Tommy gave a very Great-Aunt Wynchester harrumph.
“We don’t see you do it,” she said with a wink, “but we know it’s you.”
Chloe’s cheeks heated. Thatwaswhy she did it. Traded a spoon for a twig or a button for a fig. To make sure her siblings noticed her. That at home, at least, she wouldn’t be invisible.
But Tommy was saying that Chloe had never been invisible. Even when they didn’t see her, they knew she was there. They looked up to her. Chloe’s throat pricked with emotion.
She wouldn’t let them down.
“Tomorrow,” she told Tommy. “We arrive at his door as Clueless Chloe and Great-Aunt Wynchester and start the search for our painting.”
Tommy nodded. “I’m ready. You distract His Royal Aloofness and I’ll totter forgetfully from room to room. IfPuck & Familyis in that town house, we’ll find it well before the gala.”
Chloe’s gaze darted back to Faircliffe. He was not looking at her but Philippa. They made a striking couple. Elegance incarnate.
Yet it was not Philippa’s pretty looks that Chloe envied but Philippa’s hand in Faircliffe’s.
Philippa knew what it felt like to dance close enough to feel the warmth of his body. She knew the weight of his fingers against the curve of her back. She knew what it was like to move with him rather than against him. To let him lead her not just around the ballroom but straight to the altar.
Faircliffe could tell by looking that Philippa was the woman he wanted.
No one ever looked at Chloe and entertained such a thought. They rarely looked at her at all.
The music ended. Faircliffe handed Philippa back to her mother. Now he was murmuring something that Mrs. York found gay and amusing. “Ha-ha, ho-ho”—such peals of laughter. The Duke of Faircliffe was the wittiest lord in the room. What’s this, a waltz? And him standing right there? Surely this was a sign from the heavens that he was meant to whisk Beautiful Philippa back onto the dance floor.
Chloe didn’t stay at the party to find out.
She drained the last of her orgeat and turned to her sister. “Meat pies?”
13
You look delightfully decrepit,” Chloe whispered to Tommy late the following afternoon as their carriage pulled to a stop before the Faircliffe residence.
“You look adorably forgettable,” Tommy whispered back.
Only a sister could find Chloe’s calculated tepidness adorable.
It was relentless, foolhardy optimism that had caused her to tuck a few extra items into her usual basket of tricks. She had never worn fashionable accessories outside of her dressing room—and certainly wouldn’t do so at tonight’s party—but knowing they were there comforted her. Other people needn’t see inside her basket for its contents to bring her joy.
“Faircliffe thinks Wynchesters are embarrassing,” she reminded her sister. “Don’t let him down.”
Tommy grinned back at her. “My pleasure.”
Chloe rapped the knocker.
Mr. Hastings swept open the door, his pale face impassive.
Before Chloe could give him a winning smile, Tommy hobbled over the threshold, darting the butler myopic, suspicious glances.
“Are youcertainthis pile belongs to the Duke of Faircliffe?” she queried tremulously.
“Great-Aunt Wynchester, wait!” Chloe called, and slipped past the startled Mr. Hastings and into the grand hall.
“Halt right there,” Mr. Hastings demanded, but he was obliged to lock the door before giving chase.
Tommy wandered into the adjoining room that Faircliffe had brought Chloe to the first time she’d appeared, uninvited.
“I’ll wait here,” Tommy announced, in full Great-Aunt Wynchester belligerence. “Go tell your duke there’s an old lady in his parlor because her niece insists Faircliffe is the rare man who can be made useful.”
