Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

from her bedchamber window. Just then a nearly ful moon burst from behind a cloud and shed a blue light on everything.

When she looked back over her shoulder to see how far she’d gone— wham! She slammed right into a panel of glass and her tricornered hat almost fel off her head. Her shoulder hurt, but at least the glass wasn’t broken. She raised her lantern and discovered she’d bumped into a greenhouse, a massive greenhouse from the looks of it. The glass felt warm and moist on her palm. She wiped away the condensation and shone her torch on strawberries growing on a vine inside. Standing back, she looked up, hoisted her lantern, and made out leaded-glass windows.

After days of forcing down mutton, rubbery little potatoes, and peacock presented with the head stil on, she’d been craving fruit. Forbidden fruit!

She heard hurried footsteps and a night watchman from Dartworth Hal came running up with his lantern. “Hul o there,” he cal ed. “What is it, boy?

Come from Bridesbridge at this hour? On foot?”

Chloe bowed her head, lowered her voice, and presented the letter. “I—I have a letter for Mr. Wrightman, sir.”

“Do ya now?” The watchman looked at her askance. “You don’t look familiar to me, boy.”

“I’m new at Bridesbridge.”

“You’l have to bring the letter in yourself. The front-door footmen have gone to bed. He’s in the bil iards room. Catty-corner from the main dining room. Fol ow the large hal and stay right.”

Chloe’s shadow, with her thin legs and ankles, did look rather boylike and the coat hid her hips better than any slimming underwear ever could, although, as a result of the rigors of a Regency diet, she’d already lost the seven pounds she’d been needing to lose for quite some time.

She set her lantern down and bounded up the marble steps—the hundreds and hundreds of steps shining in the blue moonlight. It was too delicious to be true. She’d have Sebastian al to herself—dressed in her cute little footman outfit! And as an added bonus, she could find Henry and apologize to him. She skipped through the open doorway and into the foyer, dimly lit by a few sconces on the wal s. The candled chandeliers were out for the night, but a candelabrum stood on the foyer credenza and she picked it up.

She hurried past the dark library, dining room, and drawing rooms and fol owed the sound of men’s laughter in the distance.

As she approached a brightly lit doorway in front of which a footman sat slumped in a chair, apparently sleeping, Chloe saw a massive mahogany pool table. Sebastian was sprawled in a chair, cognac in hand, smartphone in his lap—smartphone!? Henry was reading a book.

George paced back and forth with his hands on his hips.

She lunged toward the door, hoping to hightail it out of there, but the footman chose that moment to wake up and blocked her with his arm. “What do you want?” he demanded.

Chloe handed him the letter, but he didn’t take it. “Delivery from Bridesbridge.”

“Sebastian, finish tweeting!” George commanded from behind the doors.

The footman shoved Chloe back into the dark hal and into his wooden chair, where she couldn’t see anything. He clicked the double doors shut behind him and left her in the dark.

She heard muffled voices. What the hel ? She didn’t even have a toilet and they were tweeting?

One of the double doors suddenly swung open, casting light on Chloe’s mud-spattered tights.

“You may come in,” the footman announced, and he spun off. Like in a bad dream, Chloe wanted to move but couldn’t. Final y, she took a deep breath and stepped into the room. The stench of snuff fil ed the air. Under a high rococo ceiling, a claw-footed pool table dominated the interior. The side tables were littered with wine decanters, snuffboxes, and chocolates. Her eyes scanned the room for the phone and George, but both were gone.

“Wel , my boy,” Sebastian slurred as he leaned against his pool cue. “What brings you here at such an ungodly hour?”

The vodka, Chloe realized, was starting to wear off, and goose bumps were beginning to pop up and down her arms. Thank God there weren’t any cameramen around. Maybe the camera crew had turned in for the night.

Sebastian’s eyes looked a little glassy. He had been drinking, and this bolstered her courage. “A delivery.” Chloe handed him the letter.

Henry closed his book and furrowed his brows at her.

Chloe stepped back, wary.

Then Henry’s lips curled into a smile. If he’d seen through her disguise, he didn’t seem upset at her. “What is your name—boy?” he asked.

“Charles—sir.” Chloe bowed her head and pushed Cook’s glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Charles. Right. Do take off your hat, Charles.”

“No—no, thank you, sir, I cannot stay.”

“Fancy a drink?” Henry asked.

Chapter 12

S ebastian bent over the red-wool-covered bil iard table. While his leather-tipped cue stick thrust toward the eight bal , he leaned forward and his tight “inexpressibles” left Chloe unable to express—anything. The floor-to-ceiling Merlot velvet draperies provided a stunning backdrop for his unruly black hair, crisp white shirt, and tanned face. “You cannot offer a servant a drink, Henry,” he said, and with a click, the eight bal sank the seven into the right corner pocket.