“I’m afraid we have not been formally introduced, yet, sir,” she said. Mrs. Crescent would have her head if she knew they were talking.
“I will have to secure that introduction, and fast.” Sebastian lowered his voice. “Perhaps you’re more—intelligent than the rest? More multifaceted? Independent? With a sense of humor? Entertaining to talk to?”
Chloe was smitten, but her ink-stained hands were tied.
Fifi growled at Sebastian’s greyhounds. They didn’t even look at Fifi.
“Fifi. Stop.” Chloe petted the dog. Sebastian bowed.
Chloe felt herself—swoon. Fifi flailed in her arms, Chloe had to catch him from jumping out, and she and Sebastian butted heads.
“Ow,” Sebastian said, rubbing the cleft in his chin.
“So sorry,” Chloe said, and curtsied. “I don’t mean to keep—bumping into you like this.”
He laughed and stepped closer. “I quite like a girl who can make me laugh.”
She whispered, “I’m sorry about what I said at the pond, too. Really.”
“Oh, that? My apologies as well, for invading your—privacy.” He bent forward just enough for her to appreciate his smile.
“Why, Mr. Wrightman,” Grace said from the landing on the staircase behind them. In her slate riding dress with half boots and a so-very-tight cropped riding jacket, she stopped for a moment, smiling, and stared down on Chloe. Grace looked quite the seductress in her black riding hat, a scaled-down version of a man’s hat with a sheer black ribbon tied in a knot under her chin, and a riding crop tucked conspicuously under her arm. “I didn’t know you had been introduced to our latest arrival from the Colonies.”
Chloe turned toward Grace. “They’re not colonies anymore. It must be some time since you’ve read the newspaper. Like maybe thirty-six years?” It had been thirty-six years since the American Revolution, and Grace knew it.
Sebastian covered his mouth as he laughed.
Grace fluttered her eyelashes. “I daresay I’m not even thirty-six years old.”
“Really? You seem so—mature.”
Sebastian cleared his throat. “Pleasure to see you as always, Lady Grace.” He bowed in her direction. “I haven’t yet had the pleasure of formally meeting our newest guest.”
“Pity,” Grace said as she descended the stairs with her maidservant carrying the train behind her riding dress. She brushed past Chloe in a waft of lavender water.
Sebastian took Grace’s arm and led her to her horse, but he did look back at Chloe and gave her a meaningful, lingering stare.
Grace nudged him. “Are you quite ready for our ride?”
“Quite.” He bowed to Chloe.
Chloe curtsied, her mouth dry. Sebastian set a mounting block next to Grace’s horse and handed her up into the sidesaddle. Lady Martha nudged past Chloe and the stable boy helped her into the saddle of her horse. Fifi had settled down and was now licking Chloe’s arm.
Chloe didn’t see George anywhere. A bee buzzed through the front doors and into the foyer.
“Excuse me, miss,” one of the footmen asked. “Will you be going out?”
She wanted nothing more than to either continue watching Sebastian or run out and ask George if he’d heard anything from anyone back home. “Out? Oh. No, thank you.”
When the footmen shut the doors, she set Fifi down and he scampered back to the drawing room. Chloe got a glimpse of herself in the silver-leaf entry-hall mirror. She looked, in a word, disheveled. Grace, in her riding habit, was so put together.
Still, Sebastian had spoken with her, and made her feel so good about herself.
She fell into a reverie, of Sebastian kissing her, of his hands tracing her curves, of him crushing up against her.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder and she gasped.
It was Mrs. Scott, her blue eyes beaming. “Shall we dance?”
Three hours later, Mrs. Crescent was sparkling with hope. “Thank goodness you won your Accomplishment Points for the day. We’re up to fifteen now. You’re almost as accomplished a dancer as Miss Gately, that wonderful charge of mine, was. A shame that she had to leave. But you have her level of talent, nearly.”
“Well, that is a compliment,” Chloe said, collapsing onto a settee. She craved a bottle of ice-cold water. When was the last time she craved water? The dancing made her thirsty, dizzy, and sweaty. Mrs. Crescent rang for tea.
Chloe whispered, “Tell me more about William. The lump is benign, right?”
Mrs. Crescent rubbed her pregnant belly. She eyed the camera and dropped her newspaper. The headline read THREE HANG ON THE GALLOWS AT NEWGATE. When she bent over to pick the paper up, she whispered back, “That is our hope, but it won’t be properly biopsied until it’s removed. Now. Not a word more of it.”
Fiona came in, spotted the newspaper headline, and just as quickly looked away. “Ladies, a messenger has arrived from Dartworth Hall and your presence is requested in the parlor, if you please.”
This would’ve all been very exciting were it not for thoughts of William losing his curly hair and Abigail with a new stepmom, not to mention the haunting image of three people hanging from the gallows.
In the parlor, a minty-green room with chairs and tables that dotted a heavily carved marble fireplace, Grace, back from her excursion, was looking out the window through a bronze telescope. Her chaperone darned stockings at the table. And, in a chair by the fire, a young redheaded woman, younger than Grace but older than the rest of the women, sat reading a book of poems. She looked up from her book with big green eyes and stood, smiling at Chloe.
Mrs. Crescent made the introduction. “Miss Parker, I’d like you to meet Miss Imogene Wells and her chaperone, Mrs. Hatterbee. Mrs. Hatterbee just returned from London.”
Imogene offered her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Parker.”
Chloe shook, but her hand went limp. Was this woman the latest recruit? And London? What was up with that?
“Surely I told you about Miss Wells.” Mrs. Crescent lowered herself into a neoclassical chair.
“No doubt you did.” Chloe leaned against the chair opposite. She was trying to be as nice as possible about this because Mrs. Crescent’s son was sick.
“Miss Wells took to her room these past few days. Indisposed.”
Chloe’s brows furrowed. “But I opened all the doors—”
“My door was locked,” Miss Wells said.
Chloe could see that Imogene was using one of Sebastian’s calling cards as a bookmark. A corner of the card was folded down, and that meant he’d come calling for her in person, instead of sending a messenger.
“During that time of month, a woman must be confined to her room. There is no other way to manage.”
Chloe tried to do the math. When was she supposed to get her period?! Not anytime soon, she figured. Imogene brought the count up to eight women duking it out for Sebastian. Chloe put her hands on her hips. “Mrs. Crescent, are there any more beautiful single women locked up in this house—perhaps in the attic?”
Fifi, by some gymnastic feat, managed to jump into what was left of Mrs. Crescent’s pregnant lap. “You two ladies have common ground,” said Mrs. Crescent. “You both like to paint.”
“I’m so glad to be back,” Imogene said. “My time here at Bridesbridge means so very much to me.”
At that moment the rest of the women and their chaperones spilled into the parlor, chatting and laughing. Chloe looked Mrs. Crescent in the eye, careful to couch this properly for the cameras. “It seems most unfair—eight unattached ladies and only one eligible gentleman.”
Mrs. Crescent patted Fifi. “You may not be aware, Miss Parker, that here in England, and London in particular, many women find themselves without homes, without husbands, and very poor. We’re experiencing a great shortage of men at the moment. Some of our men are away in the West Indies seeking their fortunes. Others are at war on the Continent, or in America, many of them getting killed in combat, it’s most unfortunate.”