Even the animals were getting more action than her around here. She buried her head in her arms until she heard a loud moan. She lifted the torch out of the ground and carried it to the edge of the gravel drive. Soon after the moaning stopped, a lantern lit up on the lawn. A lantern? Animals with a lantern?
She squinted through Henry’s glasses and clearly saw a shirtless Sebastian pul ing up his breeches. Grace hopped into her bal gown.
No wonder Sebastian brought up Grace in conversation so much during their time alone. He wasn’t protecting Chloe from her. He was trying to find out as much about Grace as possible.
He was an ass! He was a player!
He was most definitely not Mr. Darcy.
Chloe just stood there. And held the torch.
Where was that laudanum?
Chapter 21
It had taken a few days to find the laudanum, but she managed to find it despite her busy schedule of wedding-gown fittings and trimming her wedding bonnet. Chloe and Sebastian had been caught together in the ice-house, and just like in the Regency era, they were forced to marry. It was to be a rushed wedding on a Tuesday morning.
So, when Chloe poured more than a few drops of laudanum in her tea this morning, it made it taste like sherry.
Mrs. Crescent leaned over in the chaise-and-four to get a whiff of Chloe’s breath.
“I’m not drunk.” Chloe rubbed her forehead under her white bonnet. These carriage rides always undid her updo, but today horse’s hooves seemed to be clomping on her brain. Hungover? Yes. Buzzed? That was earlier this morning. She looked out of the carriage window at the hedge maze, wondering how she’d ever get out of this.
Mrs. Crescent tightened the pink bonnet ribbon under her chin and narrowed her eyes. “Did you get into the sewing-cabinet vodka again?”
“No. No. Just took a drop of that laudanum at dawn to calm my nerves. One tiny drop! As any Regency lady would do under the circumstances.”
Mrs. Crescent slapped her hands on the leather-covered bench. “What? Opium! On your wedding day—”
“This is
Chloe looked down at her white pelisse, white muslin wedding gown, and white calfskin pumps. Her wooden trousseau trunk had been fil ed with al sorts of fril s and Belgian-lace gowns, and strapped to the back of the carriage, in anticipation of the honeymoon. Packing that trousseau was an exercise in humility, preparing for a honeymoon that would never happen after a wedding she didn’t want.
She came across Henry’s handkerchief in her washstand drawer, the handkerchief he gave her on her first day at Bridesbridge, and she decided to pack that as wel as her vial of ink that had only just congealed to perfection.
Mrs. Crescent fumbled around in her reticule. “You
“Where did you get laudanum?”
Chloe popped the mint leaves into her mouth, then pointed at her closed lips as she chewed. A lady would never talk with her mouth ful . Final y, she swal owed. “I got it from your room. I relieved you of it.”
“You stole it.”
Chloe sat up straight, pinning her shoulders against the upholstered black leather seat back.
“The night you gave birth to Jemma. I added it to my stockpile.” She folded her arms over her bodice.
“Dear Lord! What are you stockpiling?”
The carriage passed the hol yhocks where she and Henry had caught butterflies. The pink flowers swayed in the breeze.
“I’ve been stockpiling things that Grace smuggled onto the show to prove that she planted that condom on me, and that although I bent a few rules, she broke so many of them.”
Mrs. Crescent grabbed Chloe by the arm, the same arm that Sebastian had grabbed only a few nights ago. “Listen, dear, we’ve been over this a thousand times. You were caught. You have to marry him.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It’s what would’ve been done in 1812.”
As soon as those drop-front pants came down, the deal was sealed for Chloe because she got caught by the footman, who told. Grace didn’t get caught by anyone—except Chloe.
The carriage, with its wooden wheels, jostled on the crusty road and seemed to punctuate Mrs. Crescent’s words. “Be glad he wants to marry you. Not al Regency girls are so lucky. Anyway, it’s just for the tel y. You’re not real y marrying him. By hook or by crook, this is what we wanted.
We’ve won!” She clapped her gloved hands joyful y.
But she stopped when, in a clearing alongside the road, she saw cameras filming a throng of servants gathered around a—gal ows? A noose swayed, and a girl appeared to be hanging from it. A girl about Abigail’s age. Chloe’s gloved hands shook. “What—what’s going on?” Waves of horror crashed through her.
“It’s a hanging. They’re hanging that orphan girl.” Then she whispered, “A mock hanging. It’s a dummy, not a girl.”
