Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

Chloe looked at Mrs. Crescent, who turned her chaise to face the lawn. “Just remember.” She pointed a finger at Chloe and lowered her voice.

“The one thing you’re supposed to catch—is Sebastian.”

Chloe watched Henry as he set the jar down under the sundial. “I’m beginning to think they’re both quite a catch. That was so thoughtful of Henry to invite your children.”

Mrs. Crescent picked up Fifi. “Think again. You’re here to win, and so am I. Do you want to be seen on the tel y al across America as a failure?

As the poor sap who fel for the penniless younger brother and lost out on a hundred thousand dol ars?” She petted Fifi and looked out toward the side gate where the children would come spil ing through. “We need to finalize the details of your gown for the bal before my baby comes, which could be anytime now. I’l give you a few minutes. No more.”

Normal y, Chloe would’ve been al over picking the trim for her bal gown and choosing just the right shoes. Instead, she scampered under the pink rose arbor with the butterfly net, hurrying toward the sundial. The only thing dragging her down was her bonnet.

Henry had already caught a butterfly, and after setting the jar on the stone ledge of the sundial, he slipped in a few hol yhocks for it to feed on.

The shadow on the green sundial showed that it was almost two-thirty. Wait a minute. Sundial! Chloe propped her net against the sundial and dug into her reticule for the poem. She turned her back on Henry and read the pertinent lines again: As the clock strikes two you must find

Something in a garden where light and shadow are intertwined

Inspect the face in the garden bright . . .

After folding the poem back up and putting it back in her reticule, Chloe bent over the sundial’s face. It had a green patina, and the dial itself stood in a formal knot garden. Why hadn’t she put it together before? She had seen the sundial several times already. She studied the green patina on the face. She almost forgot that Henry was there until he cleared his throat.

Henry raised an eyebrow at her sudden fascination with the sundial and handed her the butterfly net. “If you see a dark brown butterfly with a red splotch or orange bands on each wing, it’s a Vanessa atalanta. Better known as a red admiral. Oh, and I’m sure you’d recognize the orange-and-black one. Cynthia cardui. ”

Chloe grinned. “Of course I would. I go around spewing the Latin names for butterflies al the time.” Her eyes fol owed the trajectory of light from the sundial, but of course, it was past two o’clock, and everything would be slightly off. She had memorized the next three lines of the poem: Then follow the line of light

Straight to a house without walls

Enter the door and go where the water falls . . .

Chloe lifted her butterfly net. “I’l go this way.” She padded in the direction the sundial pointed, until Henry began pontificating like a professor. As a proper lady would, she felt obliged to stop and listen, even though she could hardly wait to figure out where the shaft of light would lead her.

“Are you in a hurry for any particular reason, Miss Parker?”

“No. I’m just anxious to catch a butterfly, that’s al .” She swung her butterfly net like a golf club.

“Look,” Henry said. “This one’s a painted lady.” He held up the jar in the sunlight.

She real y didn’t want to hear his nature documentary narration, but there was something about the way his large hands wrapped around the jar, something to the way he turned it while the butterfly flitted around, that stopped her. Suddenly she had a vision of him as he held her in her bal gown and turned her on the dance floor. She tried to shake it. She even shook her head, but the vibrator shifted, and the bonnet almost fel off. She tensed up and tightened the ribbons again. Real y, she should’ve gone inside and emptied out the bonnet, but she had to solve the riddle now, and given al that she had to deal with at that moment, the last thing she needed was to fal under Henry’s spel .

“You think you have it rough.” Henry pointed to a butterfly in the hol yhocks. “Look at this green-and-white one. See the orange marking on the top of its wing?”

“Yes. It’s beautiful.” She watched as the butterfly lowered and raised its antennae at her as if it were trying to communicate.

“It’s a male Anthocharis cardamine.”

She smirked.

“Al right, he’s an orange tip. It’s unusual for him to be around this late in the season. They only have eighteen days to find a mate.”

“And then what?”

“They die.”

Chloe picked up her net and aimed for the orange tip, but it flew off. The net bil owed in the air. “That’s harsh. If I don’t find my mate, I just lose out on a hundred thousand dol ars.”

“You don’t care about losing out on the money?”

“Wel . . .” Chloe didn’t know what to say. It must’ve been a trick question. “This may sound like a cliche, but to me, it’s not about the money.” And it wasn’t, anymore.

A cloud floated in front of the sun and the shadow on the sundial disappeared.

“Oh no!” Chloe lowered her butterfly net.

“What is it?”