Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

After Fiona curtsied and left, Chloe tucked the letter into the secret drawer in her writing desk, where she found the poem from Sebastian. She reread the poem, tucked it into her reticule, and grabbed her bonnet, parasol, and walking gloves. At long last she had the time, and the determination, to work on solving this riddle.

The lady needed a good run anyway—or at least a walk. Ladies were not supposed to exercise. Who knew Chloe would miss working out, of al things? The cameras weren’t on her, so she leaped at her chance. Quietly, quickly, she sneaked down to the kitchen door, where the stench of roasting mutton hit her hard. Regency life was turning her into a vegetarian. She’d never be able to eat the picturesque English sheep that grazed in the hil s just beyond her window. She slid the cold iron latch, the scul ery door opened a crack, and a slice of sunshine appeared.

“I hope you’re not going beyond Bridesbridge propery unchaperoned!” Cook’s voice boomed out behind her.

Chloe held a hand to her pounding chest. Cook’s blue eyes emerged from behind the copper pot rack. Four dead, skinned rabbits were hanging from a rafter above her, cabbage heads were lined up next to a cleaver as if for execution, and she was swatting a fly away with sprigs of mint leaves.

“Cook! You scared me. Of course I’m staying within bounds.”

Cook smiled and offered her a few mint leaves to chew on. She stripped the rest of the leaves from the stems and piled them next to a half-dozen cabbages that sat on a wooden table in front of the fireplace.

The mint freshened Chloe’s mouth and the taste reminded her of Henry, but she didn’t want to go there. “I need to get some air.”

Cook pul ed a large knife from a drawer and set about chopping the mint leaves methodical y, quickly, and thoroughly. Within seconds she’d quartered al six cabbages. “Wel then, you had best hurry along. I’l cover for you for an hour—no more! Be back by twelve-thirty luncheon.”

That would al be fine if Chloe carried a little watch on her chatelaine like Grace did.

Cook stabbed the knife right into the wooden table, where it gleamed like the sword in the stone, and Chloe chose to get out while the getting was good.

Cook shut the scul ery door behind her, and Chloe heard the latch click closed. Cutting through the kitchen garden, where the aroma of basil swirled in the summer sun, she lifted her gown and overdress and hopped the lavender border. She fol owed the footpath to the deer park, on the lookout for a house without wal s, something with a face in a garden—maybe a statue? Julia’s energy might’ve rubbed off on her, but Chloe just wanted to trounce around and figure out this riddle. Julia was continual y seeking out creative ways to replace the daily jog she had taken in her real life, but somehow Chloe couldn’t move fast enough in her bonnet, parasol, shoes without any support, and stockings that kept sliding down.

The path twisted to the edge of the deer park, where nothing matched the cryptic description in the poem. As much as Chloe had looked forward to slowing down her fast-paced life, even she had to admit her impatience with Regency-era pursuits such as this one, for people with too much time on their hands. Snail-mail letters had gotten to her, too. The immediate gratification that computers and cel phones brought couldn’t be denied. No matter how gorgeous and physical a letter was, it never arrived soon enough and never communicated enough.

She heard some kind of bird cry high in one of the trees. It sounded as if it were laughing at her, and the mocking sound echoed in her chest. She shaded her eyes, looked up at the cotton-candy-blue sky, and her bonnet fel to her shoulders. Stil looking up, she hoisted her dress and overdress, and wandered into the grove. From here, she could hear the bird better. The sunlight through tree canopy, so high and dense, created a dark, dappled effect on the forest floor even on this bright day. She looked up, and there was the bird she had heard, a bright green-and-yel ow bird with red plumage on the top of his head, and as it flitted among the branches, it laughed at her again.

Horse hooves were pounding nearby, she caught a blur of black threading through the trees, and the gal oping stopped just as the bird, which had grown silent, started up again. Chloe moved toward where she heard the horse. Twigs crunched under her walking boots, and then, in a clearing just ahead, she saw Henry sitting astride a black horse.