by Erica Ridley
He cleared his throat. “‘As anyone who has ever driven past Whitechapel is well aware, the—’”
“No,” Chloe interrupted. Perhaps she would be more useful than she’d thought.
His blue gaze shot to her, befuddled. “No?”
“The speeches you begin with a question garner markedly greater immediate interest than the others,” she explained. “And your phrasing, however innocently meant, implies one of the most poverty-stricken rookeries is something one drives past rather than a poor but lively neighborhood in which one grows up, lives, works, and loves.”
He leaned backward. “I can promise you that no one hearing my speech has spent a night in Whitechapel, much less grown up there.”
“False.” She jabbed a finger at her chest. “The orphanage that raised me is in Whitechapel. I’ve listened to a decade of your speeches. If you mean to say that those who live in a rookery do not have a voice in the House of Lords, then you are correct. That is why you must be their voice. To have compassion for the ‘unfortunates,’ first the ruling class must see them as people—not a dirty stain one drives past as quickly as possible.”
His eyes held hers for a long moment. Then he picked up a pencil and struck through the first paragraph of his speech without argument.
“That’s saved us fifteen seconds.” He pushed the pages in front of her and placed the pencil on top. “Why don’t you show me what else can be trimmed or reworded? We might be able to fit in all of the missing points after all.”
They hunched over the pages together, debating the merits and pitfalls of every line.
Chloe was astounded by the breadth of his knowledge and his commitment to researching facts and educating his peers. She’d witnessed his speeches on countless occasions but had never fathomed how many drafts he had gone through, how many anecdotes and salient points discarded, in order to arrive at the version she saw him deliver.
Many legislative elements were worse than she had feared. Others were surprisingly better or jarringly complex. In all of it, she and Lawrence were united in their desire to work for the good of the people.
But they disagreed wildly on how best to achieve that aim.
He did not toss her from his office when she dared to contradict him. Instead, he welcomed her dissenting opinions. The House of Lords, he pointed out, would be full of them. That was why his drafts were so long: he tried to think of every argument against each assertion and include preemptive rebuttals.
The pile of discarded drafts grew as they whittled and honed, adding and trimming and rearranging for impact. When they both put their pencils down in triumph, the final revision practically glowed.
“That,” Chloe informed him, “is going to be your best speech yet.”
He grinned at her. “Thanks to your meddling.”
Her cheeks heated.
He leaned back in his chair looking casual and powerful and kissable. “I realize it is you, not the other MPs, that I need to impress.”
“You have impressed me,” she admitted. “I’ve always admired your contributions to the debates, but I hadn’t grasped how much work it was to make it look so easy.”
“And there’s so much I hadn’t thought of.” He gave her a long look. “You understand my political aims in a way few people do outside of Parliament, yet you argue from an angle I’ve never considered. You haven’t just made this speech better. You’ve permanently improved my tactics going forward.”
She gazed back at him, her bosom swelling with pride. She had helped him. She had value.
“I’d kiss you for it,” he said, his intense gaze hot with something more carnal than gratitude, “but I suppose it’s past time for me to give you back to your family. I’m out of excuses to keep you away any longer.”
“Can you kiss me and then give me back?” she asked hopefully. Was she begging? It didn’t matter, as long as she got her way.
“See?” His hand cupped her cheek. He lowered his lips to the shell of her ear. “You have the best counter-arguments.”
“Prove it.”
He slanted his mouth over hers, his tongue giving, demanding. She held on tight, as though to let go would cause him to disintegrate like ash on a breeze. He was a dream that she held in her hands only for a moment. They belonged to each other as long as their mouths touched and their bodies pressed together. If she let go even the slightest bit, reality would claw its way in.
A creak sounded in the hall. Tommy? A maid? The wind?
They dropped their hands and stepped apart.
As much as Chloe hadn’t wished for their kiss to end, she was equally distraught at the idea of never again being as important, as necessary and esteemed, as she’d felt tonight.
“Anytime you need an ear,” she said in a rush, “if you want to analyze a performance or need help with a future speech or want a sounding board for policies, or for how to take down your rivals…I’m good at those things.”
She was, she realized. Invisibility wasn’t the only gift that made her useful to her family. After nineteen years of being a Wynchester, she was well versed in strategy. How to argue, how to persuade, how to think critically, how to plan for contingencies, how to succeed at all costs. The Wynchesters were more than a team. They were invincible.
It was dizzying to think she and Lawrence could be, too.
“I enjoyed tonight very much,” he said.
Ah. That was not the same as Yes, I would love for you to help me plan my speeches. It was How kind but no, thank you.
She handed him her hat. “Let me find my aunt and send for our carriage.”
“Only one of those things is necessary.” He bowed. “Allow me to send you home in mine.”
She narrowed her eyes. “In a coach without your crest, of course.”
His rented coach. Graham had discovered the ducal coach had been sold the morning of the reading circle, leading to the mix-up of carriages. Lawrence could offer his rented conveyance in place of a hack, because the two would be indistinguishable.
“Would it matter?” His blue gaze held her rapt.
Her skin warmed at the idea that he would not have been ashamed to see her in a coach bearing his family crest. She all but floated to the carriage.
With the Duke of Faircliffe’s driver within hearing distance, Chloe could not confess any of the afternoon’s discoveries to her sister. Instead, she was forced to sit in silence, replaying every word of their debate, every passionate moment and heated kiss, her stomach twisting at the knowledge it would soon come to an end.
When the coach drew up at her house, Graham and Jacob were outside in the garden.
“What funny horses! I adore them.” Jacob pretended to chase after the retreating carriage. “Can I keep them?”
Elderberry and Mango, Chloe thought, and immediately wished she didn’t know their names.
“Take the beasts,” Graham told his brother, “but leave the coach to me. I’ll drive it for a quick holiday to—”
“You can’t have any of it,” Chloe couldn’t stop herself from saying. “It belongs to Law—to Faircliffe.”
“Pah.” Jacob wiggled his eyebrows. “Anyone who lives as far beyond their means as the Faircliffe dukes won’t notice the absence of a horse or two.”
“He would notice. He’s more attentive and considerate than you think.” Oh, for the love of figs, Chloe knew her brother was teasing. There was no need to defend Lawrence.
“He’s his father’s son,” Jacob reminded her. “He likely sleeps on cushions stuffed with IOUs he’ll never repay.”
Graham made an exaggerated face. “Maybe that is what’s been up his arse this whole time.”
Tommy and Jacob laughed.
Chloe did not.
She had no high horse from which to judge her siblings, she reminded herself. She had said the same things. Vowed to steal Bean’s painting out from under Faircliffe’s nose as revenge. Relished the idea of someone so icy and arrogant receiving a taste of his own medicine.
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And now it was Chloe who felt like she’d swallowed a bitter pill.
“He doesn’t want to live on credit,” she said, although she doubted her next words would change her siblings’ opinions of him for the better. “That’s why he plans to wed Philippa for her dowry.”
Tommy’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“Oh, Graham, look!” Jacob gestured toward the duke’s elegant conveyance. “Perhaps you can keep the coach after all.”
The carriage had turned around and headed back toward the Wynchesters. They watched in anticipation as the driver pulled to a stop in front of Chloe.
“Almost forgot.” He reached for a large object under a woolen blanket on his perch and placed it in her hands. “There you are, madam. Good day.”
With that, he drove off.
Her siblings crowded around her. “What is it? What did he give you?”
Chloe knew exactly what she held in her hands.
It was a hatbox. With the world’s gaudiest bonnet inside. But more than that, it was a private jest between her and the Duke of Faircliffe. Her entire body warmed.
Lawrence thought on too many levels for anything he did to be only what it seemed. The hatbox was a message: Be whoever she wished to be. He was literally putting the power—and the choice—into her hands.
She turned and walked to the house.
“Where are you going?” Tommy called, startled.
Chloe didn’t slow. “I’ll meet you in the Planning Parlor.”
There was something she had to do.
Lawrence was right. If she could be her outlandish, magpie self with him, surely she could be as bold and confident with her siblings. There was no reason for her interest in fashion to stay hidden in her own home.
As soon as she reached her dressing room, she stripped her layers of relentless beige from her body and placed her curling tongs over the fire. Then she flung open the doors to her enormous wardrobe.
She feasted her eyes on the dazzling array of colors and fabrics before her. Now that she’d given herself permission to wear whatever she pleased, Chloe found herself spoiled for choice. She’d been hoarding fashionable gowns and accessories for years. How was she to decide?
It was impossible to choose the perfect ensemble, so she didn’t. She put on her favorite gown and her favorite slippers and her favorite pelisse, even though none of it matched. She curled every single hunk of her hair, rather than just the tendrils at her temples, and allowed the profusion of ringlets to bounce from her head in any direction they pleased.
She couldn’t decide between her two favorite combs, so she put in both. Ostrich feathers? Three. And perhaps that frilly lace fichu…
There. She turned to face her looking glass and burst out laughing. Instead of her usual place in the shadows, she was a Vauxhall firework bright enough to light up the night sky.
Chloe Wynchester, shooting star.
If this went well, perhaps she would begin meeting with her modiste in person, instead of sending fashion illustrations scrawled with notes and measurements. It would be a joy not to have to hide this side of herself anymore. But first…
She rolled back her shoulders and opened her bedchamber door. Her legs were unsteady. What if her siblings laughed at her or accused her of trying to copy Tommy’s skill with disguises?
What if they didn’t notice her stunning change in appearance, because no matter how she dressed, she would never stand out?
She forced herself to stride into the parlor anyway, with her spine straight and her head of curls held high.
“Finally.” Elizabeth affected an aloof expression. “Miss Chloe deigns to share her mysterious packages with the rest of us.”
“I told you she wasn’t collecting badgers,” Graham whispered to Jacob.
“You didn’t know,” Jacob sniffed. “Badgers can be well behaved when they wish.”
Tommy pulled off her white wig and scrubbed her fingers through her short brown hair. “Does this mean I can start raiding your wardrobe when putting together my disguises?”
Heat pricked Chloe’s eyes as she grinned at her siblings. Of course they would accept her, just as they always had done. They didn’t care if she wore diamonds or a burlap sack. She had never been invisible to them.
They were a family.
20
I don’t think a tiara would have ruined your appearance,” Elizabeth said, gripping her sword stick as the carriage rolled over a particularly jarring patch.
Chloe shook her head. It was a thrill to dress as flamboyantly as she liked at home with her family, but nothing had changed in the world outside their walls.
“Tommy and I don’t care about the York ball,” she informed her sister firmly. “Rescuing Puck is our only priority. I’ll distract the duke by pretending I need waltzing lessons, and Tommy will slip into the library to search for the painting.”
“If it’s there, he’s hidden it well. I won’t have much time to search.” Tommy made a face. “Faircliffe has a ball to attend.”
“According to Graham’s reconnaissance, tonight Faircliffe will officially ask for Miss York’s hand.” Chloe’s words were hoarse. “Mrs. York wants as many witnesses as possible to her daughter becoming a future duchess.”
Speaking the words aloud was enough to make Chloe nauseated. Philippa would soon be Her Grace, the Duchess of Faircliffe.
And Chloe…would just be Chloe.
“Poor Philippa.” Elizabeth fussed with Chloe’s gown. “Isn’t it time for you to consider employing a lady’s maid?”
“Two lady’s maids,” Tommy agreed, her eyes twinkling. “One for each wardrobe.”
“We can afford it,” Elizabeth reminded her. “You could have a different lady’s maid every day of the week if you wished.”
Chloe didn’t wish.
She had never bothered with a maid before, because she always left the house in ensembles so plain, she could go from her bath to being fully clothed in under five minutes.
That she spent the rest of her time dressing and undressing, curling and uncurling, adorning and de-feathering, was her secret indulgence. Her siblings aware of the truth did not mean she was ready for anyone else to see.
“Unnecessary.” She smoothed out an invisible wrinkle. “When we bring home our Puck, life will return to normal. I’ll be a nonentity again.”
“Not to us,” Elizabeth insisted staunchly.
“With or without ostrich feathers, Chloe is more than enough for anyone who matters,” Tommy agreed. “Who cares about Faircliffe?”
Therein lay the crux of the matter.
Chloe leaned her elbows on her knees and rubbed her face with her hands. Who cared about Faircliffe? Chloe did. She could still glimpse him if she sneaked into Westminster in disguise, but it wouldn’t be enough.
She would miss being important as much as his kisses.
“Here we are.” Tommy handed Chloe her basket.
“Good luck,” Elizabeth said as the carriage rolled to a stop. “I’m off to spy with Graham. Did he tell you the housekeeper returned to the town house late last night?”
Chloe nodded. “Mrs. Root.”
With the housekeeper back home, the other maids would no longer be busy sharing extra work. It also meant another person would be roaming the same halls Tommy was. A person with the same ring of keys.
Tommy checked her wrinkles in a mirror. “It is neither fast nor easy to check every floorboard and potential hiding place whilst dodging two maids and a footman. I spend more time babbling as Great-Aunt Wynchester than I do searching.”
“We have until the end-of-season gala,” Chloe reminded her quickly. “It’s best not to rush.”
Anything to have one more month with Lawrence.
When Chloe and Tommy reached the front step, the butler was already swinging open the door. Mr. Hastings ushered them into the special mirror-less drawing room without delay.
Faircliffe arrived moments later. Not Faircliffe—Lawrence. The duke
whose mouth she knew as well as her own.
“Good evening, Lawrence,” she whispered, as if Great-Aunt Wynchester would be scandalized to discover them on a first-name basis. Tommy already knew. She thought it was part of the plan.
“Good evening, Chloe,” he mouthed back, his eyes warm and sparkling, then turned to bow to Tommy. “You look well today, Mrs. Wynchester.”
“What!” Tommy barked. “Speak up if you’re talking to me, green buck.” She shook her head. “Lads these days, with the mumble-mumble. Next time I come, I’m bringing an ear trumpet. You won’t get anything by me then, I warn you now.”
Lawrence arched raised brows toward Chloe.
She gave a What can you do? shrug and whispered, “Don’t worry. She doesn’t know about the kissing.”
His cheeks flushed.
So did Chloe’s. Tommy would definitely tease her about this later.
“Er…” Lawrence cleared his throat. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I have an invitation to a ball tonight.” She didn’t mention the Yorks, although with the rest of society planning to be in attendance, she imagined there was little doubt. “I’m told the sets are to include waltzing. I hope to avoid treading upon toes, but I’ve never had formal instruction.”
“You want me to teach you to waltz?” His stricken expression added a silent With someone else?
But they both knew neither had any claim upon the other. No matter what Chloe’s traitorous heart might wish.
She nodded. “If it’s no bother.”
“No bother at all,” he said quickly. “I, too, have an event this evening, but it will be my honor to play dancing master between now and then.”
Touché. Tonight, they would both seek someone else’s arms.
“I’ve the perfect room for dancing,” he added, then turned to Tommy. “Great-Aunt Wynchester, might you play us a melody on the pianoforte?”
“With these knuckles?” Tommy shook her fist at the duke. “I daresay you don’t know a thing about arthritis, young man. All I can do with a pianoforte is glare at the blasted thing. Thank you for reminding me.”