She stepped backward without taking the binoculars. “I’m feeling fine. But I never did get those ‘spirits’ you prescribed.”
Henry laughed. “Then I’ll prescribe some more.”
“And I didn’t sleep very well because there are mice in my bedchamber.”
Henry rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
Chloe curtsied. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see you—at the archery meet?”
“You’re going to walk away from a green woodpecker? To my knowledge, you don’t have them in America.” He offered her the binoculars again. The woodpecker stopped calling.
“I don’t think it’s proper.”
“I’m amazed, and impressed, at how loyal you are to a man you haven’t even really gotten to know yet.”
She squirmed, as if she were again under Henry’s mental microscope.
“Here.” He stretched the binoculars in front of her eyes and slid behind her. His buttons grazed the small of her back. With his arms brushed up against hers, he adjusted the focus for her. “Do you see him?”
She saw a lot of things, including the fact that she liked Henry a lot more than a girl was supposed to like a potential brother-in-law. “Yes. He’s—he’s beautiful.” She watched the woodpecker as he turned his green head topped with red feathers, and she handed the binoculars back. Her eyes fell to the forest floor littered with leaves. “Thank you. The most common woodpecker back home is the downy woodpecker. He has red plumage on the back of his neck. He’s much smaller, though.”
She smoothed down her overdress. Mrs. Crescent had told her that a lady must never reveal her full intelligence to a man, and this she found exasperating. She stepped into the breezy clearing, and away from him. Anyone could see them here. She had to get away, but didn’t want to leave.
He moved toward her. “By the way, would you like me to fix your tiara? I’m afraid, though, it’s too late to repair it before the ball.”
It was enough to stop her for a moment longer. She had to think about this one.
“I can come by later to look at it. I’ll be able to tell you if I can fix it as well as any jeweler would.” He pulled an apple out of his pocket and shined it on his coat.
Chloe licked her lips at the sight of the apple. A breeze wafted through the trees and the dappled light flitted around them like sparkles from a disco ball.
She had to get out of here. “Yes, that’s fine,” she said absentmindedly. “I—I need to head back.”
“Absolutely. I would escort you—but . . . we shouldn’t be together.” Henry bowed and fed the apple to his horse.
The horse crunched on the fruit. Chloe was ravenous, especially for fruit. She’d slept right through the mutton dinner last night.
Henry raised his eyebrows. “Unless you’d like me to escort you back to Bridesbridge after all?”
“No, thank you. But might I ask if you have any more of those apples?”
A shaft of sunlight came down on him through the trees. “You do realize how bad they are for your complexion, right?”
She smiled. “I’m willing to take that chance.”
“I don’t have any more, but the one my horse is eating was barely fit for consumption, human or equine. If you want fruit, I have something better.” He smirked.
Chloe folded her arms. “I’m sure you do. But that’s not what I had in mind.” She curtsied and turned to go. Much as she enjoyed the repartee with Henry, she needed to be bantering with Sebastian instead.
“I’m talking about the fruit growing at the Wrightman hothouse.”
Much as the hothouse sounded—hot—she knew better. “I can’t risk it and I don’t have the time.”
“How much time do you have?”
The woodpecker started laughing again.
“Considering I’m not of high enough rank to carry a chatelaine, I never know what time it is. But I only have until twelve-thirty.”
Henry checked his watch fob, and Chloe checked her thoughts of the two of them in a “hothouse.”
Even though she’d kill for a strawberry, it had to be nearly twelve-thirty and she had to hurry back, so she curtsied. “Good day, Mr. Wrightman.”
With that, she left him, and didn’t look back.
Only when she got back to the scullery door did she realize she’d forgotten to look for clues to the riddle—that was what she’d gone out to do! Cook scanned Chloe from head to toe and yanked her inside. She shut and locked the door behind her. “You’re late.” A butcher knife flashed in her hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“Were you with Mr. Wrightman?” Cook sneered.
Chloe swallowed. She never lied to Cook. “No—no. I just ran into Henry.”
“Taking a fancy to the penniless one? Tossing your fortune to the wind?” Cook chopped a carrot.
“It’s not just about the money!” Chloe blurted out.
Cook raised an eyebrow. “Humph. What about Mrs. Crescent’s little William?”
“You know about him?”
“Of course.” A cauldron on the range bubbled over and dripped into the fire with a sizzle. Cook swung the pot hook out and let the cauldron hang, cooling.
Four dead, skinned rabbits lay on the table. “He doesn’t have a hope without that prize money.” Cook raised her knife, chopped the heads off each rabbit, then stood the heads up on a platter in a neat row.
Chloe looked at the decapitated bunnies and tried not to gag at the sight of their bloodied blue neck bones. “I want to help him. I have someone the money can help, too.”
“You need to be pursuing Sebastian.” Cook put her finger to her lips. “Shh. Someone’s coming.” She pushed Chloe toward the dead-bunny table and stuck the butcher knife in her hand. She flung two decapitated, plucked chickens on the table. At least they looked like chickens. “If it’s a cameraman, you’re going to chop the feet off. Right? That’s the plan. Just follow my lead.”
It was a camerawoman. Chloe touched a rubbery yellow foot. She much preferred to see poultry and meat wrapped in cellophane on Styrofoam trays, another perk of modern living. One of her silk stockings fell to her ankle. Why couldn’t it have been a potato or an onion? Why was Cook helping her, anyway? And why did the room keep spinning?
Wham! Chloe brought down the butcher knife on the chicken’s feet, but she missed and chopped part of the legs off, too. Blood spattered onto her gown. The camerawoman got it all on film.
“Miss Parker!” Cook yelled from the other end of the kitchen, near the second stone fireplace. She ran past the camera and pulled the knife from Chloe’s sweaty hand. “You’re doing it all wrong. Now you’ve gone and chopped the legs!” Her blue eyes rolled from the camera lens to Chloe. “And spoiled your gown. How many times do I have to tell you to get out of my kitchen? I have maids for this work.” She waved the butcher knife around like a flyswatter. “Run along now. You belong upstairs!” She shooed Chloe away, but Chloe could barely walk for thinking that she just chopped the feet off a—bird.
Still, Cook’s plan worked, and the camerawoman followed her up the kitchen steps to the breakfast room, where the maids were stacking the sideboard with sandwiches and cakes.
Julia sat at the table, tipping her chair back on two legs. Her chaperone tapped her shoulder to quit. “Miss Parker, where have you been? I was hoping we could go for a walk.”
Mrs. Crescent clasped her hands together when she saw Chloe. “I had the servants looking all over for you. You had a caller.” She handed Chloe a creamy calling card with the upper-right corner folded down. Mr. Sebastian Wrightman was letterpressed into the card in a distinctive, but not overly ornamental font. The folded corner indicated that he had come in person, and the fact that he came “calling” at all pointed to a new level of intimacy in their relationship. Chloe held her palm against the wall. To think she had missed Sebastian all because of Henry!
Mrs. Crescent stood back to inspect Chloe’s gown. “My, you look a fright.”
Grace waltzed in, making even a check print look sexy with its scoop neck and her bare arms. She gave Chloe a sidelong glance. “You realize you look like an absolute serial killer. Honestly.” She turned her blond sausage-curled head to the sideboard.