Definitely Not Mr. Darcy by Karen Doornebos Page B

the fan aside, put her hand over the brim of her bonnet, and, awestruck, stood up. Tucked in a valley off in the distance, rising out of the greenery, was a Queen Anne stone mansion, complete with a four-columned portico and stone urns on all four corners of the roof.
    She collapsed back in the carriage seat. “Is—is that his estate? Mr. Wrightman’s?” Chloe asked.
    â€œNo, miss.” The driver laughed. “That’ll be Bridesbridge Place, that. Where you’ll be staying with the ladies.”
    Chloe had never imagined she’d be staying in such luxury. She had pictured—a cottage. She fell back farther in her seat and fanned herself, shocked and jet-lagged all at once.
    â€œMr. Wrightman’s—Dartworth Hall—that’s almost a mile beyond Bridesbridge,” said the driver. “You can’t see it from here.” He snapped the reins and the carriage rolled ahead.
    The sky widened above her as the trees thinned out. The air smelled of fresh rain and cowbells clanged in the distance. Pastures dotted with sheep and cows yielded to glistening grasses, as pastoral as a John Constable painting. The dirt road became pea gravel as the carriage approached the ocher-colored gates of Bridesbridge Place.
    â€œBliss,” she whispered to herself.
    A shot rang out. The carriage lurched forward, then toppled to one side. Chloe screamed, the cameraman fumbled. The horses snorted and kicked as she, the cameraman, and the driver stumbled from the lopsided carriage onto the soft, spongy grass.
    â€œExcuse me,” said a sexy female English voice from behind the carriage. Through blinding light and dizziness, Chloe made out a tall woman dressed in an ankle-length red walking dress and red turban, wielding a clunky pistol. The cameraman, despite a bloody nose, continued filming, and the cameraman on the ATV joined the fray.
    The sexy woman spoke, looking briefly at Chloe and then past her, at the camera. “Seems I’ve nicked your carriage wheel with my target practicing.”
    The wooden wheel lay on the ground, broken in half, spokes blown off.
    The woman cocked the pistol against her hip.
    Chloe checked herself for blood. Her legs shook. She straightened her bonnet.
    â€œI’m Lady Grace—of the d’Argent family. And you must be the American girl.” Grace switched the pistol to her left hand and held out her right to Chloe.
    Chloe didn’t shake. “You could’ve killed us!” Not to mention the fact that Grace should be wearing a bonnet.
    â€œKilled you? With this silly thing?” Lady Grace leaned over and whispered in Chloe’s ear, turning her back to the camera: “You Chicago people. Think everyone’s Al Capone. That’s where you’re from? Chicago?” Still, she didn’t look at Chloe, but past her, at the cameras. “Did you smuggle in any cigarettes? A mobile phone?”
    Chloe opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Suddenly everything went dark around the edges, like the end of a silent movie, where the circle closes in on itself.

Chapter 4

    C hloe opened her eyes. A light grew brighter and brighter, taking a rectangle shape while a piano played downstairs, something Baroque.
    â€œMr. Wrightman? She’s awake,” Fiona said.
    The rectangle became a floor-to-ceiling window draped in yellow silk and tassels. Fiona’s face came into focus, then a video camera. Chloe tried to sit up, but didn’t have the strength. One of her biceps hurt, so she tried to look at it, but stopped to focus on the two faces staring at her. One was Fiona and the other—the light from the window shaded his face. She collapsed back again.
    Chloe felt for Fiona’s hand and touched an embroidered cover. She must be in a bed. A lumpy bed that crunched. “Mr. Wrightman? Mr. Wrightman’s here?”
    Fiona patted Chloe’s hand. “Yes, yes, he carried you in. Quite endearing, that