and begin again.

Henry walked over, but Chloe slammed the lid shut just in time.

“Mrs. Crescent is waiting.”

Chloe sighed. He escorted her back to Mrs. Crescent, who stood with her hands on her hips. Fifi whimpered at her feet. Chloe stopped and stood, statuesque, near the lavender, because a bumblebee had buzzed onto her bonnet and she hadn't solved the puzzle in the poem. She did a sort of whiplash move with her neck, the bee flew off, and the bonnet went toppling. It crashed to the lawn, rolled over, and the vibrator spilled out. It landed just in front of a marble statue of a naked nymphet smelling a marble rose.

Her first coherent thought was to thank God that the camerawoman who was following Henry and her had had to sneak off to go to the bathroom. The rest of the camera crew was off filming Julia and Grace horseback riding.

Mrs. Crescent and Henry gawked at the fleshy-looking object in the grass.

As Chloe watched a blue butterfly float by, and noticed how lovely the green-and-white striped canopy looked in the clover patch, she thought how perfect the moment would have been if not for that monster vibrator lying in the grass. She wanted to run, but everything, the canopy, the sundial, the secret door, the unsolved riddle, started spinning around, and she grabbed onto the butterfly net for support.

Fifi trotted over to the vibrator and sniffed it. Then he picked it up like a bone, carried it to Mrs. Crescent, and dropped it at her swollen ankles. Mrs. Crescent, with a hand on her belly, looked at Chloe.

Chloe clung to the butterfly net and swallowed. “It's not mine.”

Mrs. Crescent's eyebrows furrowed.

“It's Lady Grace's.”

“Of course it is,” Henry said, unhooking his arm from Mrs. Crescent's. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, bent over, and wrapped up the vibrator. He seemed to be stifling a laugh.

“I'm all for practicality, but it's hardly historically appropriate.” Mrs. Crescent turned to Henry. “It—it's a—”

“A neck massager.” Henry stood up with the wrapped vibrator in his hands.

“It is?” Mrs. Crescent turned her head to look at Henry, but because of her chaperone's poke bonnet, Chloe couldn't see her face.

“Absolutely.”

“Well, you're the doctor. The neck massager should be confiscated.”

Chloe's gloved arm swung out, knocking over the butterfly net. “No!”

Henry, who was cracking up now, turned his head away and pretended to cough. The white roses behind him swayed in the wind like little white surrender flags. Maybe she should've told them about the stash from Grace's room. They were on her side, weren't they? Chloe opened her mouth, ready to confess all.

Henry interrupted. “Here, Miss Parker. Take it.” He held the sheathed vibrator out toward her.

The stretch of grass between them seemed to go on forever. Her cheeks flushed with heat.

“Take it back—to Lady Grace, of course.” Henry smiled.

“See the mantua-maker immediately after that,” Mrs. Crescent said.

“You have to believe me.” Chloe studied his eyes. “It really is Grace's.” She took the thing in one hand, still unsure how to hold it. She swung her bonnet up off the grass by the organza ribbons and plopped the swaddled vibrator in it, holding her chin high and her back straight, as if she had a book on her head, and sauntered toward the parterre.

Henry followed her. “I daresay, Miss Parker, it certainly doesn't surprise me that you have more than a bee in your bonnet.”

Could he see the cigarettes and the MP3 player? Chloe eyed the bonnet swinging at her side. No. She whipped her head back at him and narrowed her eyes. Her hair spilled down around her sweaty neck and forehead. “Better to have a bee in my bonnet than nothing at all—like some of the ladies around here.”

“Touché.” Henry laughed, and Chloe cracked a smile, even as she looked straight ahead at the mantua-maker waiting near the partarre.

Chloe spun toward the kitchen door, where, on a wooden table outside, the scullery maid gutted fish. The fish skins shone in the sun and the stench almost made Chloe lose it.

“Not the servant door, Miss Parker—” Mrs. Crescent said in an annoyed-as-ever voice. “Take her through the main doors.”

She had to walk past Henry, who politely bowed as she escorted the dressmaker to the main doors. As soon as the footmen closed the doors behind them, Chloe excused herself for a moment, and before the exasperated woman could protest, Chloe was up in her chamber. She stashed the vibrator, the MP3 player, the whitening strips, the condoms, and the cigarettes under the rags in the basket next to her chamber pot. Only the poor chambermaid touched that. She rang for a footman to bring her tiara to Henry.

In the parlor, as Chloe stood on a cushioned stool, the dressmaker pinned her dress for final alterations. The satin drapes had been drawn, and Chloe could see clear through to the parterre, where five boys spilled through the wrought-iron gate in the east garden wall. Each one of them wore knickers and a vest and looked straight out of a costume drama. Mrs. Crescent must be pleased at the historical accuracy.

“Turn, please,” the mantua-maker mumbled with a mouthful of pins.

Chloe turned, and saw Henry playing with one of Mrs. Crescent's older boys. Which one was William? Mrs. Crescent hugged two of her littler ones, and they patted her pregnant belly. Henry gathered the boys around him and showed them the jar with the butterfly in it. They all looked, even the oldest one, wide-eyed, with tiny hands on the jar. Chloe thought only of Abigail. She would've enjoyed all this.

Henry held up the jar, pulled off the cheesecloth, and the butterfly flew up and around the boys, who clapped and jumped up and down.

The boys hung on to Henry, laughing and smiling, and Chloe got butterflies in her stomach. He was so good with kids. And, she couldn't help but think, he would be good with Abigail, too.

The dressmaker tugged on Chloe's gown to get her attention. “Would you like a Greek-key trim or tattered lace?” Chloe tried to focus on the two snippets of trim the seamstress handed her. “Oh. Um. Greek key.”

“Turn, please.”

Chloe turned again and this time she saw herself in the full-length gilded mirror. The peach-colored silk gown glimmered in the summer sun that streamed through the windows. Was it just the light or did she lose about ten pounds? For the first time ever, she wanted to hop on a scale. Even with the glasses, she looked—like a lady.

Henry had a toddler in his lap and he was reading aloud from one of the children's books. A wave of warmth washed over her.

“You have lost inches since I was here last, Miss Parker.”

Chloe heard the dressmaker, but she sounded far away, as if she were in another room.

Grace, in her low-cut white gown, sauntered over behind Henry and put her arm around his chair as he continued to read. She seemed to be reading it aloud with him to the boys. Henry looked up at Grace and smiled as they mouthed the words together.

Chloe's fingers clenched like claws.
Et tu, Henry? Wait a nineteenth-century minute.
She was getting jealous over—Henry.

Then Julia romped onto the parterre and set up the ring toss for the boys, and the boys left Henry and Grace alone with the book.

“Miss Parker?” A gorgeous footman, maybe even Grace's most recent conquest, held out a silver salver with a handmade envelope on it addressed to her. Chloe picked up the thick note and the footman bowed and left. It was sealed with a red wax
W
.

“Now for your pelisse, Miss Parker.” The dressmaker held out the thin, floor-length tailored jacket for alterations. Chloe broke the seal and opened the note.

Even with the tight-sleeved pelisse covering her arms, she got goose bumps. Of course, meeting Sebastian at the ice house alone would be against the rules, but it sounded like he was going to propose. He had something to ask her!

But didn't most Regency proposals take place in the daytime? In a parlor or drawing room, after all the sisters and nosy mothers had been whisked away? At least, that was what happened in the novels and costume dramas. This meeting had to be aboveboard. Sebastian wouldn't jeopardize her position on the show, would he?

Chloe repeated the poem again in her mind. She still couldn't decipher it.

As the mantua-maker cuffed the sleeves of the shimmery silk pelisse, Chloe watched Grace, Julia, and Henry play “London Bridge Is Falling Down” with the littlest boys. She could see them mouth the words: “Falling down. Falling down. London Bridge is falling down. My fair lady.”

That was the problem with wearing glasses. You began to see things clearly.

L
adies, there are two invitations and three of you,” said the butler in the music room at Bridesbridge on Friday evening. The women had displayed their talents on the musical instrument of their choice. Grace played the harp, as it was the most expensive instrument, and it accentuated her higher-class status. Not to mention the fact that harp players had the added bonus of being able to flash some ankle while they performed. Julia played a complicated Regency piece on the pianoforte. Chloe attempted a Mozart selection on the pianoforte—one that she'd played at a Christmas piano recital when she was twelve.

Grace and Julia garnered fifteen Accomplishment Points while Chloe earned five for effort.

She had to admit to herself that some time-management software might've come in handy for such ongoing projects as the piano practicing, the needlework, and remembering to shake her vial of ink three times a day.

Chloe stood between Grace and Julia, who tapped her toe on the Aubusson carpet. Grace feigned a yawn. Chloe felt flushed and fanned herself. Mrs. Crescent, who lounged in a green tufted Grecian couch, looked down at Fifi and petted him.

The butler looked straight into the cameras. “Before we proceed, I would like to remind Mr. Wrightman that Miss Tripp has ninety Accomplishment Points, Lady Grace seventy, and Miss Parker forty-five. Mr. Wrightman has to take into account that Miss Parker failed to finish her needlework task even after a request to extend the deadline was granted.”

Chloe felt the sting of that failure and she really cringed to know that the public announcement of it was being filmed. She didn't want Abigail to see it, for one thing.

“All three of you have gowns for the ball already made and fitted,” said the butler. He rose up on his toes in his gold-buckled shoes. “But, only two of you will be invited to attend. If you are not chosen, you must immediately pack your trunks and you will be sent home tonight. The two that remain will be attending the ball tomorrow.”

More than ever, Chloe wanted to stay. Surely, Sebastian wouldn't have sent her that note if he didn't want her to stay.

“Mr. Wrightman, if you please.”

The butler stood aside, and Sebastian came forward. He looked elegant in his dark coat and breeches and a white cravat that showed off his tanned face.

Sebastian lifted an envelope from the salver. “Lady Grace.”

It was like a guillotine slicing down. Chloe's chances were suddenly cut in half. It was going to be Julia or her. Even though the note he'd given her had raised her hopes, this had all occurred before her pathetic pianoforte performance, and anything could happen now. Fear of being sent home ripped through her. She realized the worst had happened: she was falling for Sebastian!

Grace curtsied as Sebastian bowed, and the ostrich feather in her turban brushed up against him.
Why her?!
Chloe fumed internally.

Sebastian gazed at Chloe and Julia, as if even at that moment, he hadn't yet decided which one of them he would choose. Chloe imagined having to go home to Abigail. Abigail would be thrilled to see her, but also crushed to know that her mother had been sent home. She'd be even more crestfallen to know that her whole life would have to change. They'd have to downsize, move out of the city, and Winthrop, being in a better financial situation, might even be granted the holiday and summer custody he wanted.