The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,14

smile?” came Marjorie’s loud voice. It was the first time she’d spoken since Chloe’s arrival. Some days she didn’t speak at all, but when she did, the Wynchesters had learned to listen.

“Whose smile?” Chloe asked.

Marjorie pointed at Puck frolicking in the middle.

Chloe stepped closer.

Marjorie’s finger shook. “Bean always smiles.”

The other siblings crowded about the table.

“She’s right,” Jacob said in disbelief. “What happened to his smile?”

Marjorie frowned. “The brushstrokes are different, too.”

Chloe’s throat went dry. “It’s the wrong painting?”

“It can’t be,” Elizabeth protested. “It came from Faircliffe. Both times!”

Jacob set down the kitten. “Never trust a duke. They’re slipperier than snail slime.”

“I can’t believe there are two copies.” Chloe covered her face with her hands. “And I stole the wrong one.”

“Well, we’ll just have to find the right one.” Tommy narrowed her eyes. “No dukes shall get in our way.”

Jacob stood tall. “We do this for Bean.”

The siblings touched their hands to their hearts and lifted their fingers to the sky. “For Bean!”

Bean grinned back at them from over the mantel as if he knew they would succeed.

“He would be proud to know the new Duke of Faircliffe has finally acknowledged our existence,” Elizabeth said. “Well, Chloe’s, anyway.”

Jacob brightened. “And he owes her a favor! If he still has our painting, you can demand it back, and this time he must comply.”

Chloe made an aggrieved noise. “His Eternal Disagreeableness made a point to specify ‘no money’ and ‘no objects.’ He tried to say no to something else, but I slammed the door in his face.”

“What kind of ‘favor’ is that?” Tommy said in outrage. “Why can’t Faircliffe just be reasonable?”

“He’s self-righteous,” Graham replied, “like his father. Some aristocrats believe their wants are the only ones that matter. All they care about is themselves.”

“Even if he hadn’t put limitations on his ‘favor,’ Faircliffe cannot be trusted,” Elizabeth reminded them. “We purchased that painting and the old duke stole it. That’s not honorable.”

“He’s a cad,” Tommy agreed. “He cannot be reasoned with.”

“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. To be something 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