Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

“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.”

Chapter 11

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

The cameras weren’t fol owing 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 al y. 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’l 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 wal . 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 al , 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 al 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 cal ing-card case by dal ying with yet another footman.

But maybe Grace was right, after al , 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 hal , 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, pul ing 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 stil 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’l pour.” As soon as he left, Mrs. Crescent shot Chloe a serious look. “We made the cut. You deserve a cup of tea for al your efforts.” She handed Chloe a teacup ful 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 practical y spit the liquid al 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