Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

women laughing and talking was coming from just around the water pump, and she stopped, not wanting them to see she had been out on her own. But a feathered shuttlecock flew over the shrubbery and a young woman in a pastel-yel ow gown and bonnet came pouncing after it with what looked like a primitive badminton racket. The shuttlecock landed almost at Chloe’s feet. Swooping down to pick it up, she handed it to the woman, who seemed to be at least ten years younger than her.

“Here. Toss it to me!” the woman said, readying her racket. At that moment a camerawoman emerged from the shrubbery.

Chloe tossed the shuttlecock and the woman hit it underhand over the shrub, and more laughter ensued.

“You must be the heiress from America.” She didn’t wait for a reply. “I’m Miss Julia Tripp.” She gave a quick and jaunty curtsy.

Chloe curtsied back.

“Come and meet everyone.”

Everyone?

Julia spun the racquet in her hand and led Chloe around the shrubbery, where four women sat under their parasols on a picnic blanket eating miniature sandwiches. Clearly, she’d missed lunch—or “luncheon,” she should say. Another cameraman stood off to the side and filmed.

“Ladies, this is Miss—”

“Chloe Parker. Pleased to meet you.” Chloe opened her parasol.

Julia retrieved the shuttlecock and began hitting it straight up into the air over and over while the women stared at Chloe. The only sound was the swoosh of the racket and the poing of the shuttlecock on the racquet’s strings.

Then Chloe remembered to curtsy and the women introduced themselves. They chattered in their various English accents and they al seemed so poised and lively. Most of al , though, they struck Chloe as young and carefree. Here for the sheer fun of it. There was Miss Kate Harrington, who had a very red nose and puffy eyes and sneezed a lot. No doubt the poor woman suffered from a cold or al ergies and couldn’t take her meds here.

Miss Becky Carver, the only African-English girl in the group, proudly announced she’d just celebrated her twenty-first birthday at Bridesbridge yesterday. Miss Gil ian Potts bemoaned the fact that Miss Parker had an amethyst necklace and she had just a silver cross. And why didn’t her parasol have fringe like Miss Parker’s and Lady Grace’s? But it was Miss Olive Silverton who noticed Chloe’s soaked hemline. “Miss Parker, whatever happened to your gown?”

Julia stil batted the shuttle around.

“Oh. That. Was an accident. If you wil excuse me, I have a letter to attend to. Pleasure meeting everyone.” She curtsied and turned toward Bridesbridge.

“A letter?” Chloe heard Gil ian say. “She just got here. I haven’t received a letter in weeks!”

B ack in her boudoir, Chloe sat down at her writing desk to write Abigail and Mr. Wrightman’s mother. She untied a red ribbon that bound a stack of handmade writing papers and plucked a quil from the penholder. Her eyes settled on the bottle of black ink and then moved toward her white dress. When she was in art school, she had used pen and India ink and remembered just how messy that became. Art school. She had been what

—twenty-one? The tender age of the lovely Miss Becky Carver?

Chloe fanned her face with the writing paper. She couldn’t believe Mr. Wrightman would pick her and a twenty-one-year-old in the same fel swoop. It didn’t seem to make sense. Either you like more mature women or you like jailbait. How could a thirty-nine-year-old compete with girls in their early twenties? How old was Mr. Wrightman anyway? Not old enough to make her a cougar. Not that she was a cougar anyway—yuck. But Becky was actual y closer in age to Abigail than to Chloe!

She set the quil down. Her head throbbed and jet lag hit her again.

There was a quick rap on the door and Fiona came bursting into the room.

“No time for writing now, miss. Time to dress!”

Fiona dressed her in a green—pomona—evening gown, which reminded Chloe of frogs and Mr. Wrightman, who saved her from fal ing into the ha-ha. Then her mind turned to a certain dark-haired man whom she had insulted at the pond.

“Jeez,” she said out loud.

“What is it, miss?” Fiona asked as she clipped the mike to the back of Chloe’s dress.

Chloe rubbed her temples with her fingers and closed her eyes. “I just have a headache.”

“I can prepare a cloth soaked in vinegar, salt, and brandy. It’l decrease the inflammation of the brain.”

“Forget the cloth. Skip the vinegar and salt. Just bring on the brandy.”

Fiona smiled and pinned up stray strands of Chloe’s hair. She didn’t bring the brandy.

But Fiona could provide answers, Chloe thought. “Fiona, I saw a man from the window—dressed in gentleman’s clothes—with dark hair and a white horse. Do you know who he is?” She knew better than to ask about him by name, as that would indicate she’d met him inappropriately.

Fiona pul ed a thin yel ow ribbon from the dressing-table drawer. “That would be Mr. Wrightman.”

“No, it wasn’t Mr. Wrightman. It was someone else. With dark hair. Tal ?”

Fiona cracked a smile. “Oh, it is confusing. There are two Mr. Wrightmans. They’re brothers.” She wove the ribbon through Chloe’s hair.

“Brothers?” Chloe slid her tiara out of her reticule. The tiara was broken. Cut in half! Chloe gasped. It must’ve happened when the carriage tipped over.