The footman nodded. “Just one moment.”
She imagined the footmen and maids must have their own fun and their own pairing-off. She hoped so, anyway. It looked like she would, despite the abundance of food, leave the table without eating much, as was so often the case after a meal here in Regency England.
“I can manage almost anything, but not game birds,” Henry said. His plate had a few fish on it.
“I can’t eat them either,” Chloe said.
“Does it have to do with your passion for birds, Miss Parker?”
How did he know about that? Chloe changed the subject to one of his interests—the frog hatchery. “And no doubt you avoid frog legs.”
Henry smiled. “You’re right.”
“Tell me. Which one of the women are you currently recommending to your brother?”
Henry took a slug of his wine. “You are quite forward, Miss Parker.”
“I’m just curious.” She could see this line of conversation made him a little nervous, but a little intrigued, too. And she wanted to intrigue him—in order to intrigue Sebastian.
“I haven’t recommended anyone yet. I have merely helped him discern some of the ladies’ characters.”
“And what have you discerned about my character?”
Henry refolded his napkin. “It’s a little too early to judge. Although I have my theories.” He smirked.
Chloe raised her eyebrows. Now she was intrigued. Unfortunately, during all this jabbering with Henry, Grace had managed to snare Sebastian into a conversation about hunting. “Oh yes. Last fall was my best season ever,” she heard Sebastian say to Grace. He had picked two partridges clean and stacked the bones alongside a pile of fish bones on his plate.
Grace nodded with enthusiasm, her feather nodding with her.
Chloe watched Sebastian, who now seemed so animated, making hand gestures as he talked; he even smiled. The footman offered Chloe a platter of boiled potatoes and carrots, and with a pair of silver tongs, she plucked them from the platter, transferring them carefully to her plate.
Sebastian laughed. “I must’ve bagged fourteen grouse! Looking forward to the season. Grouse hunting in August. Partridges in September. Pheasants in October—”
Chloe turned her head to look at him and the potato she was lifting with the tongs broke and fell into her lap. “Oh—”
Henry offered his napkin to her. But before anybody noticed Chloe’s faux pas, Grace squeaked like a mouse, and spouted a very deliberate “Oh, dear!” All heads and cameras turned to Grace as she squirmed, then shot up out of her chair.
One of her breasts had popped out of her low-cut gown!
At first, a wave of shock rolled through Chloe, and she would’ve stood up to help, but for the broken potato on her lap.
Grace paused for a moment, her hand over her pursed lips, looking down at her breast while the cameras jockeyed around her. Sebastian’s eyes bugged out. He dropped his spoon. Henry sighed and looked away. Kate scratched at her arm furiously. Julia folded her arms.
And that’s when it finally hit Chloe that Grace had orchestrated this stunt. Chloe kept reminding herself that a lady could never appear too angry, especially in public, but her hands shook and she wanted to tell Grace off. How dare she ruin Chloe’s debut dinner at Dartworth!
“Oh my!” Grace squealed. As if in slo-mo, her gotta-be-a-fake boob stood there, erect, en plein air, until Sebastian burst out of his chair, ripped off his coat, and slid it over Grace’s shoulders, carefully covering said breast.
Fish think, but not fast enough, Chloe thought. She plucked the broken potato from her lap. She whispered to Henry, “What do you think that reveals about her character?”
Henry didn’t reply, but instead signaled one of the footmen over to help her clean up the potato. It was as if Grace didn’t exist.
Grace hugged Sebastian’s coat around her. She hurried behind a painted screen in a far corner of the room, and her chaperone joined her. Leave it to Grace to stage a strategic wardrobe malfunction that wouldn’t soon be forgotten. All the women had, for days now, joked about their bodices slipping down, but it never did happen. Chloe shook her head. Grace had to have cut her corset to pull this one off. Everything put away now, Sebastian seated Grace at the table again.
Both Sebastian and Henry looked flushed and they talked about the wine from nearly opposite ends of the long table.
Gillian narrowed her eyes at Grace.
Grace held her wineglass up to the candlelight. “It has great body, don’t you agree?”
Chloe raised her glass. “But a rather empty finish if you ask me.”
Gillian smiled.
If only she could get that image of Grace’s breast out of her head—and out of Sebastian’s.
A footman brandished a platter with a pheasant, purple plumage still attached, encircled with roasted rabbits, their furry heads reattached.
“Any hope of what we in America call ‘salad’?” Chloe whispered to Henry.
“You know full well that greenery is bad for your digestion, and tomatoes are poisonous.”
Chloe didn’t have a barb to fling back at him. She was surprised and impressed by his knowledge of Regency England. But maybe instead of picking up Regency trivia from Henry, she could glean information about Sebastian. “You’re absolutely right about the salad. What was I thinking? Perhaps you can enlighten me on another subject: your brother. Does he really like to hunt?”
Henry set down his knife. “Most country gentlemen do hunt and fish, Miss Parker, for sport as well as for food. But my brother’s bark is bigger than his bite.”
“Bon appétit,” Grace announced. She helped herself to a slice of rabbit.
“Are you saying it has something to do with machismo? Is your brother overly concerned with his image?” Chloe asked.
“I didn’t realize American heiresses were familiar with Spanish words like machismo, nor that they were trained in the wiles of journalism.”
Chloe squirmed in her chair. Tapping Henry for information wouldn’t be easy, but it was worth the effort. And it was fun to spar with him. Still, she felt comforted by the fact that Sebastian must’ve been overstating his hunting prowess to impress the women. He did have the reputation of a Regency squire to live up to, after all.
Sebastian stood, and all eyes moved toward him. “Yes, bon appétit, and, I’d like to invite all the ladies, and Henry, too, of course, to join me in a mock foxhunt on Sunday, nine in the morning. Ladies, we won’t be pursuing a real fox, so not to worry.”
Chloe looked toward the windows. Forget the fox. This meant she’d have to ride a horse sidesaddle. And, no doubt, this was another reality-show task with Accomplishment Points attached and nonparticipants asked to leave.
Julia practically bounced up and down in her chair and her chaperone glared at her until she calmed down.
“A hunt,” Grace said.
Surely, Chloe thought, Miss Parker didn’t have enough status to ride. Chloe hadn’t ridden a horse since college. Could she still do it? Plus, here it would have to be sidesaddle.
Mrs. Crescent leaned toward Chloe and said across the table, “We’ll spend the next three days riding, Miss Parker. Count on it!”
Chloe stared at the arrangement of small woodland animals in front of her.
“Miss Parker,” Sebastian asked from the head of the table. “Are you quite all right?”
English men were so attentive. Chloe was about to respond when suddenly Mrs. Crescent pushed herself up out of her chair, her hands propped on the small of her back, sweat gathering under her curled bangs. “It’s time!” she said, putting one hand on her belly. “It’s time!”
Chloe’s stomach tightened as she remembered the night she gave birth to Abigail. Abigail came a week early, and Winthrop was in Washington on business.