A young man sat inside the tearoom, holding a bouquet of flowers wrapped in white paper. For the first time in forever, a man with flowers didn’t make her moon over Winthrop. She smiled. They were better off, the two of them, without each other. She had left him for good reason, and now she finally felt the strength to fight him in the upcoming custody trial. She could do it—and win.

The young man in the tearoom gave Chloe a hostile glance; no doubt she looked crazy. She stepped back and the rain from the awning dripped heavily on her. He was waiting for someone, because he had a life, a real life, with real people in it. All these people had a life. She had nothing. Except for Abigail, who counted on her for everything. And as far as that went, she had blown it. She’d be coming home without the prize money. What she would be coming home with, though, was a resolve to leave the past behind—all of it—even the nineteenth century, and that was worth a lot more than a hundred grand.

She darted under a covered bus stop where an old woman sat in her green trench coat with a cloth market basket full of lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers. Lettuce! Green lettuce helped digestion. She craved lettuce. She’d trade the gown off her back for a chopped salad.

She sat on the bench next to the woman, wiped her glasses with her wet gloves, put them back on, and looked up the street, where, high atop a hill in the distance, Dartworth Hall stood. It would’ve made a great postcard. Hell, it probably was one and probably was sold in the shops along this street.

“I can’t believe—” she said out loud, like a homeless woman.

The old woman looked at her, then quickly looked at her watch.

“I threw it all away.”

The woman pushed back her plastic rain scarf. “Threw what away?” She eyed Chloe up and down; she was curious.

“Dartworth Hall. The prize money. Everything.”

The woman gave Chloe a tissue from her trench pocket, which only reminded Chloe of Henry and his handkerchiefs. Chloe wiped her dripping nose.

“Are you part of that film going on up there?”

Chloe nodded. “They wanted me to marry him. But I couldn’t. Even though it was just for TV. I couldn’t.”

The old woman had kind green eyes. “Marry who?”

“Why, Sebastian, of course. Sebastian Wrightman.”

The old woman looked confused. She stood up. “Who? Ah. Here’s my bus. But Dartworth Hall doesn’t belong to anyone named Sebastian.” The bus lumbered up. “Henry Wrightman is the master of Dartworth Hall.”

“What?” Chloe clenched her pelisse around her chest; her lips quivered.

The bus doors opened and the woman stepped up the first step in her black flats. “I would say it’s a good thing you didn’t marry that Sebastian—”

“Door’s closing!” the annoyed driver yelled, and the doors snapped closed.

Chloe stepped out from under the Plexiglas bus stop, into the rain, to watch the woman take her seat and wave.

She collapsed back down on the bench under the covered bus stop and buried her head in her hands. Maybe that old woman didn’t know what she was talking about. Maybe she had Alzheimer’s or dementia or some sort of addled-brain disease that Chloe was convinced she would get someday, too, if she didn’t have it already. She better start doing crossword puzzles or something—and soon. Wait a minute. Crossword. Acrostic—she opened her wedding reticule and pulled out the well-worn folded-up poem from Sebastian. The acrostic jumped out at her now:


As the sun shines high in the sky

Love blooms in my heart, I cannot lie.

Let our love grow

Is what is want, I know.

Still I cannot be convinced

Nay, I need more evidence

Of your intentions, are they true?

To convince me here is what you need to do:

As the clock strikes two you must find

Something in a garden where light and shadow are intertwined

Inspect the face in the garden bright

Then follow the line of light

Straight to a house without walls

Enter the door and go where the water falls

Extrapolate from this poem the puzzle within

Make a note of the six-word answer, write it, and you will win

Send your missive through the secret door and the answers you seek will

be in store!


The first letter of every line was to be read down, and it spelled out ALL IS NOT AS IT SEEMS. She squeezed her eyes shut and heard something familiar in the din of gushing rain and cars. The sound of hooves clomping on the cobblestone.

It was Henry on a white horse. On Sebastian’s white horse. Rain dripped from his wide-brimmed hat and nineteenth-century greatcoat as he rode right smack down the middle of the road and ignored the chaos he was causing. Two hunting hounds nuzzled up to Chloe and slipped their soaked heads under her hands. Never in her life had she been so happy to see a dog, not to mention two sopping wet hounds. She rubbed their bony heads. But Henry? If he was really the master of Dartworth Hall, he had lied to her. And who the hell was Sebastian, then?

Henry slowed his horse right in front of the bus stop, tipped his hat, and held out his hand to her. “Miss Parker, your conveyance has arrived.”

She folded her arms and the dogs wagged their tails against her wet gown. The lady was not amused.

His lips curled into a smile as he eyed her up and down. “I must say that your dramatic exit from the church was better than any production crew could dream of. Even now they’re salivating over the prospect of skyrocketing ratings. Well done.”

Traffic wove around the horse. Chloe looked up the street, and half expected to see the camera crew. A small crowd under umbrellas gathered around them.

“And where are the cameras now? I’m sure they’d love to get me on film looking like this.”

“No cameras. I lost them in the deer park. And as for your looks, well, I’ve never been happier to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same.” If what that woman said was true, then he’d been lying to her for weeks! Chloe took off her glasses and tucked them into her soaked white reticule. She looked away from Henry and toward Dartworth Hall, where a patch of blue sky had broken through the clouds.

Henry dismounted, tied his horse to the bus-stop sign, and sat down next to her on the bench. She slid over and looked the other way.

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee? How about a double espresso nonfat latte?”

How did he know what kind of convoluted coffee she drank? The rain made a soft splashing sound on the cobblestones, the breeze picked up, and she shivered. Across the street, people darted into the red-brick pub with leaded windows. A sign swung on a wrought-iron post that read THE GOLDEN ARMS in forest-green letters. She’d been in England for almost three weeks and hadn’t even been to an English pub.

Henry slid closer. “Or maybe a pint sounds better?”

There he was, reading her mind again.

“If you bought me a pint, I’d probably dump it all over you.”

He looked confused. “Lady Anne informed me that you pontificated to no end about my merits.”

A young pierced-nose couple in wet leather jackets came into the shelter, his arm around her shoulder, hers around his waist. They were taking pictures of Dartworth Hall with their cell-phone cameras. Chloe realized they were trying not to stare.

She stood up and the dogs did, too. “Forget the coffee or Guinness or whatever you people drink. I want the truth. Can you give me that? That would be good right about now. Let’s start with this simple fact: Are you the owner of Dartworth Hall or not?”

He stood and took his greatcoat and hat off, a lock of hair falling into his eye. “Oh. Someone told you.”

“Yes.”

The pierced couple and several others were outright gaping. But Chloe and Henry were used to being watched by cameramen, by George, the hidden production and editing crew.

Chloe paced in front of the bus-stop shelter in the rain, her hands clasped behind her. “It pays to get out into the real world and talk to real people and find out what the real deal is—”

He draped his greatcoat around her. “I understand you must be upset but—”

“Upset? I wish I were merely upset. I’m freakin’ furious!” Though the greatcoat did feel warm and dry around her. “I thought you were a gentleman. No—first I thought Sebastian was a gentleman, possibly even someone I could love. Took me a while, but I figured that one out. Then I thought you were a gentleman. Ha!” Suddenly the rain stopped. “You’re both fakes.”

“I see your point.” He linked his arm in hers. “I’m going to buy you a coffee.” He guided her toward the tearoom.

“I don’t want you to buy me any coffee. You can’t buy me with your money.”

He opened the tearoom door for her. “As you wish, my lady. Please just step in to warm up. They have a fabulous hearth.”

When the door opened, the smell of coffee and tea and cream hit her with a jolt. The fireplace, flint stone all the way to the ceiling, lured her in with its warmth. Various dogs rested inside, at their owners’ feet. The English loved their dogs. Of course, the dogs could hardly wait outside, in the pouring rain. The hounds followed Chloe in.