The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,104

pair of shoes. Or perhaps a decade from now a young man would pass the sovereign along to another child in need.

She felt lighter on the road back to Islington. The wardrobes in her bedchamber were no longer bursting at the seams. Rather, they contained the items Chloe actually wished to wear. There was something for every eventuality: a neighborhood assembly here, a clandestine raid there.

She didn’t need the Duke of Faircliffe or the world of the ton. Let them disparage her and discard her if they wished. She was done allowing herself to be hurt.

As she walked up her front path, she pasted a carefree expression on her face for her siblings’ sake. She might not be happy yet, but she would be. She did not want them to worry about her…or, worse, to pity her.

Graham and Elizabeth were seated at the dining table when Chloe summoned the courage to walk into the room. They smiled at her as if they, too, were pretending today had been a normal day like any other. But the newspapers were there on the table.

“I’m so sorry, Chloe.” Elizabeth’s words were gentle. “We want you to be happy, and we don’t know how to make it so. If you want to set fire to everything, we support you. If you’re in love with Faircliffe, we support that, too.”

“He’s going in the Thames either way,” Graham warned. “But I’ll fish him back out if you love him.”

Tommy and Marjorie walked in and took seats close to Chloe.

“What are we talking about?” Tommy asked.

“He Who Does Not Deserve Our Sister,” Graham answered.

“And who shall never be mentioned again,” Elizabeth added.

The butler appeared in the doorway.

“Delivery.” Randall held up a silver tray. “For Miss Chloe from the Duke of Faircliffe.”

“He Who Shall Never Be Mentioned, Except by Our Butler,” Graham amended.

“I’ll take it.” Chloe accepted the folded parchment with unsteady fingers. “Is his footman awaiting a response?”

Randall shook his head. “No, miss. The letter arrived some hours ago while you were out.”

Her siblings exchanged glances, then stood up from the table as one.

“We’ll give you privacy,” Elizabeth murmured.

Tommy’s eyes met Chloe’s. “I’m right upstairs if you need me.”

Chloe nodded gratefully. She waited until her siblings’ voices faded, then slid a shaking finger beneath the fold of parchment to break its seal. Was this a rebuke for having upended Lawrence’s life for a deuced painting? After their last encounter, what was left to say?

Something strange was inside the folded letter. An oddly shaped flat disc, rather like a piece to a jigsaw. She tilted it into her hand.

It was an ivory ticket for the Duke of Faircliffe’s private box at the theatre.

My dearest Miss Chloe Wynchester,

Tonight at eight, the King’s Theatre will present “Don Giovanni.” It is one of my favorite Italian operas, and I would love to share the experience with you.

If you are free this evening, it would be my great honor for you to join me in my private box.

I would be delighted to escort you personally, and would also be happy to send round my coach if you prefer.

If you have other plans, or are uninterested in continuing our association, I shall understand.

Your servant,

Faircliffe

Chloe’s fingers trembled so much, she had to read the message in its entirety three times before making sense of it.

He was inviting her to sit with him in the most public private theatre box in all of London. Every unmarried young lady on the hunt for a husband dreamed of preening in that box, to the envy of all.

Welcoming Chloe into those hallowed seats was not a small apology but the biggest way to tell those who had dared laugh at her to go to the devil. He was staking an unapologetic claim to the caricaturist, the patronesses, the lads on the street, hundreds of witnesses, and thousands of gossips.

She pressed the letter to her chest and tried to breathe.

This wasn’t just an opera. This was Lawrence saying I see you and I’ll make certain everyone else does, too.

He was choosing her over everything else. A symbolic statement this blatant meant marriage—in name, in deed, and in public—if she wished to accept it. Her pulse raced beneath her trembling hands.

The next step was up to her.

She stood and looked about the empty dining room that had been so full of siblings moments before. Accepting this invitation meant choosing Lawrence above all else, too. It would mean leaving her safe, happy-go-lucky, loving family and stepping into a world that undoubtedly