The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,32

progress about the dance floor. She wished she could like Philippa less.

After Chloe had sent a note of apology for the “misunderstanding” about her name, she was pleasantly surprised to receive forgiveness as well as a renewed invitation in return. Then again, perhaps Philippa’s graciousness had more to do with Chloe’s connection to Faircliffe than any desire to be friends.

Tommy shook her head, her gaze locked on Philippa. “Her dowry is far from the only attraction. Besides being kind and clever, she’s always the loveliest young lady in the room.”

“She dresses like a doll.”

Tommy’s voice was soft. “A beautiful doll with sky-blue eyes and soft, womanly curves…”

“I will dump this orgeat on your head,” Chloe warned.

“You would never mistreat gin,” Tommy countered. “Or your great-aunt Wynchester.”

Chloe sniffed. “I don’t care whom he dances with, or whether it’s because of looks or money.”

“Or both,” Tommy added helpfully. “In Miss York’s case.”

Chloe bared her clenched teeth.

Tommy sipped her orgeat, unrepentant. “Good thing you’re not interested.”

“I’m not.” Whom Faircliffe courted, or married, or danced with, had nothing at all to do with Chloe.

Yet she could not help but wish she were whirling in his arms, if only for a moment. Whether as Jane Brown or as herself, Chloe was relegated to the periphery, tucked so far away that even her fellow wallflowers failed to notice her.

That was her role, she reminded herself. Her responsibility. Melting into the background was how she contributed to her family. Was she really complaining because she had the talent to perform her position well?

“So many ostrich feathers.” Tommy gazed out over the rim of her glass of orgeat at the dance floor. “It’s like a chicken coop in a hurricane.”

Chloe owned almost as many feathers as were present in this ballroom. Hers rarely left their hatboxes. How she longed to attend such an event swathed in her finest fripperies!

Instead, she was a pigeon amongst peacocks. Overshadowed even by Great-Aunt Wynchester.

“I love you, you know,” she said to her sister.

Tommy was invisible in her own way. Even when she was the most flamboyant person in the room, it was always as someone else and never as herself.

“Don’t be mawkish,” Tommy scolded, but did not meet Chloe’s eyes. “I only follow you around in the hopes that you will get your hands on another one of those halfpenny pies.”

Chloe grinned to herself. Along with mittens, as a skinny child of eight or nine, pies were amongst the first things she’d spent her pickpocketing riches on. And Tommy, whose bed was the next cot over, was the first person she’d shared her bounty with.

“You always looked after me.” Tommy smiled. “I dreamed of being as strong as you.”

Chloe blinked in surprise. “As me?”

“You always had the answers or could find the way to get them. You saved so many of us. You found Bean.” Tommy gave her a pointed look. “Why else do you suppose you’re the leader?”

“Me?” Chloe squeaked. “You were the one who gave me a place to sleep when I lost mine.”

“And you had a new plan by morning. You always did. I followed you and learned from you. Bean was brilliant, generous, and impossible, but you somehow managed him. You can manage Faircliffe, too”—Tommy wrinkled her nose—“even if your eyelashes aren’t as long and pretty as Miss York’s.”

“For the love of…” Chloe buried her face in her hands. “Why did I share my pies?”

“You knew you’d need me one day. This is my time to shine. Great-Aunt Wynchester, eater of pies and drinker of gin, summa cum laude in World’s Worst Chaperone.” Tommy snickered. “Faircliffe hasn’t got a chance.”

Chloe narrowed her eyes. “You mean with our painting. We steal it back, he won’t know the difference, and we never speak to him again.”

“Yes, yes, that’s what I meant. How absurd would it be for him to become overset with baser passions and throw himself at your feet? I won’t know, because I’ll be too busy being a terrible chaperone somewhere else. You must fill me in afterward.” Tommy thought it over. “And no replacing his spoons with twigs.”

Chloe pressed a hand to her bosom. “I’ve no idea how that keeps happening at the breakfast table.”

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. That was why 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