“We don’t need Faircliffe to be reasonable.” Jacob’s light brown eyes twinkled with mischief. “That’s no fun anyway. We tried the respectable way for months, and it didn’t work.” He cracked his knuckles. “Now we do it our way.”
Tommy grinned. “We find the real Puck and steal him back.”
Elizabeth drummed her fingers on the sword stick she used as a cane. “If Faircliffe didn’t give our portrait to Miss York, then it may still be on the duke’s property. The tricky part will be snooping through every inch of his town house undetected.”
Graham nodded. “If it’s still there, we bring it home for good. And by ‘we’ I mean…”
All eyes turned to Chloe.
“Me?” she squeaked.
Tommy gave Chloe an arch look. “His Grace owes you a favor, does he not?”
Elizabeth’s smile was wicked. “It’s time for you to collect it.”
7
The following morning, Chloe’s stomach still churned.
The reason for the frantic flutters in her bosom was because this time, if all went to plan, Chloe would be presented to society as…
Herself.
“Who am I?” she whispered, her nerves clattering.
Chloe’s invisibility curse was bittersweet. A lifetime of being overlooked brought its own share of pain. Every time she reintroduced herself with a new name to the same people and no one so much as blinked or remembered her was one more tiny cut on her soul.
If never standing out made her restless, well, she had her little ways to deal with that, didn’t she?
She flung open her wardrobe doors.
Sumptuous fabrics in a breathtaking array of gorgeous colors towered before her.
She had never worn any of it outside of this room.
This was her dream wardrobe. The one secret she kept, even from her siblings.
These clothes symbolized the person she wished she could be. Proof she was still the same wistful girl she’d always been.
When she realized her parents were never coming back for her, she often slipped unnoticed through the streets, prowling for something special. Tobesomething special. Once, when she nicked a rusty locket inscribed “To my Love,” she immediately tied it about her neck and strutted about as though she were loved.
The items in her wardrobe came not from a lover, but rather from Chloe’s own earnings. Bean had bequeathed a respectable sum to each of his children, but Chloe’s collection had started long before. She had hoarded every coin she could until she had enough for a purchase.
Mittens, when she was eight. Fine ones of warm red wool, like a mother might acquire for her daughter. Chloe kept them safe in a cloth bag hidden beneath her clothes, never wearing the mittens or withdrawing them from their hiding place if another orphan might see.
She could not bear to have them mock her for pretending she had a mother, for believing she deserved nice things. As long as no one else knew, she could clutch the perfect red mittens to her chest, right next to the brokenTo my Lovelocket, and believe, with her eyes closed tight, that someone out there thought she was special and deserving of love.
“Iamloved,” she reminded herself.
She had five incredible siblings who all thought her special. Chloe the Chameleon, disappearing seamlessly into the background.
The strict Wynchester code of honor meant no sibling would ever snoop or pry into another’s private affairs. They did not know her secret wish to one day be more than a blank canvas. To beunmissable.
Throat thick, she slammed the doors shut on her opulent wardrobe.
She moved to the smaller wardrobe. There, the fabrics were simple, the colors nondescript: gray, brown, wheat, porridge. She picked one at random. It didn’t matter. Faircliffe wouldn’t remember what she looked like, in any event.
Even her looking glass was bored with her reflection. She glanced to the right of the fireplace, where a pair of curling tongs nestled in an iron basket.
