“Miss Parker,” George said as he raked his auburn hair with his hand, “A call from your daughter asking if she can go to a pop concert does not constitute an emergency.”
Chloe had hunted George down and found him in his production trailer, which was set up in a green behind the inn. Thankfully, he’d instructed Fiona to retrieve Chloe’s phone, and he allowed her to return the missed call from Abigail. Abigail had called merely to ask if she could go to a concert with Winthrop and Marcia, and reluctantly Chloe acquiesced. The competition for Abigail’s affections had begun in earnest with Chloe half a world away and incommunicado.
Coffee permeated the air of George’s trailer, good coffee, the kind Chloe didn’t get on the eight-hour flight.
George stood in front of three high-def TVs mounted to the wall, dividing his attention between Chloe and his iPhone.
“It’s not an emergency to you, George,” Chloe said. She covered his iPhone screen with her hand for a moment. “She’s not your daughter. At her age I was reading The Secret Garden. I didn’t go to my first concert until I was a teenager. It took a lot of thought for me to say yes.”
Chloe, still shaken, and stirred, propped herself up against the floor-to-ceiling wine refrigerator. “I guess I overreacted to having my cell phone confiscated for three weeks. I’ve never been out of touch with her like this. I’m a single mom—” She looked straight into the camera filming her, sucked in her cheeks, and edited herself to become more restrained and guarded as a single woman of the era should be.
“Are you sure you’re strong enough to forgo modern technology for more than a fortnight?” George asked.
Fortnight. She loved that word.
She was happy to leave everything but her cell phone. Her pantalets, she noticed, were sticking to her thighs. “Of course.”
“Did you really read all the fine print in the contract you signed? Because this shouldn’t be such a surprise to you.”
The lemon deodorant failed as a bead of sweat dribbled down her side. She was so thrilled to have won the audition that she really didn’t take the time to read every single word in that giant stack of paperwork they’d sent, and couldn’t afford to pay a lawyer to go through it with her. Had she once again donned her rose-colored glasses and seen only what she wanted to see in the contract? Legalese, math, science—these were not her forte; she was much more of a big-picture person.
“You are aware, for example, that you agreed we could film you twenty-four/seven upon arrival, and that anything you do is fair game not only for the final program but for any social networking site, Twitter, or blog entry, or any streaming video on the website and any YouTube video we produce?”
Chloe sucked on her lower lip to keep herself from saying anything a lady might regret, but her stomach churned. She’d signed up for a rock-bottom reality show in period costume and she would’ve been better off in Vegas sunbathing topless, guzzling pink martinis, and gambling her last dollar in hopes of winning it big.
“Your antics, such as storming my trailer, will be posted on YouTube,” George said. “We’re going for heaving bosoms and bulging breeches here, not ladies lunching.”
Chloe buried her head in her hands.
“Throw in an eligible, handsome, and rich bachelor for good measure.”
“What do you mean ‘an’ eligible bachelor? There’s only one? I thought this was a dating show.”
“It is! There are two bachelors, really, one infinitely wealthier than the other, so he is more desirable, naturally—”
“And how many women are there?”
“Several.”
Chloe couldn’t take it anymore. “Jane Austen would be horrified. This is a mockery of everything women have accomplished in the past two centuries!”
“Some people find true love on these kinds of shows, and I think Jane Austen would approve of that. Besides, during the Regency, women outnumbered men because so many men had died in the Napoleonic Wars or were on active duty. Many others were out in the East Indies, trying to make their fortune.”
He folded his arms. “Do you realize how many women were competing for the same country squire? It would be historically inaccurate to arrange a party of, let’s say, ten men and ten women. Surely a stickler for historical detail such as yourself can’t argue that point.”
He handed her a piece of paper. “Here’s Mr. Wrightman’s bio. I’m sure they e-mailed this to you in Chicago. Did you read it? He’s our most eligible bachelor.”
She’d read it more than once. Now it made sense that they only sent one man’s biography instead of the entire cast or an array of bios of other possible suitors. It would be her and a gaggle of other women pitted against one another to snare the wealthy Mr. Wrightman.
At least he looked good on paper. If Chloe could believe the bio, the Oxford-educated Jane Austen fan valued honesty, was ready to start a family, but also loved to travel. She and he seemed compatible in every way, but her hopes had been crushed before.
“Yes, I read it.” She turned her back on the TVs, handed George the bio without even looking at it, and paced the floor. The camera followed.
A gangly girl dressed in black sauntered out of a room in the back of the trailer to the Miele espresso maker.
George checked his iPhone again. “Chin up, Miss Parker. You’re an American heiress come to summer here in the English countryside. I fully expect you to take on that role.”
Did he say “heiress”?
“Heiresses don’t need to win a man.” She walked back over to him.
He handed her a thick black hand-bound book with Miss Parker’s Rulebook embossed in gold script on the cover. “Tell Janey what kind of coffee you take.”
“Double espresso skinny latte, please. If you can’t, then just a regular—”
George interrupted. “An heiress would not concern herself with whether the hired help can or can’t do her bidding. It’s not her problem.” He finally set his iPhone aside, picked up a remote, and aimed it at the three TV screens. “You’re going to love doing this show. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Check it out. Here’s what’s going on throughout the estate.”
A young woman in a bonnet fed chickens on one screen, on another a cook chopped herbs. And, on screen three, a dark-haired guy paused near a copper bathtub, untying his cravat while light from a window behind the tub gave him a silhouette quality. A butler removed his waistcoat and pulled the loose linen shirt over his head. The guy’s shoulder blades popped. Was that him? The Mr. Wrightman she was supposed to win over?
She pretended to fan herself. “Be still, my beating heart. Oh, George, is that my future husband?”
George eyed the young woman feeding the chickens while he talked. The swooshing of the milk frother on the espresso machine almost drowned out his voice. “Rule number one. Sarcasm will not be tolerated. Rule number two. You don’t have a daughter on this program. Not a word of it, and Fiona’s been instructed not to speak of her with you, nor to say anything about it to the rest of the cast.”
Janey gave George his coffee in a black mug and handed Chloe her latte in a white paper cup, complete with plastic lid and cardboard sleeve. “Thank you,” Chloe said, noting the significance of the fact that hers was a to-go cup.
Without a word, Janey slunk back to wherever she came from.
Even through the cardboard sleeve, the coffee burned Chloe’s hand and she set it down on the table littered with gossip magazines.
George finished off his coffee. “It’s all very celeb of you, being a single mum in the twenty-first century, but you don’t have a daughter here. That would be very uncool unless you’re a widow, and that just wasn’t sexy enough for us, quite frankly. Here you’re an American heiress eager to secure a place in society—and fast. This may be your last chance, considering your age.”
Chloe said nothing.
“You need to marry a man of society and save your American family from ruin. They can only afford to keep you here for three weeks.”
Chloe turned her back to the camera. “Why would an heiress need to marry up?” She whispered, “It sounds a little desperate.”
“We do our best to base everyone’s stories on their current circumstances.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He looked at the camera then turned away from it, lowering his voice. “You come from a blue-blood English family on your mother’s side, but you’ve fallen on hard times. Your business is about to go belly-up and you can’t rally the cash to afford your home or your daughter’s private school. You depleted your savings just to fly over here. Am I right?”
The air conditioner blew cold air on her bare back. The camera panned around her. The trailer closed in and felt too small for four people. He sure did his homework. She was a girl without a fortune, a damsel in financial distress. She gravitated to the wine refrigerator. She needed a drink. Or two. “Miss Parker may need financial security by marrying a certain gentleman, but I don’t. I’ve got lots of irons in the fire.”
“I’m sure you do.” George smirked. “Think of this as another iron. Get him to propose and you’ve won our little Regency love match. A hundred thousand dollars. How can you resist?”
“Ugh. I have to get him to propose to win the money? Please.”
“Certainly you, of all contestants, would know that the only way a Regency woman of your stature could acquire such a sum would be to marry into it. Women couldn’t work to amass their fortune, you know that.”
Chloe sighed. “This might be more realistic than I’d bargained for.”
“Who knows? Perhaps you’ll fall in love with Mr. Wrightman.”
On TV number three, the man, who she was convinced must be Mr. Wrightman, was now in the tub, and bowed his dark-haired head while his servant poured pitchers of steaming water over him. Chloe gaped at his broad shoulders, which glistened in the sunlight. What if he was The One? As soon as the question shimmered through her, she thought of how her employee, Emma, might react if she quit and came home.
“Let me get this straight,” Emma would say. “The guy was good-looking and rich. And you came home because—?”
Chloe had nothing to lose—except her dignity.
“If I can do this, you certainly can,” George said. “Come here so I can wire you for sound.”
She folded her bare arms over her shelflike bosom, and that wasn’t easy.
“You belong here, Miss Parker. You drive your college intern batty with your four o’clock teatimes, you take carriage rides in the city instead of taxis, although I doubt you can afford that indulgence now, and you don’t have cable TV. Do you think the average American eight-year-old even knows who Jane Austen is? Your daughter does. Think of how disappointed she’ll be if you go home now.”
She’d thought of that already. “You’re a rake, George. Isn’t that what they’d call you in 1812? An absolute rake.”
He smiled. “I’ve been called worse. This is my business, Miss Parker. Reality.”
“Hook me up, then—with the mike, that is.”
He laughed and clipped the wireless translucent microphone pack to the back of her gown, then draped a silky shawl over her shoulders. “Mr. Wrightman handpicked you. You! Out of eight thousand applicants—”
Chloe interrupted. “Eight thousand?”
She felt flattered, and already enamored of the kind of man who would participate in such an elaborate Jane Austenesque scheme in the hopes of finding his true love—if she were to believe all this.
“You’re the only American contestant.”
She didn’t like the sound of that. It had a competitive, Olympic-type feel to it, as if she alone were representing the entire United States, and she hardly qualified to represent the typical American woman.
“Rule number three,” George said. “Stay in character. No talking about the Internet and jobs and iPods.”
“I think we’re up to rule number five now. But not to worry about me babbling on about modern life. I’m ecstatic to be away from it.”
“Every day there will be a task, some tasks will take only a few hours, others will be ongoing, but each small task will be worth five points. Larger tasks and competitions will be worth fifteen. You’ll acquire these ‘Accomplishment Points’ by completing challenges such as trimming a bonnet and seeing a few Regency craft projects through to completion.
“For every twenty-five Accomplishment Points you accumulate, you win time with Mr. Wrightman. There will be various competitions, including archery and a foxhunt. Winning will be to your advantage. And, in order to be invited to the ball, you’ll need to survive the Invitation Ceremonies. At every Invitation Ceremony, somebody, sometimes several women, get sent home. Oh, and the audience, via phone and Internet, rates you during your stay as a service to Mr. Wrightman. You have three weeks to win How to Date Mr. Darcy.”
Chloe was rendered speechless at such a delicious array of Regency experiences soured by the odious reality-show points system, popularity contests, and jockeying for a marriage proposal. She didn’t really understand how the scoring worked and she hated the thought of it. She squinted at George, but her eyes widened when, on the screen behind him, she got a flash of what must’ve been Mr. Wrightman’s taut butt as he stood up in the tub, just before the servant wrapped a linen sheet around his dripping body.
“He’s got a great ass, don’t you think?” George asked, looking at the screen side by side with her.
Chloe propelled herself toward the trailer door.
“I’m glad to see you exhibit the proper modesty of a Regency heroine. You must behave at all times as if you are a lady of quality in 1812. As a Jane Austen fan, you should know what you can and can’t do, but just in case, your rule book details everything. Any modern behavior and you risk expulsion.”
She bit her lip.
“Now for the fun part. Accessories.” George guided her toward an open wooden trunk.
“Your purse, or ‘reticule.’ Inside you’ll find your tiara from home to wear to the ball.” He hung a slip of a crimson silk bag from her arm and the golden tassels dangled as she moved.
It looked like one of Abigail’s toy purses. “Women really did have a lot less baggage back then,” she said.
“Vinaigrette.” He opened a silver perforated case, smaller than a matchbox, and waved it under her nose. Vinegar and—lemon? He tucked it into her reticule. “A lady would open her vinaigrette to avoid rank smells, say in the streets of London. Or to keep herself from fainting.”
“I never faint. And what could possibly smell rank out there?” Chloe looked out the trailer-door window at the lush English countryside.
“Fan.” With a crinkle, George opened the fan to reveal a painted scene of a woman in a flowing gown playing a lute.
“It’s gorgeous.”
George slipped it into the reticule. “Calling cards.” He opened a silver case the size of a cigarette tin and revealed a cream-colored stack of cards. Miss Chloe Parker had been printed in black script and hand-set on a letterpress printer. She ran her fingertip along the script and felt the debossed letters sinking into the paper. “They’re letterpressed.”
“Feel this,” she’d said to Winthrop when she finished printing up menus for one of their fund-raising dinner parties.
“Okay. So I can feel the letters.”
“That’s why the slogan for the business will be ‘Make a great impression.’”
“Cute.” He tossed the menu on the table. “But if you’re going to open your own business, don’t you think it should have something to do with the Web? I mean. That’s where the money is.”
“You don’t get it. My future’s in the past and I’m going to do handmade. Hand-set type. Cotton-rag paper. Hand-stitched books. It’s what the world needs right now.”
He got that fuzzy look in his eye that told her everything she needed to know. Then he pulled his BlackBerry out of his jeans pocket to check his e-mails.
George tipped the calling-card case into her reticule. “I can see you approve of the calling cards. I told you everything is historically accurate here. Just look at these gloves, for example. A lady never leaves home without them.” He gave her a pair of light gray gloves that she glided onto her arms with a strange familiarity, as if she had been wearing them all her life. They reached just past her elbows, almost touching her cap sleeves, but they became a little loose and bunchy just at her biceps. So sexy! She thrilled at the feel of the leather.
“Whenever you’re outside, shade yourself with a parasol. Tanned skin was only for farm girls. Any infractions of these rules and Accomplishment Points will be deducted. Serious digressions mean you’ll be sent home.” He handed her a fringed white parasol. “Congratulations. For the next three weeks, Miss Parker, you’re no longer a working girl.”
“But you still want me to work it, right?”
He set the rule book in the crook of her arm. “Rules, Miss Parker. Please read them.”
“What about a little pin money, Mr. Maxton? In case an heiress sees a new chapeau she must have at the haberdashery?”
“There are no haberdasheries where you’re going, Miss Parker. This isn’t a costume flick. We could hardly afford to set up an entire town. You’ll be confined to your lodgings and the gardens at Bridesbridge Place—”
“What about London? Won’t we be going to London?”
George laughed. “And just how would we pull that off? London in 1812 on our budget?”
“Bath? Brighton?!”
“You’ll visit Dartworth Hall, and you’re invited to explore the reflecting pond, hedge maze, and grotto. Just remember, you’re surrounded by a five-thousand-acre deer park, and a lady wouldn’t find herself trudging through the thicket in search of a fancy coffee or hackney coach to Brighton, now, would she?”
Chloe was beginning to like George. He placed a bonnet with a straw rim and slate silk top on her head. He tied the ribbons under her chin, just like she used to tie Abigail’s winter hats on when she was little and never left her mother’s side. The bonnet, like the pantalets, felt a little ridiculous.
“You’ll find a turban and some bandeaux in your wardrobe, but Regency ladies would never be seen outside without a bonnet. Never.”
The brim narrowed her view, the straw scratched the back of her neck, and Chloe wanted nothing more than to yank it off. Even when she went to her Jane Austen Society galas in costume, she didn’t wear a bonnet, but chose a tiara or a turban. She tugged at the ribbon under her neck.
George stepped back to look at her. “I find it very interesting to see who has the strength of character to throw themselves into the time period and who doesn’t.”
“I’m all about rules,” Chloe said. “That’s half the fun of it. Regency manners and etiquette.”
He smirked and opened the trailer door. “And no cell phones.”
Sunlight fell upon them. George put his aviator sunglasses on. “Shall we? The carriage awaits.” He offered his arm.
She looked back over her shoulder at her untouched latte sitting on the coffee table. The copper tub on TV number three had been emptied, upended, and propped against the wainscoted wall. Chloe put her arm in George’s. He’d won this round, after all.
The vista from the top of the trailer steps softened her. The grass in England seemed greener, the trees more gnarled, and the sheep more picturesque, with horns and long wool. Of course, there were no such things in Chicago. The sheep bleated as Chloe and George ambled past the inn, which must’ve dated from the Tudor era. They passed a cabbage-rose garden, a crumbling stone wall, and a stream along the lane, and Chloe took it all in. They approached the carriage from behind, and Chloe noticed a stack of weathered wooden trunks strapped to the back of it.
“In these trunks,” George said, “you’ll find your wardrobe for the next three weeks. Everything—your gowns, wraps, shoes—has been custom-made for you, all in your favorite colors. Green, yellow, red. What the people of the day would call ‘pomona,’ ‘jonquil,’ and ‘cerise.’ I hope the lady approves.”
Chloe looked down at her shoes. They might’ve been flimsy, and entirely without modern arch support or heel, but they fit her size-seven-and-a-half foot perfectly. She hadn’t even thought that they had to tailor-make everything for her. “Thank you. I didn’t realize—”
“Quite all right.” He made a flourish with his arm toward the gleaming carriage. “Mr. Wrightman sent one of his carriages to collect you. Not even an heiress could afford a carriage like this.”
The open carriage, on four wheels with spokes, shone glossy black in the sunlight, complete with brass fittings and a golden family crest featuring a W, a hawk, and an arrow. A driver in a red coat tipped his three-cornered hat and four horses stamped their hooves.
“Wow.” Chloe ran her gloved hand along the side. “I’ve never really been into cars, but I can tell a barouche landau from a gig any day. It’s gorgeous.”
A footman who couldn’t be a day over eighteen held out his white-gloved hand to her, opened the half door, and handed her into the red velour interior. She perched on the tufted seat, crossed her underwearless legs, set her parasol and rule book in her lap, and looked down on George. She actually felt like an heiress.
George propped his sunglasses atop his head for a moment. “Your chaperone, Mrs. Crescent, will be waiting at Bridesbridge Place—”
Chloe’s shoulders slumped and the shawl slid behind her. “Chaperone—?” She knew chaperones were de rigueur, but not for someone her age, surely. “Aren’t I too old for a chaperone?”
“Thirty-nine is not as old as you think, Miss Parker, you are a single woman, and it would be unseemly to have you go alone. Your chaperone is a few years your senior, and it’s your duty to treat her with respect. Read your rule book along the way. It’s nearly a four-mile drive through the deer park.”
He pushed his sunglasses back down and he looked—good. He rested his hand on the carriage. “Good luck.”
The bonnet shaded her eyes from the sun. “Thank you, George, for everything. Really.”
“You’ll see me out there with the camera crew. But they’re strictly forbidden to interact with the participants. Good day, Miss Parker.” He bowed and slapped his hand on the carriage door. He shouted to the driver: “Drive on. To Bridesbridge Place! Good luck, Miss Parker!”
Surely she would be better behaved than some American heiresses are wont to be. The carriage lumbered forward, crushing the mike on the small of her back into the velour. She eyed the camera on the ATV beside the carriage and, with her gloved hand, gave George the royal wave and a clipped smile. He gave her the royal wave back. She’d miss him—the cad. Something about him intrigued her.
The horse hooves clomped and gunned her forward. She felt as if she were leaving something behind, something important, like her cell, for one thing. She looked away from the camera with a feigned disinterest as any heiress would. Ancient and storied trees laced into an archway overhead. The sky seemed bluer in England, the sun brighter. Of course, she didn’t have sunglasses on because they hadn’t been invented yet.
Sunlight dappled in a clearing far from the road, and when Chloe squinted her eyes she saw two men, one dark-haired in a white shirt open to his chest, in breeches and boots, jogging with two logs atop his shoulders, and the other brawny and bald, who clapped and cheered and yelled. The dark-haired man hurled the logs onto a cart, then ran back for two more. The bald man put his hands on his hips and shouted at the guy. Chloe looked back at the footman behind her on the coach, wanting to ask, knowing it would be improper.
The footman spared her. “Training.” That was all he said.
Chloe nodded. It was the Regency term for working out. Was it Mr. Wrightman? Only a gentleman would be able to afford a trainer. Whoever it was, she admired the fact that this guy was so into the Regency that he even stepped up his workout to a nineteenth-century routine.
He flung two more logs onto the cart and she heard the impact all the way out on the road. He turned his head toward her carriage and shielded his eyes to see her.
She wanted to wave, but didn’t, especially when she thought she saw him smile. The trainer turned his head toward the carriage, then pointed toward the logs and shouted until the dark-haired man lifted four logs.
It was her first real glimpse of Regency life here on the estate, not to mention her first glimpse of a man in an unbuttoned shirt and snug pants in a while. He looked as if he had just burst from the cover of a Regency romance novel and it took serious willpower not to turn and stare long after the carriage had passed. If the rest of the people on the show were as gung ho as that guy, this could be “cool,” as Abigail would say. Really cool.
She cracked open the rule book in her lap and ran her fingers along the thick pages that had been hand-cut. She brought the book up to her nose to breathe in the smell of paper pulp and ink. Then she settled back to read.
Miss Chloe Parker, you are thirty-nine years old, an American heiress who may be without a fortune due to unforeseen circumstances in your family’s business. You have one foot in the States and another one firmly planted in your mother’s native England. A projected income of five thousand pounds a year is yours, provided you land Mr. Wrightman, a husband of the English gentry, thus securing your family’s social status. Your parents and your younger sister, Abigail . . .
Chloe stopped there. Abigail. She squeezed her eyelids shut for a moment.
. . . and your younger sister, Abigail, depend upon your success. Mrs. Crescent, your chaperone, will introduce you to English society. Best of luck.
The table of contents included chapters on “Archery Rules,” “Ballroom Behavior,” “Your Chaperone,” “Dinner Etiquette,” and “Sexual Protocol.” Hmm. Chloe paged over to that very short chapter:
A lady would never engage in sexual relations with a gentleman until after marriage. So doing would compromise her reputation, her position in society, and her eligibility to marry someone her equal or above. One wrong move and a lady could be ousted from society and plunged into a life of poverty and depravity, doomed to remain an outsider. A lady may be kissed only when she is properly engaged. Before engagement, a gentleman does not touch a lady, except to hand her into a carriage, dance at a ball, or escort her on a walk in the garden with her chaperone. He may only touch her in extreme circumstances, in emergency, if the lady finds herself in trouble.
Chloe looked back, toward the inn, the trailer, and George, but she couldn’t see any of it anymore. And suddenly she felt a million miles from American men, work, TVs, computers, phones—Abigail.
The rule book slid off her lap. She leaned over, struggling to pick it up despite the busk restricting her movements. The cameraman on the ATV eased back to get a good shot of her boobs, no doubt. She wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders.
The carriage lurched to the top of a hill and stopped. Dust rose from the dry road and Chloe coughed, digging into her reticule for her fan.
The driver turned around, tipping his hat. “There it is, miss.”
Chloe tossed the fan aside, put her hand over the brim of her bonnet, and, awestruck, stood up. Tucked in a valley off in the distance, rising out of the greenery, was a Queen Anne stone mansion, complete with a four-columned portico and stone urns on all four corners of the roof.
She collapsed back in the carriage seat. “Is—is that his estate? Mr. Wrightman’s?” Chloe asked.
“No, miss.” The driver laughed. “That’ll be Bridesbridge Place, that. Where you’ll be staying with the ladies.”
Chloe had never imagined she’d be staying in such luxury. She had pictured—a cottage. She fell back farther in her seat and fanned herself, shocked and jet-lagged all at once.
“Mr. Wrightman’s—Dartworth Hall—that’s almost a mile beyond Bridesbridge,” said the driver. “You can’t see it from here.” He snapped the reins and the carriage rolled ahead.
The sky widened above her as the trees thinned out. The air smelled of fresh rain and cowbells clanged in the distance. Pastures dotted with sheep and cows yielded to glistening grasses, as pastoral as a John Constable painting. The dirt road became pea gravel as the carriage approached the ocher-colored gates of Bridesbridge Place.
“Bliss,” she whispered to herself.
A shot rang out. The carriage lurched forward, then toppled to one side. Chloe screamed, the cameraman fumbled. The horses snorted and kicked as she, the cameraman, and the driver stumbled from the lopsided carriage onto the soft, spongy grass.
“Excuse me,” said a sexy female English voice from behind the carriage. Through blinding light and dizziness, Chloe made out a tall woman dressed in an ankle-length red walking dress and red turban, wielding a clunky pistol. The cameraman, despite a bloody nose, continued filming, and the cameraman on the ATV joined the fray.
The sexy woman spoke, looking briefly at Chloe and then past her, at the camera. “Seems I’ve nicked your carriage wheel with my target practicing.”
The wooden wheel lay on the ground, broken in half, spokes blown off.
The woman cocked the pistol against her hip.
Chloe checked herself for blood. Her legs shook. She straightened her bonnet.
“I’m Lady Grace—of the d’Argent family. And you must be the American girl.” Grace switched the pistol to her left hand and held out her right to Chloe.
Chloe didn’t shake. “You could’ve killed us!” Not to mention the fact that Grace should be wearing a bonnet.
“Killed you? With this silly thing?” Lady Grace leaned over and whispered in Chloe’s ear, turning her back to the camera: “You Chicago people. Think everyone’s Al Capone. That’s where you’re from? Chicago?” Still, she didn’t look at Chloe, but past her, at the cameras. “Did you smuggle in any cigarettes? A mobile phone?”
Chloe opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Suddenly everything went dark around the edges, like the end of a silent movie, where the circle closes in on itself.