As Emma would’ve put it, Chloe had one chance to snag, tag, and bag Sebastian. It was Wednesday of week two, and she only had nine more days to get Sebastian to propose. So she decided—not to wear Henry’s spectacles on her date.
Even though she fully intended to appeal to Sebastian’s intellect and his noble upbringing, she figured whatever she could do to further her cause wouldn’t hurt. So she selected her flimsiest gown with the neckline that didn’t quit and the stays that turned her boobs into the uniboob—a force to be reckoned with. She shaved her legs for the first time in almost two weeks, illegally albeit, at her washstand, with a razor stolen from one of the footmen, even though she knew Sebastian wouldn’t be seeing her legs. She chose a necklace that had a slightly damaged clasp in the hope that the emerald it contained might slide right into her cleavage at an opportune moment. Mrs. Crescent doused Chloe’s muslin gown with water as any wanton, but still respectable, lady would do under the circumstances. And, as predicted, as soon as she hit the cooler summer air on this increasingly cloudy day, her nipples went hard.
Sebastian handed her up into his curricle, the sports car of the early 1800s. They were going for a turn around the estate and then a picnic and a bit of nature sketching at the Grecian temple, where Mrs. Crescent awaited them. Chloe couldn’t have planned a more romantic outing herself. Neither Mrs. Crescent nor the cameras could fit into the curricle, so she and Sebastian were filmed from an ATV shadowing them alongside the road.
Unfortunately, Sebastian had a toothache, and as he drove the horses, he sucked on cloves to help with the pain, because aspirin hadn’t been invented yet. Chloe broached subjects she knew interested him from the bio she’d read: architecture, poetry, painting, astronomy, even bird-watching, but he just rubbed his jaw in reponse. He was clearly in a lot of pain. But the last thing she wanted him to think about was a toothache. She had to distract him, but how, without breaking the rules?
They passed the grotto in silence. She wanted to know his favorite movie, his favorite restaurant, where he liked to travel, his hopes, his dreams, even his fears, his failings. She wanted to learn everything about him, but all efforts seemed so forced, and he was consumed with pain. What a far cry it was from yesterday’s pole dance at her window, when Sebastian had eyes only for her.
The pressure mounted. The time would go quickly. Certainly Lady Grace was sexier than she, and Julia, no doubt, had youth and exuberance on her side. This called for drastic measures, something Emma, her employee, not Jane Austen’s Emma, might concoct.
She thought about tossing the ladylike approach out the carriage window and throwing herself around him and his double-breasted riding coat, which stretched tautly across his chest. She imagined untying his cravat, tearing off his shirt, and crushing her breasts up against him like a common trollop. Instead she demurely tucked a stray hair under her bonnet. “Mr. Wrightman,” she said, “I wanted to let you know that your cat has caught the mouse.”
“It has?” He shifted on the carriage seat and raised an eyebrow at her. He took his hand off his jaw. The horses shook their manes and their nostrils flared.
“Absolutely.”
“That was certainly quick.”
“Well, your cat has great instincts.”
He almost dropped the reins as they clipped along past the deer park. “Thank you.”
She became acutely aware that she didn’t have so much as a thong on. He was so close, so—hot. These sudden urges made her uncomfortable. It went against everything she believed to lust after a man she’d met just a couple of weeks ago, but then another image of her and Sebastian flashed through her mind. They were parked behind the stables in the back of the carriage and the hemline of her gown was up to her ribboned Empire waist. She was raking her fingers through his thick, dark, tumbling hair as his hands cupped her breasts—
“Are you—enjoying your time here at Bridesbridge, Miss Parker? Is it everything you hoped it would be?”
“Yes, I’m having a fabulous time, and it’s beyond what I had hoped. But what about you? Are you getting closer to making your final decision?”
“Yes, every day. It hasn’t been easy—but it has led me here, to this point, with you. You’re so different from the others.”
She’d heard this before, and it was beginning to sound a little stilted. “You keep saying that, Mr. Wrightman. But what, I wonder, does it mean?” He looked pained again, so she lightened up. “Good different, I hope?”
“Yes. Good different.”
“It’s hard to tell—sometimes—exactly how you feel,” she ventured.
“I don’t really like all the attention I’m getting as the host of this thing. With the chaperones, so many people I don’t know well, it’s hard to relax and be myself.”
That must be why his behavior seemed at times so contradictory. This reality show was putting strange pressures on all of them. But her mind kept turning to his skintight breeches tucked neatly into his shapely riding boots. “I feel for you,” she said.
She’d like to feel him, period, she thought. She could hardly contain her physical attraction to this man, and from the way he looked at her when they were alone, it seemed as if he felt the same way. They had chemistry all right—on steroids. The force of the attraction, she reasoned, was probably made all the more powerful by the restrictions of Regency etiquette. She couldn’t touch him, kiss him, or even hold his hand until he asked for her hand—in marriage. A flash of her untying his breeches came into her head. She would take hold of him with her leather-gloved hand and he would throb with need—
“I hope you’ll like the afternoon I’ve planned for us.”
“I’m sure I will.” He could be so thoughtful at times, so considerate of her feelings and her pleasure.
He slowed the horses to a trot and they stopped at the Grecian temple. Chloe began to feel another urge rising up in her. It was the simple urge to pee. It happened to her every time she was out in the middle of nature, it seemed.
When he offered his hand to help her out of the carriage, she cast an eye toward the weathered green dome of the Grecian temple on the hill. Behind the temple’s fluted columns, a picnic blanket had been laid out and sprinkled with red rose petals.
She reveled in the beauty of the scene. She never wanted to forget it. But one of the horses chose that moment to make a loud farting noise and a wave of the most disgusting-smelling air rose up around them. Just at the wrong moment, Sebastian whisked his hand away to cover his nose with his arm. “Arrgh,” he muttered, wincing.
Chloe made a move to lean on his hand that suddenly wasn’t there and stumbled out of the carriage. Meanwhile, the horse lifted its tail and dumped on the road. The pile stank and steamed. Both Sebastian and Chloe gagged.
Such were the hazards of driving by horse.
Sebastian escorted her toward the temple. Heavy clouds began to gather in the sky. Chloe needed to go to the bathroom, but didn’t want to leave.
A basket overflowing with dainty sandwiches, buns, and grapes anchored a corner of the picnic blanket. Grapes! And not a mutton leg, cow’s tongue, or pig’s head in sight. A stack of reproduction first-edition William Cowper and Wordsworth poetry books and a box of charcoal sticks and sketchbooks weighed down another corner.
“Well, what do you think of what Mr. Wrightman has arranged for you here?” Mrs. Crescent asked. She clasped her hands in obvious satisfaction.
“It’s perfect,” Chloe said, trying not to think about her bladder.
“Lemonade?” Mrs. Crescent asked as she held up a corked bottle.
Chloe leaned in to whisper to her. “I need to dash off to the ladies’ room.”
“You do? How unfortunate. Well, one never thinks of such a thing out here on a picnic. You’ll have to go in the woods—or walk over to Dartworth Hall. And remember, ladies don’t run, even to the ladies’ room.”
“If you will excuse me, Mr. Wrightman. I need to use the—facilities.” Under her breath she said to him, “Or lack thereof.”
He bowed. “Of course. I recommend Henry’s lab.”
Henry had a lab? As in science lab?
“See it right there?” Sebastian pointed to a little brick building that stood beneath a clump of trees. “It’s a lot closer than Dartworth. And he happens to have one of those newfangled water closets all the way in the back of the building. Don’t be long. I’ll be waiting for you.” He popped a grape in his mouth and plopped down on the picnic blanket. “Ugh, my tooth.” He started rubbing his jaw again.
Chloe knocked on the door of the lab, but nobody answered. When she opened the door, light from floor-to-ceiling windows spilled into the room, shining on a neatly organized wall full of books. A large telescope on a tripod stood in a window. Wooden plank tables had centerpieces of test tubes in wooden racks, a primitive stethoscope, a camera obscura, and pieces of what looked like a gas lamp. A journal stood open on one of the tables, and next to it a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Everything, every single thing, piqued her curiosity.
It was like a snapshot of the inner workings of Henry’s mind. If only she could get such a glimpse inside Sebastian’s. She spotted the initials WC on a door in the back and stepped onto what seemed like a back porch. There it was, a sort of wooden toilet, the first toilet she had sat on in almost two weeks. Who knew that the sight of a toilet could make her so happy?
Chloe was straddling the primitive-looking toilet bowl, hoisting her gown, when suddenly she heard boots clomping on the floorboards in the lab. “Mr. Wrightman?” She searched for the toilet paper. There wasn’t a basket of rags anywhere either. When someone pushed the door open, she put her hand up to stop the door from opening fully. “I’m in here!”
Whoever it was pulled the door shut again. “Miss Parker?”
It was Henry.
“So sorry. I had no idea you were in there!”
“It’s all right, Henry. But—do you have any . . . toilet paper?” she squeaked.
Chloe heard him scrambling, and what sounded like a tin of something fell to the floor. A moment later he handed her a bucket of rags.
Chloe used one of them. Now . . . Another nineteenth-century conundrum. What to do with it? None of this was in her rule book. She couldn’t exactly flush it down whatever this thing was. She pulled the handle, but it didn’t flush.
“Just bring them out here, Miss Parker. I’ll take care of everything.”
Chloe’s head pounded with embarrassment. She creaked the door open.
He held out a cloth sack to her.
Without looking at him, she stuffed the rag in the bucket and he took it outside to a tin trash container.
She followed him. What a gentleman to deal with all this! “Um, to make matters worse, the water-closet thingamajig wouldn’t flush.”
“I know! I’ve been working on it every spare minute, and still haven’t perfected that part of it yet. Here’s a washbowl for your hands.” He guided her toward an outdoor washbasin and handed her a large ball of what she recognized as very good soap. He wasn’t wearing a riding jacket, his waistcoat was unbuttoned, his cravat untied, and his shirt, a pullover white muslin with a long V neck, hung open. His hair was disheveled.
“Thank you for helping out a damsel in distress.” He had a delicious scent about him, an aroma of oil paints and turpentine, something only an arty girl would know and love.
“You’re welcome. I hope you’ll excuse my appearance,” he said as he raked his fingers through his hair. “I just came from doing some painting in the field.”
“Hmm,” she said out loud. “I—I mean, hmm, your lab looks interesting.” She peeked back into the building. “But I have to get back to my chaperone and your brother.”
“Of course.”
“Speaking of which, do you have something other than cloves for a toothache? Your brother’s in a lot of pain.”
He eyeballed a row of bottles from the doorway.
“He keeps rubbing his jaw.”
Henry stepped into the lab, then returned with a tiny bottle in his hand, containing a scant amount of liquid. “Two drops of this, mixed with a non-alcoholic drink, should help. But no more than two drops. It’s laudanum, and it’s powerful.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wrightman. I’m much obliged!” She took a few steps backward, turned toward the hill, and squirreled the laudanum in her reticule. “Why don’t we have a water closet like that at Bridesbridge?”
“The Bramah water closet? Chiefly because I haven’t figured out how to make it flush yet. As soon as it’s ready, I’ll have one installed at Bridesbridge. It’s taken me this long to work it out. Along with the shower.”
“Did you say ‘shower’?” She stopped.
“I didn’t realize that the subject of plumbing would cause you so much excitement. Have a wonderful time with Sebastian.” He bowed.
Chloe curtsied.
She must’ve lost almost twenty minutes of her time with Sebastian by now. The breeze picked up, and then, BANG! A gun went off in the field behind her. She froze, her ears ringing and her heart pounding with shock. Turning and squinting, she caught sight of Grace, who was within shouting distance. She was practicing with her revolver and target. Damn her! Chloe stomped toward her, then stopped. Wait. That was exactly what Grace wanted her to do, to waste her alone time with Sebastian arguing with her about gunshots. Chloe spun around and made a dash for the Grecian temple, where Sebastian had dozed off and Mrs. Crescent was munching contentedly on a cucumber sandwich while reading a book.
“A lady never runs, Miss Parker. How many times do I have to remind you?” Mrs. Crescent said. “Sandwich?” Fifi wagged his tail as he chomped on a miniature mince pie.
“No, thank you.” Chloe was too discombobulated to eat.
Just then, Sebastian, who was lying on the picnic blanket, propped himself up with his elbows. His jaw looked a little swollen. “Finally. You’re back. I missed you.” He stared at her without flinching.
It was as if she could dive into his eyes and float. She flashed him a smile. How was it he always knew what to say and do to make her feel like—well—a hundred thousand dollars?
She wanted to tell him about the laudanum, but that would bring up the impropriety of her having been with Henry unchaperoned. Hoping he’d forget about his toothache so they could get on with this date already, she decided to just spike Sebastian’s lemonade with the stuff and be done with it. This proved easy enough to do. Sebastian had closed his eyes to sunbathe and Mrs. Crescent was deep into her book.
Chloe turned her back to the cameras. The size of the “drops” she was supposed to add to the lemonade, however, was clearly open to interpretation. She slipped two rather smallish ones into his drink, not wanting to give him too much. Then she read a Cowper poem to him aloud, the verse punctuated by gunshots, until he finished his lemonade.
Plucking a blade of grass to use as a bookmark, she asked him, “What did you think of that poem?”
He rubbed his jaw, contemplating his response. “I must confess. I was paying more attention to you than to the poem. I couldn’t take my eyes off you, and I guess my mind started wandering.”
Chloe looked at Mrs. Crescent, who winked and stuffed a Bath bun into her mouth. Off in the distance, she saw Henry walk out of the lab, mount his horse, and gallop off toward Dartworth. A cool breeze fluttered the corners of the picnic blanket.
Chloe picked up a sketchbook and charcoal sticks. She wanted to sketch Sebastian—his tousled black hair, his dark eyes and chin with that perfect little cleft in the middle. But a lady would never be so bold. She worked on a beech tree in the distance instead.
“Mr. Wrightman,” Mrs. Crescent said as she handed Sebastian a second sketchbook. “I’d like to see you do a portrait of Miss Parker. I know one of your pastimes is sketching.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Sebastian sat up, placed the sketchbook down in his lap, took a sidelong glance at Chloe, and immediately put his hand on his jaw. “Ugh. This tooth is killing me.” He rubbed his jaw again. “And these cloves aren’t helping.” He tossed them over his shoulder.
Chloe hoped the laudanum would kick in soon.
Mrs. Crescent took a sandwich from the basket and looked up at the darkening sky.
BAM! BAM! Two shots in a row got Sebastian’s attention, and he put down his blank sketchbook to stand and make sure everything was all right in Graceland. And of course it was.
“I truly don’t know how you tolerate her, Miss Parker.” He sat back down. “Is she always like this?”
She smiled, because a lady would never articulate what was swirling around in her brain after a comment like that. She had to bite her lip to keep herself from saying exactly what she thought of her competitor.
He began rubbing his jaw again.
Chloe closed her sketchbook. “Mr. Wrightman, I do believe I’ll go for a turn around the hill,” she said.
“May I escort you?” He stood and straightened his cravat.
“Please do,” Chloe said. She disappeared behind a fluted column and stepped into a grassy patch that was covered with orange and red poppies.
BAM! Another gunshot rang out.
The cameraman followed them, but Mrs. Crescent started talking to the camera, apparently with the goal of furthering Chloe’s cause of getting Sebastian alone. The cameraman stayed with the chaperone for quite a while.
A ring-necked pheasant landed on a rock in front of them. Chloe stopped to watch it.
“What a beauty,” Sebastian said as he eyed the bird.
A wave of warmth came over her.
“I can’t wait until hunting season!” What? He pretended to hold a gun and shot at the bird.
The pheasant flew away.
“Excuse me?” Chloe’s hands shook, along with, for a moment, her resolution. She thought he was an ornithologist!
“I’m kidding, really. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
It was, no doubt, the laudanum, and that was, without a doubt, all Chloe’s fault.
When they reached the grotto, she looked back toward the Grecian temple, but she couldn’t really see it that well. It was fuzzy. She did need glasses! But it couldn’t have been that far away. She wasn’t allowed to be out of Mrs. Crescent’s line of sight, although she was the most forgiving of chaperones when it came to anything to do with Sebastian. The breeze felt cooler now, and almost damp.
“Let’s give the cameraman the slip,” Sebastian said as he took her hand and led her into a thicket of trees, then through an opening in a huge hollow oak tree. He jumped down a giant hole and landed just under the tree roots. “Follow me down the rabbit hole, here.” He held out his arms.
“That’s not a rabbit hole,” Chloe said as she peered down at him.
He laughed. “Of course it isn’t. It’s a secret entryway to the grotto. Come on.” He held his arms out and she slid down into them. The red poppies she had picked scattered at their feet.
For a moment they stood there, pressed up against each other in the grotto, listening to the water from the reflecting pond lap against the rocks. He slid the bonnet off her head and his hand traced her spine, then moved down to her thighs. His touch sent tingles up and down her.
“I’m feeling much better now,” he said as he lifted her chin with his hand to kiss her.
It suddenly occurred to the lady that drugging her suitor might not have been a good idea.
BAM! What sounded like another gunshot echoed through the grotto, but this time it was accompanied by a flash, and both Chloe and Sebastian startled, looking toward the opening of the grotto. Rain was gushing down.
“We’ve got to go—” Chloe stepped toward the entrance, but Sebastian grabbed her by the waist and smiled, pressing her against the mossy wall. Lightning flashed again. Well, she’d gotten herself into this rabbit hole. Now how the hell was she going to get out of it?
The prospect of being in the grotto had been so intriguing to her—the rocky walls covered in moss, a table and two chairs chiseled into the rock. Now it seemed nothing more to her than a dank cave, where, even if she screamed her loudest, nobody would hear her.
Meanwhile, Sebastian was nibbling on her neck and pressing himself against her.
Much as she wanted him, and wanted to give in to her increasing desire for his increasing hardness, she knew that Mrs. Crescent would not approve.
“I thought you had a toothache!” She tried to pass the situation off as a joke, to push him away, but he just reined her in closer.
“I have to get back to Mrs. Crescent!” Her necklace chose that moment to stage its fall into her bosom and Sebastian promptly fished it out, letting his fingers delve into her cleavage. Then he flung it toward the grotto opening. The rain pummeled down sideways.
This was all her fault, the drug was too much for him. “Sebastian! Let’s go!” She raised her voice, but he locked her against the wall of the grotto with his arms and stifled her with a kiss, which, under normal circumstances, might have been exciting. But by nineteenth-century standards, such behavior was beyond shocking. So she did what any lady would do in her situation: she hiked up her gown, raised up her knee with superhuman force, and decked him. But good.
“Owww!” He doubled over in pain.
Chloe dashed toward the grotto opening—looking back at him—and wham—she collided right into Henry, who happened to be barreling through the entrance at that very moment. This time she was thrilled to see him.
“Excuse me, Miss Parker,” a soaked Henry said as he bent down to pick up her necklace and hold it up, the emerald dangling.
She reached out for it. “Thank you. I’m so glad to see you. I’m afraid I may have overmedicated your brother. He’s breaking all the rules!”
Henry shot a glance at Sebastian, then glared at her. “How much did you give him?”
“Two drops—that was it, Henry.”
Henry’s brows furrowed. “I never should’ve given you that laudanum. Come on, Sebastian. Get into the carriage. It’s pouring.”
Henry held his greatcoat over Chloe as she stepped into the rain and into gooey mud.
Drenched, she bent to step into the carriage, where Mrs. Crescent was already sitting, and slapping her closed fan in the palm of her hand like she was holding a constable’s nightstick. Sebastian lumbered in and promptly fell asleep. A raindrop slid down his nose and hung, poised on the tip of it.
Well, it was sure to be a date he’d never forget. Or had he already forgotten? Why did she give him that laudanum? It was a drug, after all. She had brought out his dark side, and now what? She couldn’t deal? Considering the fact that she managed to drug, and then deck, the bachelor heir, she’d surely be on the next plane out of here.
These questions taunted her that night as she thrashed around in her bed. Her flimsy mattress made crunching noises every time she moved. Instead of getting her beauty rest, she was agonizing over what to do next, until finally she determined to solve that damn riddle of a poem and search Grace’s room for items that she’d smuggled in. She needed proof if she was going to outwit Grace and win the money. Or was it to win over Sebastian? And maybe Henry’s good opinion?
The money. The man. The men! Would she consider stealing something from someone else’s room for money alone? She really didn’t want to fall for Sebastian or Henry, or worst of all, for both of them. That would complicate everything, her entire win-the-money-and-run plan.
Her last lingering thought before she fell asleep was to remember to have her chambermaid add more straw to the mattress. It felt like she was sleeping on a board, which, essentially, was exactly what she was doing.
The next morning, after Chloe once again inquired about any letters, hoping for news from Abigail, and after all the women had won five Accomplishment Points for painting a footstool, Grace was out horseback riding with Julia. So after taking her usual romp around the grounds trying to solve the impossible riddle Sebastian had given her, Chloe snuck into Grace’s very red, walnut-paneled, and humongous room, and rifled through the table in her dressing room. She wanted to find condoms and nail Grace with the evidence.
The room, with its wooden-beam ceiling and lead-paned casement windows, seemed more Gothic than Regency in style. A small fire glowed in the fireplace, and even though it was the beginning of July, the room was cold. But she had to find proof of Grace’s cheating, because this morning, as she put extra butter on her roll, the butler announced that there would be an Invitation Ceremony that very night at Dartworth after the women displayed their musical talents.
Her hands shook as she rummaged through Grace’s drawers, because she never did this kind of thing. Really.
When she used the bathroom in other people’s houses, she never even peeked in their medicine cabinets. She would feel guilty just opening the sink cabinet to look for toilet paper if it ran out.
She tugged at the lion’s-head pull to open the top drawer and it made a scraping noise. Her heart throbbed and she checked the door—still closed. Grace’s dressing table, capped in Italian marble and nearly twice the size of Chloe’s, had not only a bottle of rose water on it, but lavender water and orange water, too, plus a vase of fresh cabbage roses.
As her hands felt their way around in the drawer, she found all the expected things: hair ribbons, hair combs, and a—curling iron? She pulled it out. It wasn’t a curling iron. She pressed the “on” button. It started vibrating. It was a vibrator!
“Yuck!” She dropped it to the ground. It fell with a loud clunk, but kept vibrating right near the dressing-table leg carved into the shape of a lion’s paw. Chloe froze. Only her eyes jumped to the beaded silver doorknob. Nothing—yet.
Looking down at the flesh-colored plastic thing pulsing on the hardwood floor, she got the willies. How gross to know that she had turned on Grace’s vibrator!
Thank God she had her walking gloves on. She swooped down to pick the thing up and shut it off. How did Grace smuggle that in here? Chloe didn’t want to know.
With her gloved hand gripped around the vibrator, she looked in the ornate gilded mirror, about the size of a plasma TV, tilted on top of Grace’s dressing table. Henry’s spectacles, which she wore now whenever Sebastian wasn’t around, made her look like a spinster on steroids. And maybe she was. She didn’t own a vibrator. She didn’t even know how to hold it, exactly. It looked totally out of place in her hands—period clothing or not.
Her hazel eyes looked browner than ever, and under the thick glass of Henry’s spectacles, they appeared wider apart. Somehow, in the mirror in her room, as small and oval as her face, the glasses seemed okay. The poke bonnet with a straw crown and ruffled white trim completed the old-maid look. She frowned. Grace had already gotten a good laugh out of the glasses, and now Chloe could see why. She pulled the bonnet from her head, held it upside down, peeled back the ruffled cotton liner, and tucked the vibrator in. The poke bonnet had an extended crown, almost like a stovepipe, and quite a bit could fit into it. She opened the other two side drawers and found half a pack of cigarettes, teeth-whitening strips . . . eureka! The condoms! She tossed it all into the bonnet and eyed the doorknob.
Of course, the dressing table was way too obvious. Was there more? She peeked behind the tilted mirror, and something silver caught her eye. Reaching behind the mirror with her arm, she pulled out a foil packet of pills. Xanax? Weren’t those antianxiety pills? What could a beautiful, titled lady possibly have had anxiety attacks about? Please. She put them back, not wanting to see Grace off her meds. Sheesh!
She looked under Grace’s palatial canopy bed. Nothing. Chloe turned to the washstand, snooping around the linens. Grace had five walnut-sized soaps on her washstand. Five! Chloe pilfered one and stuck that in her bonnet, too. In the mahogany wardrobe that happened to be three times as big as Chloe’s, she found enough gowns to make a princess swoon and it was no wonder Grace never wore the same thing twice. She closed the wardrobe door and turned the ornate bronze key in the lock.
She opened each little drawer in the hutch above the writing desk and found a pink MP3 player! She popped that into her bonnet, too, then carefully squished the bonnet on her head, tied the ribbons under her chin, and glanced in the mirror. Amazingly, it didn’t look any clunkier on her than it had before she stuffed all those things in it. She scanned the room one last time before she turned to the door to go, but she heard Grace talking in the hallway.
Her knees went weak. Damn! Where could she hide? Her eyes ricocheted from the wardrobe, to the open casement window, to the bed. Grace’s bed was high off the ground, even though that had gone out of fashion by the Regency, but it was, in the end, her only option. Her bonnet just made it under the heavy wooden bed frame, and it was too risky to reach for Henry’s glasses, which had fallen off under the bed, near the edge of the Oriental carpet. The floor was dusty and her nose itched. She had about a foot-high field of vision from under the bed frame. Grace’s boots and riding habit train came by first, followed by her chaperone’s boots and riding train.
Chloe’s bodice was smushed against the wooden floor. When would she be able to get out of here? Grace’s chatelaine hit the dressing-table top with a clunk, like a key ring.
“I got a letter from my new lawyer,” Grace said to her chaperone.
“And?”
“He, too, claims the land’s been with them so long that nothing can legally be done about it.”
Grace’s maidservant came in; Chloe saw her feet. She couldn’t hold her straining neck up any longer so she set her chin on the dirty floor to rest. Grace walked toward the bed and her boot tips almost kicked Chloe in the nose. With a creak, Grace sat down on the bed, and the bedboard groaned above Chloe’s bonnet. The heels of Grace’s boots were practically in Chloe’s face.
The maidservant knelt down to unlace Grace’s boots. Chloe held her breath, as if that would help. Finally, the maidservant slipped the boots off Grace’s feet, stood again, and Chloe exhaled.
Grace’s chaperone walked to the other side of the room. “Well, then, you only have one choice, as I see it.” She always spoke as if she had an English muffin in her mouth. Stuffy.
The maidservant must’ve been helping Grace out of her riding habit. A slight ruffling noise and the skirt and train disappeared. Chloe looked away, even though she could only see up to Grace’s skinny calves. Chloe just wanted out of here.
The chaperone interrupted by clearing her throat, a not-so-subtle signal that the hired help might be listening. “We must get everyone else out of the picture. Out of your picture. No matter what it takes.”
Chloe knew what they were talking about, so she was pretty sure the maidservant knew, too. Her chin hurt, and she turned her face the other way, to keep her neck from cramping up.
The maidservant’s feet came into view. “Would you like to wear this gown, my lady?”
“No. No. The iridescent square-necked one.” Both the maidservant’s and Grace’s feet walked away. Chloe heard splashes coming from the washstand where Grace must’ve been washing her face.
Grace’s chaperone walked toward the door. “You know what needs to be done. This isn’t just a game anymore. It’s about the land. Dignity. Rightful ownership.” The maidservant came back in and the door clicked shut.
Grace sat on the edge of her bed again—oophf—while the maidservant slid indoor shoes on her mistress’s feet. Her gown seemed gorgeous to Chloe, even if she could only see it from the calf down.
“If that’ll be all, my lady . . . ?” The maidservant’s feet moved as if she was curtsying.
“That’s all.”
The door opened and shut again. Grace’s shoes nearly stepped on Henry’s glasses.
Blood rushed to Chloe’s head, causing a colossal headache. Someone tapped on the door.
“Finally!” Grace whispered. “Get in here, quick.” She closed and locked the door. Chloe’s spirits sank.
A footman’s buckle shoes and white tights came into Chloe’s line of sight. Footman? Locked door? Uh-oh.
Giggles and kisses and little moaning sounds got Chloe’s skin crawling. The footman and Grace scrambled to whip off their shoes and stockings, flinging them to the floor, and then—thud—the bed-board really sank down on Chloe. Oh God, no. She had to get out—now! But how? She grabbed Henry’s glasses and wriggled her way toward the edge of the bed closest to the door.
Chloe squeezed out, pulled herself up to standing, and bolted for the door. Her hands quaked as she turned the lock. She couldn’t look back, even though Grace yelled from behind her. “Just WHAT are YOU doing in here?!” She wouldn’t turn around.
If only she had a camera phone, she’d have proof of this, too.
Chloe opened the door, and without looking back, she spoke. “I—I was looking for something. But I caught you with your pants down—I mean your gown up.”
“How dare you hide in my room! Shut the door!”
“I would say you’re in no—position—to do anything about me being in your room.” Chloe leaped out into the hallway and clicked the door shut behind her.
Grace must’ve thrown a pillow at the door, because something hit it and slid down to the floor.
Where was the camera crew when she needed them? She ran down the hall, down the winding staircase. If she had a cell phone, she could’ve just called them.
Chloe had never run around so much in her life as she had in the past couple of weeks. As she ran down the gallery with one hand on her bonnet, she bumped into a footman carrying a silver salver.
“Miss Parker, you had a gentleman caller. We couldn’t find you anywhere. He waited for upward of half an hour. He left his card.” He held out the salver toward her. But she spotted a camerawoman heading into the parlor. “Wait! Cameras!”
She snapped up the card. It was Sebastian’s calling card, with the corner folded down. She had missed him again! If she had a cell phone this would’ve been easily rectified.
“Hurry!” Chloe ran after the camerawoman, grabbed her by the arm, and tugged her toward the stairway. “You need to film something upstairs—”
Chloe tugged her up, through the hall, and right outside Grace’s door. She ignored the woman’s efforts to try to say something.
“There’s no time to talk!”
The camerawoman turned to Chloe with an annoyed look. “My camera needs to be recharged. Portable battery’s out.”
Chloe’s dust-covered chest sank. “What?! Well—stay here. You can be a witness.” She swung open the door with triumph—and there was Grace, sitting fully clothed, alone, and reading on the bed. A maroon drape flapped in the open window.
The camerawoman rolled her eyes at Chloe.
Grace closed her book. “Miss Parker, I do wish you wouldn’t barge in without knocking. It’s not polite. It’s just not done. Don’t they teach any manners in America?”
Chloe leaned her square-cut back against the doorjamb and really looked at the calling card. On the back Sebastian had written, I wanted to talk with you in person. But this will have to do. My sincerest apologies for my forward behavior.
Why was he apologizing? Didn’t he realize she had drugged him? Still, the two of them had upgraded from calling card to handwritten message on the calling card, and that was good.
“Miss Parker.” Fiona bounded up the steps. “Mrs. Crescent wants you in the rose garden immediately.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
“She said you’d say that. She wants you ‘immediately.’”
“Is she having contractions?”
Fiona shook her head no. “But she said you’d ask that, and I’m to tell you that it is a matter of equal importance, with all due respect, miss.”