Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

“There wouldn’t be a letter. I’d just have a footman deliver a verbal message. We have to—push the envelope. You know how Grace is. We have to bend the rules, not break them. You want us to win, right?”

“It’s not proper.”

Chloe knew Mrs. Crescent was right and she leaned against the cold wal . Her right to talk, to communicate, had been stripped away, and she stood helpless, imprisoned in a glorified prom gown. She was a modern woman after al , used to her freedoms of movement and expression. This was exasperating!

At that moment Grace, lips pursed and armed with her own candelabrum, swooshed by the two of them with al the attitude of a model in a Victoria’s Secret commercial. She tugged at her bodice and smoothed her gown. “You’re such a good girl with your chaperone,” she sneered in Chloe’s ear. Her berry-stained lips were smudged. Chloe’s candelabrum went out completely as Grace turned the corner. Two cameramen trailed Grace’s flowing gown.

“At least I won’t get gonorrhea or—pregnant!” Chloe coundn’t keep herself from muttering.

Mrs. Crescent shushed her.

Grace was, by Chloe’s standards, a strumpet, and she had no doubt that the girl had just added another notch to her cal ing-card case by dal ying with yet another footman.

But maybe Grace was right, after al , and Chloe was being too good. Despite Mrs. Crescent’s advice, she knew she had to be proactive, aggressive. Grace had planted a condom in her reticule and gotten away with it, for God’s sake! At the very least, she had to protect—herself.

With their candelabra snuffed out, Chloe and Mrs. Crescent had no choice but to feel their way through the hal , back to the drawing room. The fire in the fireplace and the candelabra in the room were flickering on the ornate gold frames of the paintings. Mrs. Crescent opened the walnut sewing cabinet, pul ing out Chloe’s floss and needles.

“Needlework? Haven’t I endured enough punishment for one day?” Chloe asked.

Grace was sleeping with the footmen, and here she was, doing her needlework!

She fingered the irregular, loose stitches in her embroidery. Miss Gately’s fireplace screen stood finished in the corner, a testament to her accomplishments. Uniformly stitched peonies blossomed on a red background, while the robins in Chloe’s embroidery looked more like rats. But then again, she had just started to learn this craft, and she was here and Miss Gately—wasn’t. Grace, though, was stil here, too, and so was Julia.

The butler brought the tea things in and Chloe wondered what he had done with that condom anyway.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Crescent said, “I’l pour.” As soon as he left, Mrs. Crescent shot Chloe a serious look. “We made the cut. You deserve a cup of tea for al your efforts.” She handed Chloe a teacup ful of plain, room-temperature water.

“You forgot to run the tea leaves through it.”

“No, I didn’t, dear. Just try it before the cameras find us.” Chloe sipped and practical y spit the liquid al over her embroidery. “Vodka?” she cried.

“Vodka! Where in the world did you get it?”

“Ah, the benefits of doing one’s needlework.” Mrs. Crescent gestured toward a vodka bottle in the recesses of the locked sewing cabinet. She shut the cabinet door and col apsed on the double settee.

Chloe thought of adding a twist of lemon from her deodorant supply, then slammed the vodka and helped herself to two more, al just before a cameraman arrived on the scene. “Cheers, Mrs. Crescent. Here’s to you. And needlework.” She hadn’t eaten anything al day, and the booze went right to her head.

Mrs. Crescent shook a finger at her. “You must drink your tea like a civilized lady. Slowly. And that’s al the ‘tea’ you’re getting—tonight.”

Chloe tried to nurse her vodka as best she could. “Mrs. Crescent, is there a garden somewhere around here with something in it that casts shadows and light?”

Mrs. Crescent locked the sewing cabinet with a key she kept in her reticule. “I daresay I regret giving you that tea.”

Chloe sipped from the teacup. “Or, perhaps there is a clock somewhere in this house with a garden painted on it?”

Mrs. Crescent shook her head and rubbed her bel y. “Oh, dear.”

The vodka warmed Chloe, raising her spirits and her confidence, and loosening her Regency restraint. She knew she needed to take action.

The clock in the hal struck eleven, the women’s curfew. Only the men could be out and about at this hour. As Chloe looked out the window, a star-fil ed sky seemed to beckon to her. The vodka had dul ed her rational side just enough for her to fol ow her impulses.

“Time for us to turn in,” Mrs. Crescent announced.

Chloe moped toward the doorway, and being rather drunk, she accidental y kicked over the wicker laundry basket. As she put the laundry back in, it hit her.