Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

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 Hal with their cel -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 Hal or not?”

He stood and took his greatcoat and hat off, a lock of hair fal ing 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 smel of coffee and tea and cream hit her with a jolt. The fireplace, flint stone al 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 fol owed Chloe in.

A sideways glance in a silver platter hanging from the wal along with other tea accessories proved to Chloe that she real y did look like the Bride of Frankenstein. She fumbled with her hair while Henry removed the greatcoat from her shoulders and hung it near the door.

The hostess signaled a busboy. “Clear that table by the hearth for Mr. Wrightman.” The busboy scurried off, and in no time they were at the best table in the house, in front of a sizzling fire.

“What can I get you?” a waitress asked Chloe, clearly trying not to stare at her ruined gown.

“A double espresso nonfat latte. To go.”

“To go?”

Chloe imagined that book on her head. She straightened her spine and spoke in her best English-ese. “In a takeaway cup, please.”

The waitress raised an eyebrow.

Henry ordered a pot of Earl Grey and a plateful of scones and clotted cream. He smoothed his napkin in his lap. “Just where are you planning to go with your coffee?”

“Home.”

“I see. Are you planning to walk to Heathrow in the rain? And then board a plane without a ticket, passport, or credit card?”

She folded her arms and scowled into the fire.

“Al ow me to rescue you. I’ve even brought the white horse.”

“That’s Sebastian’s white horse.”

“It’s my white horse.”

“Whatever. I don’t need to be rescued anymore. I just need one thing from you before I go.”

“Ah yes. I should’ve given it to you sooner. If you wil excuse me a minute.”

He stood, bowed, headed over to his greatcoat, pul ed out a maroon velvet drawstring bag, opened it, and revealed Chloe’s tiara. He set it on the white tablecloth.

Chloe cupped her hands around the tiara. He real y knew how to throw her off guard; she had actual y forgotten al about her tiara. “Thank you.

Real y.” She ran her fingertips along the diamonds and rubies. “Did you real y fix it yourself?”

“Yes. With nineteenth-century silversmithing tools, no less. It was a bit of a chal enge to get it right.”

She couldn’t even see the seam where he’d welded it together. “Thank you. You are—talented.” She tucked the tiara back into the velvet bag and steeled herself. “But this isn’t what I need from you.”

The waitress brought a fragrant pot of tea, a plate of sliced lemons, sugars, and a pitcher of cream. The stack of scones came next and a dish of clotted cream so thick it took everything in Chloe’s power not to scoop it up like ice cream. She was famished. The waitress set Chloe’s white paper cup of coffee with the familiar plastic lid right where her plate should be.

Henry swept the blond hair out of the corner of his eye. “Please bring the lady a plate for the scones. Perhaps a paper one, if you have it. Pity, but she’s not staying.”

Chloe held back a smile. After al that weak tea and coffee that tasted as if it real y were hundreds of years old, this coffee tasted amazing. Stil , jokes and good coffee aside, she didn’t want to get sidetracked. “The truth. Spil it.”