Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

by Karen Doornebos

  “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.

  She could go over to Dartworth, legal y—dressed as a man! She hoisted the basket to her hip, balancing it and her candelabra, then leaped up the steps and clicked her door shut in a most ladylike way.

  After she stirred the fire to warm up her room, the air of which felt brisk even on this summer night, she lifted a pair of footman’s knee breeches from the laundry basket and held them up against her waist. She wouldn’t real y be breaking the rules if she were a “man.” The trick was to bend the rules and not get caught, just as Grace did with drinking her nightly wine, shagging the good-looking footmen, and God only knew what else.

  Maybe it was the vodka talking, but after she pul ed on the footman’s white stockings, snug-fitting breeches, and brass-buttoned jacket and tucked her hair into the footman’s black hat, she cocked her head in the floor mirror and decided she looked like quite a hot little footman. After days of wearing dresses, the pants felt liberating, sexy even. Chloe smiled in the mirror. If Grace could have closed-door interludes with footmen at the drop of a tricornered hat, then Chloe could go for a walk after eleven o’clock disguised as a man.

  She stuffed her bed with pil ows, pul ed the velvet coverlet over them, and snuffed out the candles. By the light of the fireplace she opened her window to the thick darkness outside. “This is crazy. I came here to win the money and I’m losing my heart to two men.” She said it out loud. There.

  She’d admitted it. It had to come to this for her to realize.

  Outside there were no streetlights, no lights on the front of the house—no wonder a girl wasn’t al owed to roam at this hour. A few torches, though, burned in front of the main door. Opting not to break a leg, she decided not to jump out the second-story window. Instead she waited for al the women’s doors to click shut, and stocking-footed, shoes in hand, she sneaked down the servants’ staircase al the way to the basement kitchen.

  Cook’s eyeglasses, she noticed, were lying on the pine table. Chloe put them on in hopes of bettering her disguise. For a moment the glasses blurred her vision, but then the fuzziness cleared. She slipped out the kitchen door without anyone noticing. Once she was outside, the cool evening air sobered her, but only for a minute. She pul ed on her shoes and groped her way toward the torches.

  As she fol owed the stone wal of Bridesbridge Place, feeling her way toward the light, she saw a candle appear in a window on the second floor, then the window opened, and whoosh—a chambermaid dumped a washbasin of water out the window. Chloe jumped back, but it splashed on her calfskin walking shoes. Dots of mud sprayed onto her white tights. The window slammed shut.

  “Damn!” Chloe whispered to herself. “Talk about getting cold feet.” She stepped around what she’d bet was the cold water Grace had just washed her face in. “Forget this.” So much for bending the rules. She decided to shelve this idea.

  “Who’s there?” A night watchman raised his torch, pacing atop the steps of the main entry.

  Too late to go back now.

  Chloe lowered her voice. “Hul o! Just a footman out for a walk.” She yanked on one of the torches, and final y, like the sword in the stone, the thing came out of the ground. It was tal er than she was, and heavier than she thought. She almost fel over.

  “Here now!” the watchman cal ed out, squinting his eyes to see her better. “Since you’re out, you may as wel deliver this to Mr. Sebastian Wrightman.” He handed her a letter and a lantern, and took the torch. Now she had a mission and she considered this to be a sign.

  As the watchman came closer, he screwed up his mouth and squinted at her. “Promise me you’l bring it directly, no stopping for a thimbleful of drink along the way?”

  “Promise.” Chloe spun around, wanting to say as little as possible, and headed toward Dartworth before the watchman had a chance to question her further.

  Her shoes sank into the mud as she pointed herself toward the flickering torches in front of Dartworth Hal far off in the distance. Her shoes made a slight squishing sound in the mud. Despite her nerves and her shaking hand, she tried to enjoy her newfound freedom without a chaperone. And she was out after dark. She hoisted the lantern high, but it didn’t feel right. She wasn’t like Grace. She couldn’t break rules any more easily than she could break hearts.

  The lantern helped her see, but the light it cast was limited at best. She’d never take streetlights for granted again. She almost turned back because the darkness scared her, but she knew that the night watchman had his eye on her and there was no going back. Trees creaked, owls hooted, and something rustled in the woods along the path. The footpath to Dartworth Hal certainly was a lot longer than it looked from her bedchamber window. Just then a nearly ful moon burst from behind a cloud and shed a blue light on everything.

  When she looked back over her shoulder to see how far she’d gone— wham! She slammed right into a panel of glass and her tricornered hat almost fel off her head. Her shoulder hurt, but at least the glass wasn’t broken. She raised her lantern and discovered she’d bumped into a greenhouse, a massive greenhouse from the looks of it. The glass felt warm and moist on her palm. She wiped away the condensation and shone her torch on strawberries growing on a vine inside. Standing back, she looked up, hoisted her lantern, and made out leaded-glass windows.

  After days of forcing down mutton, rubbery little potatoes, and peacock presented with the head stil on, she’d been craving fruit. Forbidden fruit!

  She heard hurried footsteps and a night watchman from Dartworth Hal came running up with his lantern. “Hul o there,” he cal ed. “What is it, boy?

  Come from Bridesbridge at this hour? On foot?”

  Chloe bowed her head, lowered her voice, and presented the letter. “I—I have a letter for Mr. Wrightman, sir.”

  “Do ya now?” The watchman looked at her askance. “You don’t look familiar to me, boy.”

  “I’m new at Bridesbridge.”

  “You’l have to bring the letter in yourself. The front-door footmen have gone to bed. He’s in the bil iards room. Catty-corner from the main dining room. Fol ow the large hal and stay right.”

  Chloe’s shadow, with her thin legs and ankles, did look rather boylike and the coat hid her hips better than any slimming underwear ever could, although, as a result of the rigors of a Regency diet, she’d already lost the seven pounds she’d been needing to lose for quite some time.

  She set her lantern down and bounded up the marble steps—the hundreds and hundreds of steps shining in the blue moonlight. It was too delicious to be true. She’d have Sebastian al to herself—dressed in her cute little footman outfit! And as an added bonus, she could find Henry and apologize to him. She skipped through the open doorway and into the foyer, dimly lit by a few sconces on the wal s. The candled chandeliers were out for the night, but a candelabrum stood on the foyer credenza and she picked it up.

  She hurried past the dark library, dining room, and drawing rooms and fol owed the sound of men’s laughter in the distance.

  As she approached a brightly lit doorway in front of which a footman sat slumped in a chair, apparently sleeping, Chloe saw a massive mahogany pool table. Sebastian was sprawled in a chair, cognac in hand, smartphone in his lap—smartphone!? Henry was reading a book.

  George paced back and forth with his hands on his hips.

  She lunged toward the door, hoping to hightail it out of there, but the footman chose that moment to wake up and blocked her with his arm. “What do you want?” he demanded.

  Chloe handed him the letter, but he didn’t take it. “Delivery from Bridesbridge.”

  “Sebastian, finish tweeting!” George commanded from behind the doors.

  The footman shoved Chloe back into the dark hal and into his wooden chair, where she couldn’t see anything. He clicked the double door
s shut behind him and left her in the dark.

  She heard muffled voices. What the hel ? She didn’t even have a toilet and they were tweeting?

  One of the double doors suddenly swung open, casting light on Chloe’s mud-spattered tights.

  “You may come in,” the footman announced, and he spun off. Like in a bad dream, Chloe wanted to move but couldn’t. Final y, she took a deep breath and stepped into the room. The stench of snuff fil ed the air. Under a high rococo ceiling, a claw-footed pool table dominated the interior. The side tables were littered with wine decanters, snuffboxes, and chocolates. Her eyes scanned the room for the phone and George, but both were gone.

  “Wel , my boy,” Sebastian slurred as he leaned against his pool cue. “What brings you here at such an ungodly hour?”

  The vodka, Chloe realized, was starting to wear off, and goose bumps were beginning to pop up and down her arms. Thank God there weren’t any cameramen around. Maybe the camera crew had turned in for the night.

  Sebastian’s eyes looked a little glassy. He had been drinking, and this bolstered her courage. “A delivery.” Chloe handed him the letter.

  Henry closed his book and furrowed his brows at her.

  Chloe stepped back, wary.

  Then Henry’s lips curled into a smile. If he’d seen through her disguise, he didn’t seem upset at her. “What is your name—boy?” he asked.

  “Charles—sir.” Chloe bowed her head and pushed Cook’s glasses up the bridge of her nose.

  “Charles. Right. Do take off your hat, Charles.”

  “No—no, thank you, sir, I cannot stay.”

  “Fancy a drink?” Henry asked.

  Chapter 12

  S ebastian bent over the red-wool-covered bil iard table. While his leather-tipped cue stick thrust toward the eight bal , he leaned forward and his tight “inexpressibles” left Chloe unable to express—anything. The floor-to-ceiling Merlot velvet draperies provided a stunning backdrop for his unruly black hair, crisp white shirt, and tanned face. “You cannot offer a servant a drink, Henry,” he said, and with a click, the eight bal sank the seven into the right corner pocket.

  Chloe locked her knees to keep them from turning to white soup in her footman stockings.

  Another footman unglued himself from the wal next to a flowery tapestry to pour more red wine into Henry’s and Sebastian’s depleted glasses.

  Henry set his book aside, stood, and chalked his cue stick. “True. Personal y, I would not want Charles to be sent packing.” He looked Chloe up and down, head to mud-splattered toe. “Al for a mere moment or two of immediate gratification.”

  Chloe tugged at her cravat; she must’ve tied it too tight, it suddenly seemed. She tried to clear her head, then her throat, and lowered her voice an octave or two, directing her words to Sebastian. “I most certainly do not want to be sent home, sir,” she said. “I am quite honored to be here. It is such a—stimulating—experience.” She wanted his attention, after al .

  Sebastian stared at the pool table, not at her.

  Henry scoped out his shot. “Have you had many similarly stimulating experiences in your young lifetime, Charles?” He looked up at her with mischief in his eye.

  “This definitely ranks as one of the most stimulating.”

  Henry raised an eyebrow, then made his shot. The resounding clunk reminded Chloe of her impending doom should Henry decide to rat her out.

  Two bal s sank in the left corner pocket. Henry wouldn’t expose her before she had a chance to apologize, would he? She’d have to pack her trunks tonight if he did. Her livery coat felt heavy.

  Sebastian slid dangerously close to Chloe, reaching above her head for a tin of snuff on a high shelf. The seam of his shirtsleeves fel just below his broad shoulders and his undone cravat hung carelessly around his col arbone. “My foot hurts, for some reason or another.” He kicked his boot up onto a chair.

  “Gout,” Henry said. “Too much red meat and red wine, Sebastian.”

  Sebastian shot a fleeting glance at Chloe. “What is it, my boy?” He looked good even when shoving snuff up his nostril and sniffing into his sleeve.

  Chloe swal owed, pushing Cook’s glasses up the bridge of her nose, careful to lower her voice to the proper level. “I have it on good authority, sir, that the item found in Miss Parker’s reticule was planted there and I vouch for her innocence. It’s not in her character to do such a thing.”

  Sebastian was stalking the bil iard table, hunting out his next move. “Of course we know that. We’re not taken in by the ridiculous shenanigans that must go on among those women at Bridesbridge Place.”

  This was a revelation, although a bit derogatory toward the women.

  Across the room, near the fire, Henry again raised his wineglass, breathed in the bouquet, and set it aside. Chloe could practical y taste the wine rol ing past her tongue, down her throat . . . If only she could have another drink to steel her nerves.

  “Exactly what is Miss Parker’s character?” Henry asked. He walked toward her, leaned on the edge of the bil iard table, and looked her straight in the eye.

  No guy had ever asked her that kind of question before. A lightning bolt of fear cracked through her as Sebastian took his shot, and a bal ricocheted off the side of the table, but missed the pocket.

  “Do tel , Charles,” Sebastian said. “I’d quite like to know myself.”

  Henry took off his glasses, folded them, and placed them atop the mantel. “I assume you’re around her enough to know the answer.” He smiled, and for the first time, Chloe noticed a dimple on the left side of his clean-shaven cheek. And his sideburns were cut so perfectly.

  She spun to face Sebastian, who was chalking his cue stick. Now was her chance to lay it al out on the neoclassical mahogany bil iard table.

  “Miss Parker, from what I can tel , seems fabulous. She’s the living embodiment of al the best old-fashioned values.” Chloe folded her gloved hands behind her back. Candles were suspended from some kind of contraption above the bil iard table, their wax dripping into the tray underneath; she noticed that the fixture didn’t provide much light, and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Sebastian walked over to his empty wineglass. “I’m not sure I believe al this balderdash.”

  Henry spoke from behind her. “One of those values being—honesty? Another being—loyalty to her friends?”

  Chloe again pushed Cook’s glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Yes and yes. She seems very honest and good to everyone around her.”

  “Of course, dear Charles,” Henry said, “you’ve only just arrived at Bridesbridge. What would you know?”

  Chloe sucked in her cheeks.

  Sebastian held his empty wineglass out to the footman, who fil ed it, and almost as quickly, Sebastian drank it.

  Chloe put her hand to her heart.

  “Sebastian, no more wine for you,” Henry said. He slid the glass out of Sebastian’s hand. “Wil that be al , Charles?”

  Did Chloe just hear a shuffle in the hal ? She’d better be quick. Sebastian was tipsy, and now was her chance, so she leaned in toward Henry and whispered, “Miss Parker wants to apologize to you for her harsh words during the tea party,” she blurted out. “She values your friendship very much and sincerely regrets what she said.”

  Sebastian slumped into a chair.

  Henry gave his brother a sidelong glance. “Sebastian’s had a rough day,” he observed.

  Chloe spoke faster. “May I tel Miss Parker that you accept her apology?”

  Henry was silent.

  “Consider the pressure she’s been under. She’s quite a nice person and deserves a second chance.”

  Henry cracked a smile. “Coming from you, Charles, that’s a very objective endorsement, and one to be taken quite seriously.”

  Chloe unlocked her knees and couldn’t help but laugh.

  Sebastian sank deeper in his chair, barely awake.

  Henry stepped right up to Chloe and leaned on his pool cue.

  Chlo
e wanted this kind of attention from Sebastian, not from him.

  Henry smirked. “Pray tel Miss Parker I wil consider her apology. I appreciate the trouble she has gone to in order to express her sentiments. She put herself quite at risk by sending you here, Charles.”

  Chloe realized she’d just prioritized Henry over the money, and it shocked her almost as much as it apparently shocked him.

  Henry eyed her up and down. “I have to say, though, Charles, you are the most adroit little footman I’ve ever seen. I’l inquire if we can hire you here at Dartworth. It just so happens that I need a new valet. Would you be interested in the position?” He almost brushed his hand against her cheek.

  A valet dressed—and undressed—his master. Chloe stopped herself from mental y undressing Henry right then and there.

  “I’m quite happy at Bridesbridge at the moment,” she replied modestly.

  “I understand. Just let me know if you change your mind,” Henry said.

  As he was speaking, the doors behind him opened and a videocam crew came filing in. Henry guided Chloe toward the door. “Now, Charles, you had best get back to Bridesbridge.” He spoke so quickly, she hardly understood him. “It’s getting late. Did you ride here on horseback at this hour?”

  “No, sir.” Chloe pul ed on her coattails. “I walked.”

  A look of astonishment and what could only be termed affection flitted across Henry’s face. “Charles. I insist you take a gig. It’s too late to walk. I’l ring to have one readied for you.”

  Chloe took a shal ow bow.

  “Now—run along, Charles!” Henry planted the candelabrum in her hand, propel ed her into the hal way, and made a point of blocking the cameras from filming her.

  Another video cam popped out from round the corner just as she broke into a jog, doing her best to keep the candelabrum alight. With the cameraman hot on her coattails, and Henry behind him, she hurried through the labyrinth of dark hal s as if she were being chased through a museum at night. Before she shut the great doors behind her, she passed off the candelabrum with only one candle alight to the night watchman, who told her a gig was waiting for her out front.