Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

It was like a snapshot of the inner workings of Henry’s mind. If only she could get such a glimpse inside Sebastian’s. She spotted the initials WC

on a door in the back and stepped onto what seemed like a back porch. There it was, a sort of wooden toilet, the first toilet she had sat on in almost two weeks. Who knew that the sight of a toilet could make her so happy?

Chloe was straddling the primitive-looking toilet bowl, hoisting her gown, when suddenly she heard boots clomping on the floorboards in the lab.

“Mr. Wrightman?” She searched for the toilet paper. There wasn’t a basket of rags anywhere either. When someone pushed the door open, she put her hand up to stop the door from opening ful y. “I’m in here!”

Whoever it was pul ed the door shut again. “Miss Parker?”

It was Henry.

“So sorry. I had no idea you were in there!”

“It’s al right, Henry. But—do you have any . . . toilet paper?” she squeaked.

Chloe heard him scrambling, and what sounded like a tin of something fel to the floor. A moment later he handed her a bucket of rags.

Chloe used one of them. Now . . . Another nineteenth-century conundrum. What to do with it? None of this was in her rule book. She couldn’t exactly flush it down whatever this thing was. She pul ed the handle, but it didn’t flush.

“Just bring them out here, Miss Parker. I’l take care of everything.”

Chloe’s head pounded with embarrassment. She creaked the door open.

He held out a cloth sack to her.

Without looking at him, she stuffed the rag in the bucket and he took it outside to a tin trash container.

She fol owed him. What a gentleman to deal with al this! “Um, to make matters worse, the water-closet thingamajig wouldn’t flush.”

“I know! I’ve been working on it every spare minute, and stil haven’t perfected that part of it yet. Here’s a washbowl for your hands.” He guided her toward an outdoor washbasin and handed her a large bal of what she recognized as very good soap. He wasn’t wearing a riding jacket, his waistcoat was unbuttoned, his cravat untied, and his shirt, a pul over white muslin with a long V neck, hung open. His hair was disheveled.

“Thank you for helping out a damsel in distress.” He had a delicious scent about him, an aroma of oil paints and turpentine, something only an arty girl would know and love.

“You’re welcome. I hope you’l excuse my appearance,” he said as he raked his fingers through his hair. “I just came from doing some painting in the field.”

“Hmm,” she said out loud. “I—I mean, hmm, your lab looks interesting.” She peeked back into the building. “But I have to get back to my chaperone and your brother.”

“Of course.”

“Speaking of which, do you have something other than cloves for a toothache? Your brother’s in a lot of pain.”

He eyebal ed a row of bottles from the doorway.

“He keeps rubbing his jaw.”

Henry stepped into the lab, then returned with a tiny bottle in his hand, containing a scant amount of liquid. “Two drops of this, mixed with a non-alcoholic drink, should help. But no more than two drops. It’s laudanum, and it’s powerful.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wrightman. I’m much obliged!” She took a few steps backward, turned toward the hil , and squirreled the laudanum in her reticule.

“Why don’t we have a water closet like that at Bridesbridge?”

“The Bramah water closet? Chiefly because I haven’t figured out how to make it flush yet. As soon as it’s ready, I’l have one instal ed at Bridesbridge. It’s taken me this long to work it out. Along with the shower.”

“Did you say ‘shower’?” She stopped.

“I didn’t realize that the subject of plumbing would cause you so much excitement. Have a wonderful time with Sebastian.” He bowed.

Chloe curtsied.

She must’ve lost almost twenty minutes of her time with Sebastian by now. The breeze picked up, and then, BANG! A gun went off in the field behind her. She froze, her ears ringing and her heart pounding with shock. Turning and squinting, she caught sight of Grace, who was within shouting distance. She was practicing with her revolver and target. Damn her! Chloe stomped toward her, then stopped. Wait. That was exactly what Grace wanted her to do, to waste her alone time with Sebastian arguing with her about gunshots. Chloe spun around and made a dash for the Grecian temple, where Sebastian had dozed off and Mrs. Crescent was munching contentedly on a cucumber sandwich while reading a book.

“A lady never runs, Miss Parker. How many times do I have to remind you?” Mrs. Crescent said. “Sandwich?” Fifi wagged his tail as he chomped on a miniature mince pie.

“No, thank you.” Chloe was too discombobulated to eat.

Just then, Sebastian, who was lying on the picnic blanket, propped himself up with his elbows. His jaw looked a little swol en. “Final y. You’re back. I missed you.” He stared at her without flinching.