Definitely Not Mr. Darcy (25 page)

“Lady Grace, will you accept this invitation?” Sebastian asked in an almost singsong voice.

“Of course.” Grace slid the invitation from his hand, eyed him up and down, then curtsied.

He bowed and watched her butt as she walked back.

Chloe cringed. She blocked out any thoughts of Sebastian and Grace hooking up; the possibility made her nauseous.

Grace took her spot next to Chloe, pressing the invitation to her chest.

“Miss Tripp.”

Of course he chose Julia, Chloe thought. Who wouldn't? Lithe, enthusiastic Julia deserved to stay on. Plus, she didn't have a scandal, real or imagined, attached to her name. Chloe looked straight at Sebastian now and rose on tiptoe in her satin slippers, on the edge of the carpet, on the edge of everything.

The butler lunged in front of Sebastian. “Ladies, before Mr. Wrightman presents the final invitation, it has been determined that, for hosting the hunt tea, Miss Parker will gain only ten of the fifteen Accomplishment Points, due to unladylike behavior. The reticule inspection adds five points to everyone's score except hers. Nevertheless, Miss Parker currently leads with a score of forty points, Miss Tripp with thirty-five, and the rest of the women are tied at thirty points each. Consider carefully, Mr. Wrightman, the behavior you've witnessed tonight. I can assure you that the ratings online indicate that Miss Tripp is the favored contestant, and in choosing her to stay on, you have chosen wisely.”

The butler turned toward the women. “Mr. Wrightman will now present the final invitation. Two of you will be sent home tonight. Mr. Wrightman, if you please.”

Chloe, Gillian, and Kate took a step forward together. Chloe could feel the beads of sweat running down her back and in the sour taste that filled her mouth, even though she'd brushed with her swine's-hair toothbrush and chalky powder less than an hour ago.

“Miss Harrington . . .” Sebastian said.

Kate practically skipped up to him. Chloe's neck went limp and her chin hit her chest. Of course it was Kate, who, despite her allergies, seemed rather sweet. Chloe had blown it. As recently as a few days ago, she might not have cared so much, but at the moment she felt completely devastated.

“. . . and Miss Potts.”

Chloe was confused. There was only one invitation.

Sebastian took Kate's and Gillian's hands in his own. “You both are wonderful, amazing women, and you will find someone who deserves you. But I'm afraid I must ask you to take your leave of Bridesbridge Place.”

Chloe lifted her chin. On their way back to their spots, Gillian sneered at Chloe and Kate looked dumbfounded.

Sebastian picked up the last invitation from the silver salver. “Miss Parker . . .” He extended the invitation toward her.

Chloe's shoulders slumped with relief. He got it, she realized. He got
her
. Maybe he even believed her story about the condom, and about her lack of feelings for Henry. She stumbled, but didn't fall on the edge of the carpet. Behind her, as she padded toward Sebastian, she could hear Kate blowing her nose.

Sebastian looked down on her with a half smile. “Miss Parker, will you accept this invitation to stay on?”

“I do.” Chloe took the envelope. The heft of the handmade paper in her hand felt good and right. “I—I mean I will!” She laughed. He crinkled his nose, and remembering both her bad breath and nineteenth-century protocol, she fumbled a curtsy as she breathed out of her nose. He bowed. As much as she wanted to talk to Sebastian, to stay with him, she forced herself to turn and walk back to her spot. It was enough to know that he trusted her. Now that the trust was there, they could build on it—spires into the sky.

“Ladies,” said the butler. “Mr. Wrightman has made his decision. You may say your good-byes.”

This time, the good-byes were not as difficult for Chloe. Imogene had been her closest friend here, and she was gone. Gillian and Kate, by comparison, were easy to let go.

“Miss Potts, Miss Harrington, your carriage is waiting,” said the butler.

Sebastian turned to Chloe, Grace, and Julia. “Good night, ladies. I look forward to our next encounter.” With that, he escorted Gillian and Kate out the door.

Outside the sash windows, the afternoon sun was fading fast and maids began to scurry around inside to light the candles while footmen lit the torches outside. Grace sat down at the pianoforte and pounded out an English reel. A maid set a candelabrum on the piano and lit it.

Mrs. Crescent waddled over to Chloe, fanning herself from face to pregnant belly. The white ruffles of her cap wagged right along with Fifi's tail. “I don't know how you managed it.” She squeezed Chloe's hand.

She'd managed it by sacrificing Henry, and already she began concocting ways to rectify that situation. He, and his good opinion of her, meant more to her than she had thought, and it made the victory bittersweet.

The carriage pulled away from the house, lumbering toward the road.

“Whatever could be wrong?” Mrs. Crescent asked.

“I'm missing—a friend,” Chloe said.

“Miss Wells? She was never your friend,” Mrs. Crescent whispered.

That wasn't who she'd been thinking of. Wait a minute. “She wasn't?”

Mrs. Crescent shook her head. “We're not here to make friends. Nobody's here to make friends. Nobody here is your friend! It's not about friendship; we're here to win. And we're on our way. Well done! Let's go. We have needlework to do.” She nodded toward the hall.

“But it's Sunday—bath day, right? I've been looking forward to a bath!”

Mrs. Crescent shook her head. “No, dear, due to the foxhunt, bath day has been postponed.”

“Postponed? Until when?! How much longer can a girl wait?” Chloe was beside herself.

“Waiting, dear,” Mrs. Crescent declared, “is the name of the game.”

C
hloe took a candelabrum into the dark hall, stopping by a painting of roses to wait for Mrs. Crescent and Fifi. The candlelight seemed to illuminate the thorns in the painting more than it did the roses, and Chloe felt a chill come over her.

The cameras weren't following them, so as soon as Mrs. Crescent and Fifi caught up to her, Chloe spoke quickly. “I was terribly rude and unladylike to Henry. I need to set things straight.” She blew out a candle with her breath. A wisp of smoke curled between them.

“My dear Miss Parker, you won this round. Lord knows how, but you won it. With the new Accomplishment Points you've gained, you've earned another outing with Mr. Wrightman. You're leading the way with forty points. There's no need to talk to Henry.”

“But Henry's an important ally. He could influence Sebastian against me. It's a delicate situation.”

A footman sped by while she was speaking, his livery coat askew, cravat untied. He yanked on his drawer strings with one hand, sported a candlestick in the other, and then dropped his cravat in a wicker laundry basket at the top of the servant stairs.

Mrs. Crescent cleared her throat. “You must wait, like a lady, for Sebastian to make the next move. And forget about Henry. Put the notion of visiting out of your head, or you'll get us both booted out of here.”

Candle wax dripped onto Chloe's thumb. “Ow!”

The footman returned to plunk his hat into the basket.

“That's it!” Chloe snapped her fingers. “What about—having a footman deliver a message?”

Mrs. Crescent stooped over to pick up Fifi and sighed on her way up the stairs. The candle flames in the candelabrum bent with her exhale and almost went out. “You know you can't write a letter to a man unless you're engaged.”

“There wouldn't be a letter. I'd just have a footman deliver a verbal message. We have to—push the envelope. You know how Grace is. We have to bend the rules, not break them. You want us to win, right?”

“It's not proper.”

Chloe knew Mrs. Crescent was right and she leaned against the cold wall. Her right to talk, to communicate, had been stripped away, and she stood helpless, imprisoned in a glorified prom gown. She was a modern woman after all, used to her freedoms of movement and expression. This was exasperating!

At that moment Grace, lips pursed and armed with her own candelabrum, swooshed by the two of them with all the attitude of a model in a Victoria's Secret commercial. She tugged at her bodice and smoothed her gown. “You're such a
good
girl with your chaperone,” she sneered in Chloe's ear. Her berry-stained lips were smudged. Chloe's candelabrum went out completely as Grace turned the corner. Two cameramen trailed Grace's flowing gown.

“At least I won't get gonorrhea or—pregnant!” Chloe coundn't keep herself from muttering.

Mrs. Crescent shushed her.

Grace was, by Chloe's standards, a strumpet, and she had no doubt that the girl had just added another notch to her calling-card case by dallying with yet another footman.

But maybe Grace was right, after all, and Chloe was being too good. Despite Mrs. Crescent's advice, she knew she had to be proactive, aggressive. Grace had planted a condom in her reticule and gotten away with it, for God's sake! At the very least, she had to protect—herself.

With their candelabra snuffed out, Chloe and Mrs. Crescent had no choice but to feel their way through the hall, back to the drawing room. The fire in the fireplace and the candelabra in the room were flickering on the ornate gold frames of the paintings. Mrs. Crescent opened the walnut sewing cabinet, pulling out Chloe's floss and needles.

“Needlework? Haven't I endured enough punishment for one day?” Chloe asked.

Grace was sleeping with the footmen, and here she was, doing her needlework!

She fingered the irregular, loose stitches in her embroidery. Miss Gately's fireplace screen stood finished in the corner, a testament to her accomplishments. Uniformly stitched peonies blossomed on a red background, while the robins in Chloe's embroidery looked more like rats. But then again, she had just started to learn this craft, and she was here and Miss Gately—wasn't. Grace, though, was still here, too, and so was Julia.

The butler brought the tea things in and Chloe wondered what he had done with that condom anyway.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Crescent said, “I'll pour.” As soon as he left, Mrs. Crescent shot Chloe a serious look. “We made the cut. You deserve a cup of tea for all your efforts.” She handed Chloe a teacup full of plain, room-temperature water.

“You forgot to run the tea leaves through it.”

“No, I didn't, dear. Just try it before the cameras find us.” Chloe sipped and practically spit the liquid all over her embroidery. “Vodka?” she cried. “Vodka! Where in the world did you get it?”

“Ah, the benefits of doing one's needlework.” Mrs. Crescent gestured toward a vodka bottle in the recesses of the locked sewing cabinet. She shut the cabinet door and collapsed on the double settee.

Chloe thought of adding a twist of lemon from her deodorant supply, then slammed the vodka and helped herself to two more, all just before a cameraman arrived on the scene. “Cheers, Mrs. Crescent. Here's to you. And needlework.” She hadn't eaten anything all day, and the booze went right to her head.

Mrs. Crescent shook a finger at her. “You must drink your tea like a civilized lady. Slowly. And that's all the ‘tea' you're getting—tonight.”

Chloe tried to nurse her vodka as best she could. “Mrs. Crescent, is there a garden somewhere around here with something in it that casts shadows and light?”

Mrs. Crescent locked the sewing cabinet with a key she kept in her reticule. “I daresay I regret giving you that tea.”

Chloe sipped from the teacup. “Or, perhaps there is a clock somewhere in this house with a garden painted on it?”

Mrs. Crescent shook her head and rubbed her belly. “Oh, dear.”

The vodka warmed Chloe, raising her spirits and her confidence, and loosening her Regency restraint. She knew she needed to take action.

The clock in the hall struck eleven, the women's curfew. Only the men could be out and about at this hour. As Chloe looked out the window, a star-filled sky seemed to beckon to her. The vodka had dulled her rational side just enough for her to follow her impulses.

“Time for us to turn in,” Mrs. Crescent announced.

Chloe moped toward the doorway, and being rather drunk, she accidentally kicked over the wicker laundry basket. As she put the laundry back in, it hit her.

She could go over to Dartworth, legally—dressed as a man! She hoisted the basket to her hip, balancing it and her candelabra, then leaped up the steps and clicked her door shut in a most ladylike way.