Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

“You’re not on Dartworth property. I’m on Bridesbridge land.” He took her by the arm. “We’re not far. I’l take you back.” He looked at her careful y, even as the rain came at them sideways. “No harm done. No need to worry. Are you—crying, Miss Parker?”

The cameraman walked backward in front of them, filming.

“No.” She laughed. “They’re raindrops. It rains so much here in England.” She wiped the tears with her wet gloves.

He lowered his voice as he handed her a handkerchief. “I certainly must apologize for my harsh words the other night at dinner. I was a little stressed by—wel —the dining room was not where we planned to birth Mrs. Crescent’s baby.”

“No apologies necessary.” Chloe blotted another tear from her cheek with the handkerchief.

“This is the wettest summer in three years,” Henry said. “And the wettest summer before that was eight years ago, but, most interestingly, the summer with record rainfal previous to that was in the Tudor era. But enough about the English weather.”

“Was that a falcon you were working with back there?” Chloe asked.

“That was King, my Harris hawk. Harris hawks are much more easygoing and sociable than peregrine falcons.”

She always learned something from him. “I should’ve known it was a Harris hawk.”

Henry laughed, but he looked away from her and at the cameraman. “My good man, would you quit your filming and fetch the lady an umbrel a from Bridesbridge?! Much obliged!”

The cameraman, to Chloe’s amazement, complied, and took off toward Bridesbridge as fast as he could. So many times the women had tried to get the crew to quit filming, but it never worked.

“Now, what is the matter?”

Chloe held back the tears. “I’d like to learn falconry. You’re incredibly talented at it. Could you teach me? Would it be apropos?”

“As you know, Miss Parker, it isn’t exactly a female pursuit. Perhaps if Mrs. Crescent joined us, but no, it’s actual y more appropriate if my brother gave you a lesson.”

From a distance, the cameraman ran toward them with two umbrel as under his arm.

Chloe fel silent.

“But Sebastian—doesn’t know much about falconry.” Henry looked at her with intent. “Something has upset you. What is it? I’d like to help.”

As they passed the Grecian temple on top of the hil , the rain tapered off.

“Do I have any chance here, Henry?”

Flecks of gold flickered in his brown eyes. “Personal y, I think you have the best chance of al , depending on what you hope to gain.”

She found this a little abstract, and wanted to press him about it, but settled for the fact that it sounded encouraging. The cameraman, breathless, handed off the umbrel as to Henry, who popped them open while Chloe closed up her parasol. They were nineteenth-century-style umbrel as, made of silk, and soon the silk had soaked through, too. They were at the kitchen garden now, and Chloe spotted several cameras on them from various windows in Bridesbridge.

“I’m going to be in so much trouble with my chaperone.”

“No, you won’t,” Henry said as he led her down the stairs into the scul ery, just off the kitchen. “I’l make sure of that.” He opened the door for her and the scent of rosemary enveloped them. When Chloe closed up her umbrel a, the painting from Abigail and the motion from the court fel from under the crook of her arm onto the stoop, and she froze.

Cook came to the door, hands on her hips.

“Not a word, now, Cook,” Henry said as he picked up the papers and handed them to Chloe without so much as glancing at them. “I’m at your service, Miss Parker, should the need arise.”

Chloe hesitated, then blurted it out. “Henry, I need George. I need to make a phone cal . Something’s happened at home.”

“Of course. Say no more, it shal be done.”

“Thank you, Henry. Thank you.” She handed him his greatcoat and looked down at her wet walking boots. When she looked up at him, wet, dark blond strands of hair had fal en into his caramel-colored eyes. His face was angular but inviting, with an al uring smile.

“Everything wil be al right,” he said.

He had draped his greatcoat over his shoulders and his white shirt and buff-colored breeches had entirely soaked through, making her entirely too aware of his sinewy body. She did, though, remember to curtsy.

He bowed, turned, and hurried off.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she noticed that the red paint on Abigail’s painting had bled through.

To make the cal sooner, Chloe had persuaded Mrs. Crescent to accompany her in the carriage to the entrance gate, where they would meet George.

Now that the rain had stopped, Chloe stood waiting at the iron gates while Mrs. Crescent eyed her pocket watch in the carriage. The gates stood some fifteen feet high with sharp points on top, and the black bars made Chloe think of prison. Or was it a sort of gilded cage?

She paced in front of the gates, the letter from court in hand. Beyond the gates was the real world, and she could even hear the sounds of cars driving on wet paved roads.