Chloe stooped down to pick up Fifi’s leash.
George flashed a frown and pointed his iPhone at Chloe. “Official y, Miss Parker, you’re on probation. You haven’t gotten caught on camera, and your antics are great for ratings, and those are just two reasons why I’m not getting rid of you here and now.” He paced around the soft grass, checking his phone.
Chloe picked up Fifi, who began pushing at her arm as if he wanted her to rub his neck, or what would be his neck if he had one.
“Suffice it to say that both of you are here, for the moment—with warning. Mr. Wrightman wants you both here because somehow he can picture you both as wife material, although I can’t say I agree with his judgment. Then again he doesn’t know everything I know, although I am tempted to tel him. Condoms appearing in reticules, shagging every footman in sight, going out after curfew—these are serious infractions.” He keyed something into his phone.
Chloe tipped her wel -coiffed head, which, at the moment, was covered in the unfortunate poke bonnet. “Did you know that the condom was planted on me?”
“We have no proof the condom was planted on you, Miss Parker, and unless you can produce proof, the jury’s stil out on that one.” George’s phone rang and they were saved by the bel .
It’d been a while since Chloe heard a phone ring and it actual y sounded pleasant. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t cringe at the sound.
She watched George as he talked on the phone to someone far away, to people other than this smal crowd, and she marveled at it, as if she real y were from 1812. She felt a sudden urge to snatch the phone from him and cal Abigail, just to hear her voice.
Chloe watched George slide the phone into his back pocket. She just wanted to hold it, real y. Okay—she wanted to check her e-mail! Surf the Web! Buy toilet paper online! My God, what was happening to her? She clutched Fifi.
“Now, Miss Parker, we’re on National Trust property at Bridesbridge Place—the key word being
“I would never damage anything on the grounds!” Chloe swore off sewing-cabinet vodka right then and there.
“You must have the common decency not to destroy our English heritage, Miss Parker,” Grace said. When she tossed her head a few of her blond sausage curls fel out of her turban. “You of al people should be concerned for the grounds, what with your last name.”
Chloe put her hand on her hip. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’l tel you what it means,” Grace returned. “The surname ‘Parker’ originates in the Old French, meaning ‘keeper of the park.’ Your ancestors, Miss Parker, were groundskeepers and gamekeepers. It’s a most dreadful y common last name.”
Fifi nuzzled under Chloe’s arm. “And your last name means ‘money’ in French, perhaps because your ancestors, not unlike yourself, I might add, were overly preoccupied with it.”
George took his sunglasses off. “Ladies. I blame you both. Equal y. For everything.”
Grace pouted. For some reason, her lips seemed plumper than they had been yesterday.
George’s phone rang again. He smiled and talked as if nothing were the matter. He was the British version of Winthrop. She wondered if he, too, would make the crucial mistake of e-mailing his wife “Happy 35th Birthday” from across the country, without sending flowers, a present, or even bothering to cal .
George wrapped up his conversation and set his sunglasses atop his head as the sky began to darken. “You’ve both been duly warned.”
Fifi growled and Chloe forced herself to pet him, just to calm him down.
George raked his hair. “God knows nothing can happen in a sil y hedge maze, but we have an archery competition slated for tomorrow if the weather holds. Aim for the targets. If so much as an apple gets hit by a stray arrow, the game’s over and you’l be replaced with two beautiful, smart, and eager prospects.”
“You wouldn’t!” Grace practical y popped out of her spencer. “After al the time I’ve invested in this? Leaving al my clients high and dry? Real y!
When you know very wel that al this is Miss Parker—Chloe’s doing!”
Fifi quivered in Chloe’s arms, and at first Chloe thought it was from the rain, the first drops of which had started coming down, but then he snarled at something that looked like a weasel. It was burrowing under the hedge. Al of a sudden Fifi lunged from Chloe’s grip, flinging his hot little body into the gargantuan maze with his leash trailing behind him.
Chloe held out her arms, as if she somehow expected him to come bounding back. “Fifi!” she cried, clapping as the dog squeezed under the hedge. “Come back here!”
“Fifi! My Fifi!” yel ed Mrs. Crescent, cradling her bel y and waddling over. “He’l get hopelessly lost in there!”
Chloe tossed aside her parasol, hiked up her gown, and sprang into the maze.
“Cameras! Get on this!” George whistled with his fingers, and the cameras rol ed behind her. “That girl’s golden,” she heard him say. “Wherever she goes, drama fol ows.”
Grace laughed and George’s ATV spun off.
Fifi growled somewhere within the maze, but Chloe couldn’t see him. She ran toward the spot from where the growling seemed to be coming.
Her walking boots were so thin she could feel the gravel under the soles of her feet.
“Fifi! Fifi! Come here!” Her bonnet fel to her shoulders. Her white shawl snagged on a yew branch.
