After days of forcing down mutton, rubbery little potatoes, and peacock presented with the head still on, she’d been craving fruit. Forbidden fruit!

She heard hurried footsteps and a night watchman from Dartworth Hall came running up with his lantern. “Hullo there,” he called. “What is it, boy? Come from Bridesbridge at this hour? On foot?”

Chloe bowed her head, lowered her voice, and presented the letter. “I—I have a letter for Mr. Wrightman, sir.”

“Do ya now?” The watchman looked at her askance. “You don’t look familiar to me, boy.”

“I’m new at Bridesbridge.”

“You’ll have to bring the letter in yourself. The front-door footmen have gone to bed. He’s in the billiards room. Catty-corner from the main dining room. Follow the large hall and stay right.”

Chloe’s shadow, with her thin legs and ankles, did look rather boylike and the coat hid her hips better than any slimming underwear ever could, although, as a result of the rigors of a Regency diet, she’d already lost the seven pounds she’d been needing to lose for quite some time.

She set her lantern down and bounded up the marble steps—the hundreds and hundreds of steps shining in the blue moonlight. It was too delicious to be true. She’d have Sebastian all to herself—dressed in her cute little footman outfit! And as an added bonus, she could find Henry and apologize to him. She skipped through the open doorway and into the foyer, dimly lit by a few sconces on the walls. The candled chandeliers were out for the night, but a candelabrum stood on the foyer credenza and she picked it up.

She hurried past the dark library, dining room, and drawing rooms and followed the sound of men’s laughter in the distance.

As she approached a brightly lit doorway in front of which a footman sat slumped in a chair, apparently sleeping, Chloe saw a massive mahogany pool table. Sebastian was sprawled in a chair, cognac in hand, smartphone in his lap—smartphone!? Henry was reading a book. George paced back and forth with his hands on his hips.

She lunged toward the door, hoping to hightail it out of there, but the footman chose that moment to wake up and blocked her with his arm. “What do you want?” he demanded.

Chloe handed him the letter, but he didn’t take it. “Delivery from Bridesbridge.”

“Sebastian, finish tweeting!” George commanded from behind the doors.

The footman shoved Chloe back into the dark hall and into his wooden chair, where she couldn’t see anything. He clicked the double doors shut behind him and left her in the dark.

She heard muffled voices. What the hell? She didn’t even have a toilet and they were tweeting?

One of the double doors suddenly swung open, casting light on Chloe’s mud-spattered tights.

“You may come in,” the footman announced, and he spun off. Like in a bad dream, Chloe wanted to move but couldn’t. Finally, she took a deep breath and stepped into the room. The stench of snuff filled the air. Under a high rococo ceiling, a claw-footed pool table dominated the interior. The side tables were littered with wine decanters, snuffboxes, and chocolates. Her eyes scanned the room for the phone and George, but both were gone.

“Well, my boy,” Sebastian slurred as he leaned against his pool cue. “What brings you here at such an ungodly hour?”

The vodka, Chloe realized, was starting to wear off, and goose bumps were beginning to pop up and down her arms. Thank God there weren’t any cameramen around. Maybe the camera crew had turned in for the night.

Sebastian’s eyes looked a little glassy. He had been drinking, and this bolstered her courage. “A delivery.” Chloe handed him the letter.

Henry closed his book and furrowed his brows at her.

Chloe stepped back, wary.

Then Henry’s lips curled into a smile. If he’d seen through her disguise, he didn’t seem upset at her. “What is your name—boy?” he asked.

“Charles—sir.” Chloe bowed her head and pushed Cook’s glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Charles. Right. Do take off your hat, Charles.”

“No—no, thank you, sir, I cannot stay.”

“Fancy a drink?” Henry asked.

Chapter 12

Sebastian bent over the red-wool-covered billiard table. While his leather-tipped cue stick thrust toward the eight ball, he leaned forward and his tight “inexpressibles” left Chloe unable to express—anything. The floor-to-ceiling Merlot velvet draperies provided a stunning backdrop for his unruly black hair, crisp white shirt, and tanned face. “You cannot offer a servant a drink, Henry,” he said, and with a click, the eight ball sank the seven into the right corner pocket.

Chloe locked her knees to keep them from turning to white soup in her footman stockings.

Another footman unglued himself from the wall next to a flowery tapestry to pour more red wine into Henry’s and Sebastian’s depleted glasses.

Henry set his book aside, stood, and chalked his cue stick. “True. Personally, I would not want Charles to be sent packing.” He looked Chloe up and down, head to mud-splattered toe. “All for a mere moment or two of immediate gratification.”

Chloe tugged at her cravat; she must’ve tied it too tight, it suddenly seemed. She tried to clear her head, then her throat, and lowered her voice an octave or two, directing her words to Sebastian. “I most certainly do not want to be sent home, sir,” she said. “I am quite honored to be here. It is such a—stimulating—experience.” She wanted his attention, after all.

Sebastian stared at the pool table, not at her.

Henry scoped out his shot. “Have you had many similarly stimulating experiences in your young lifetime, Charles?” He looked up at her with mischief in his eye.

“This definitely ranks as one of the most stimulating.”

Henry raised an eyebrow, then made his shot. The resounding clunk reminded Chloe of her impending doom should Henry decide to rat her out.

Two balls sank in the left corner pocket. Henry wouldn’t expose her before she had a chance to apologize, would he? She’d have to pack her trunks tonight if he did. Her livery coat felt heavy.

Sebastian slid dangerously close to Chloe, reaching above her head for a tin of snuff on a high shelf. The seam of his shirtsleeves fell just below his broad shoulders and his undone cravat hung carelessly around his collarbone. “My foot hurts, for some reason or another.” He kicked his boot up onto a chair.

“Gout,” Henry said. “Too much red meat and red wine, Sebastian.”

Sebastian shot a fleeting glance at Chloe. “What is it, my boy?” He looked good even when shoving snuff up his nostril and sniffing into his sleeve.

Chloe swallowed, pushing Cook’s glasses up the bridge of her nose, careful to lower her voice to the proper level. “I have it on good authority, sir, that the item found in Miss Parker’s reticule was planted there and I vouch for her innocence. It’s not in her character to do such a thing.”

Sebastian was stalking the billiard table, hunting out his next move. “Of course we know that. We’re not taken in by the ridiculous shenanigans that must go on among those women at Bridesbridge Place.”

This was a revelation, although a bit derogatory toward the women.

Across the room, near the fire, Henry again raised his wineglass, breathed in the bouquet, and set it aside. Chloe could practically taste the wine rolling past her tongue, down her throat . . . If only she could have another drink to steel her nerves.

“Exactly what is Miss Parker’s character?” Henry asked. He walked toward her, leaned on the edge of the billiard table, and looked her straight in the eye.

No guy had ever asked her that kind of question before. A lightning bolt of fear cracked through her as Sebastian took his shot, and a ball ricocheted off the side of the table, but missed the pocket.

“Do tell, Charles,” Sebastian said. “I’d quite like to know myself.”

Henry took off his glasses, folded them, and placed them atop the mantel. “I assume you’re around her enough to know the answer.” He smiled, and for the first time, Chloe noticed a dimple on the left side of his clean-shaven cheek. And his sideburns were cut so perfectly.

She spun to face Sebastian, who was chalking his cue stick. Now was her chance to lay it all out on the neoclassical mahogany billiard table. “Miss Parker, from what I can tell, seems fabulous. She’s the living embodiment of all the best old-fashioned values.” Chloe folded her gloved hands behind her back. Candles were suspended from some kind of contraption above the billiard table, their wax dripping into the tray underneath; she noticed that the fixture didn’t provide much light, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Sebastian walked over to his empty wineglass. “I’m not sure I believe all this balderdash.”

Henry spoke from behind her. “One of those values being—honesty? Another being—loyalty to her friends?”

Chloe again pushed Cook’s glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Yes and yes. She seems very honest and good to everyone around her.”

“Of course, dear Charles,” Henry said, “you’ve only just arrived at Bridesbridge. What would you know?”

Chloe sucked in her cheeks.

Sebastian held his empty wineglass out to the footman, who filled it, and almost as quickly, Sebastian drank it.

Chloe put her hand to her heart.

“Sebastian, no more wine for you,” Henry said. He slid the glass out of Sebastian’s hand. “Will that be all, Charles?”

Did Chloe just hear a shuffle in the hall? She’d better be quick. Sebastian was tipsy, and now was her chance, so she leaned in toward Henry and whispered, “Miss Parker wants to apologize to you for her harsh words during the tea party,” she blurted out. “She values your friendship very much and sincerely regrets what she said.”