The hedge maze was far off, and however enticing it had once looked, Chloe couldn’t be happier than to be free of it.

At that moment a footman came running toward them. “Mr. Wrightman, we need you in the stables. Do you have a moment?”

Sebastian looked at Chloe. So much for their romp in the hedge maze, she couldn’t help but think. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m fine. Is everyone inside? Do you want me to just—head into Dartworth?” It was awkward asking if she should just drop into his sprawling estate or what.

“Yes, I’m sure everyone’s gathered in the music room. The competition will be postponed.”

“I’ll escort you,” the young footman offered.

Sebastian bowed, she curtsied, and he headed toward the stable.

She tied off the broken lace on her waterlogged boots and noticed that one of her white stockings had gone shocking pink at the ankle. Mrs. Crescent would never approve of pink stockings. It seemed she had cut her ankle on the hedge and blood had turned the stocking pink.

On her way toward Dartworth, she and the footman stepped over a little creek that had swelled up during the storm. She stepped on a wide rock in the middle of the creek to get to the other side and noticed how two streams of water flowed on either side of it. This divergence weakened the streams, until they trickled off into nothingness.

She never imagined she’d fall for two so very different men, brothers no less, so quickly. The money and the winning got washed away, and too often, she forgot all about them. She had to stay focused, follow ridiculous Regency protocol, and not allow her resolve to weaken any more. No more getting lost. She’d set her GPS for Sebastian, and that would be it.

Chapter 14

“Well, well, look what the pug dragged in,” Grace said. She cast a crisp silhouette against the floor-to-ceiling windows in the music room at Dartworth.

The windows in this room offered the best view of the hedge maze. Julia and her chaperone were playing cards in front of the fire. Mrs. Crescent had dozed off on a Grecian sofa.

Chloe clenched her fists. It took all of her willpower not to rail against Grace.

Chloe had to remind herself of how her feelings for Sebastian had been growing steadily stronger. She forced herself to think, too, of the money, of how it would save her business and might even save her from having to sacrifice Abigail to Winthrop every summer.

At that moment Fifi appeared, trotting in from the hallway, his rib cage wrapped in linen bandages. The yellow room dripped with white flowered molding like frosting on a wedding cake, while rainwater dripped from Chloe’s hemline to the floor. The fireplace crackled and the shadows danced on the gold-leaf harp in the corner. She wiped her face with her wet shawl and the white fabric turned gray with grime.

Grace, in her shimmering gold silk gown, circled Chloe like a lioness assessing her prey. “It’s not about how shocking you look, Miss Parker.” Her voice rose up to the domed ceiling. “It’s about how hopelessly blind you are to the fact that you just don’t belong here.”

A cameraman angled in and Chloe imagined balancing a book on her head, chin up, just like Mrs. Crescent had taught her.

“Fifi! Miss Parker!” Mrs. Crescent hoisted herself out of the chaise. “Thank God you’re both all right.” She bent to pat Fifi delicately on the head.

“Whatever did you do with poor Mr. Wrightman, anyway?” Grace asked as she floated back to her window.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Chloe muttered. She clenched the sage silk draperies.

Abruptly, Grace came slithering up from behind, startling Chloe with a click of a bronze telescope, which she promptly extended to its full length and aimed toward the maze.

Mrs. Crescent, with one hand on her belly, took Chloe by the arm and whispered, “We must go, dear, before Mr. Wrightman sees you in such a state!”

“He has already seen me—aaaachooo—” she sneezed. “Excuse me.” She covered her mouth a little too late. There was enough dirt on her hands to confuse her with the gardener . . . or one of her alledged groundskeeper ancestors.

Lady Grace raised an eyebrow.

Chloe lowered her voice to a whisper as she spoke to Mrs. Crescent. “I just need more time. Things are—heating up.”

“Then let’s keep the teapot boiling,” Mrs. Crescent whispered back. “Let’s get tidied up.” She took a deep breath and lifted Fifi as if he were a swaddled newborn. “Jones!” she called out.

In a blue liveried uniform, one of the footmen scurried over to Mrs. Crescent and bowed.

“Ready one of Mr. Wrightman’s carriages, if you please. Miss Parker and I must return to Bridesbridge. Immediately.”

“I won’t go unless Lady Grace, Julia, and the chaperones come with us,” Chloe said.

“I’m certainly not leaving.” Grace stifled a fake cough. “Humph. All that muck.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Mr. Wrightman invited us to stay until the rain subsides. I wasn’t aware of his inviting you, Miss Parker, or am I mistaken?”

Chloe felt a draft coming from behind. “We didn’t spend much time—talking.”

Grace snapped the telescope closed and picked up a book from a large table draped in an Oriental rug, thumping it with her long, slender fingers.

A housemaid, on her hands and knees at Chloe’s walking boots, was wiping up the wet trail of mud and grass she’d left behind her on the wooden floor. Without thinking, Chloe stooped to the floor. “Let me help you.” She took a rag from the bucket.

A portrait of some eighteenth-century Wrightman women above the fireplace seemed to be looking down their English noses at Chloe, their silver gowns glistening, their faces and hair powdered white, each of them forcing an ever-so-slight painted smile.

Mrs. Crescent yanked Chloe up and the rag went splat on the floor. “A lady doesn’t—that’s servant work.” She bobbed her head toward the camera. “Against the rules,” she whispered.

“But I’m responsible for this—” Heat rose up Chloe’s neck, her head throbbed, and she wiped her dirty hand on the back of her gown, leaving fingerprints.

Grace laughed, covering her pouty mouth with her glove. “I’m glad to see that she at least knows her place. She should’ve been cast as a scullery maid.”

Scullery maid happened to be the lowest ranking of the maid hierarchy. Chloe knew this now, after working in Cook’s kitchen.

“Carriage is ready,” Jones announced.

Mrs. Crescent tucked Fifi under her arm.

“The storm’s passed!” Henry announced as he trounced in with his medical bag. Chloe noticed that something salty was dripping into her mouth and realized that her nose was running. She knew better than to wipe it with her cap sleeve. Before she could do anything, however, Henry pulled a handkerchief with HW embroidered on it out of his pocket and, without a word, wiped her runny nose then put the thing right back into his pocket. Just like her grandpa used to do when she was little.

“Thank you.” Her eyes followed him even as she stepped away from him.

“Ugh,” Lady Grace groaned, tossing a book that she hadn’t even cracked onto the table. She plopped down at the pianoforte and shuffled the sheet music like cards.

“Miss Parker, whatever happened to your leg?” Henry asked.

Mrs. Crescent gasped. “I had no idea! Dear Lord!”

Grace pounded on the pianoforte, sending Beethoven resounding throughout the room.

“I’m fine. It’s just a little cut.” Grace was banging the pianoforte so loud that Chloe had to practically yell. She wanted as little interaction with Henry as possible, so she looked into the fire in the fireplace and fidgeted with her gown.

“May I take a look at the cut?”

Grace moved on to Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.”

Chloe decided that she had to stop giving Henry mixed messages. “I said I’m fine, Mr. Wrightman!”

Fifi whimpered.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” Mrs. Crescent singsonged forlornly.

Henry persisted. “I recommend you bathe and replace the bandage in the next twenty-four hours. I also recommend a dram or two of spirits.”

That got her to smile, although she had sworn off that sewing-cabinet vodka . . . and off Henry as well.

“And, of course, I’ll need to check on your progress tomorrow.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Just then Sebastian walked in to see Henry and Chloe together—again.

This was exactly what she didn’t want to happen! She turned to Sebastian. “And thank you, Mr. Wrightman, for rescuing me in the hedge maze.”

Sebastian merely nodded.

Henry had ruined her progress with Sebastian again!

Grace and Julia chose that moment to swoop in on Sebastian, each vying for his attention, each beautiful, glittering, and—dry.

Chloe decided that Mrs. Crescent was right, she looked a mess and was in no state to compete with Grace and Julia, certainly not physically, and maybe not mentally either! She should listen to her chaperone more often, really.

“Well, Mrs. Crescent and I must go.” Chloe curtsied, the men bowed, and she shuffled toward the foyer, Mrs. Crescent following.

In the marble-tiled foyer, Chloe caught a glimpse of herself in a full-length gold-leaf mirror, and thought she looked more like a madwoman locked in the attic than an Elizabeth Bennet who had just muddied her petticoats running all the way to Netherfield. Regardless, petticoats were hopelessly out of fashion in 1812. She pulled a twig out of her tangled hair.

What had made her think she was worthy of an Oxford-educated aristocratic hottie anyway? She used to think she belonged here in England, and now, it seemed, Grace might be right. She didn’t belong here, or anywhere else.