A better reason. A wonderful reason.
She was en route to the home of her favorite MP.
Yes, yes, the town house was technically his father’s home, but it was not the duke who interested Chloe.
It was his son, the Marquess of Lanbrooke.
Bean’s blue eyes sharpened. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly.
His concerned expression did not ease.
“It’s just...” How could she explain herself without making him feel poorly, too? “I love that my ability to blend with the background has helped so many people. I love being an important part of our missions, and I shall never stop doing everything that I can.”
“But?” Bean prompted gently.
“Invisibility is a double-edged sword,” she admitted. “Being completely unremarkable gives me powers that no one else has, but… it also hurts a little every time.”
“Chloe, you’re the opposite of unremarkable,” Bean said. “You’re one of the strongest, cleverest, kindest people I’ve ever had the honor to meet. I wouldn’t trade you for the world. You are a treasure.”
She tried to smile. “You say that, but—”
“Are other people short-sighted? Yes, of course. The world is full of people who don’t see the beauty around them. But to the right person, you won’t be invisible. Your family sees you, do we not? We adore you, just as you are.”
Chloe directed her gaze out of the window. She didn’t want him to guess that she had a secret tendre for the son of the blackguard who had stolen their family heirloom.
“I’m just worried about our painting,” she said.
“We’re on our way,” Bean said. “Puck & Family will be home soon.”
He might be surprised to learn that its purchase was the reason Chloe had first become aware of—and interested in—the duke’s son. She’d been seventeen the first time she spied on the House of Commons. That year, at the age of twenty-one, it had been Lanbrooke’s first session as a Member of Parliament.
She had been fascinated by him. The youngest MP, quite possibly one of the cleverest. He had seemed nothing like the shifty-eyed gambler who’d sold the Wynchesters their adopted family portrait to cover his losses at dice.
Lanbrooke seemed like the sort of person she might like to be friends with.
Or something more.
She’d “accidentally” crossed paths with the handsome orator any number of times over the years. Until now, she’d taken care never to speak to him. What if she’d worked up the courage, and he’d forgotten her just like everyone else always did? Keeping the fantasy was much better than knowing the truth.
“Here we are,” said Bean as the carriage pulled to a stop in front of Faircliffe’s smart Grosvenor Square town house.
Chloe’s pulse beat faster.
“Stay in the coach,” said Bean as he leapt to the ground.
Oh. Right. Respectable ladies did not pay uninvited calls upon men, even when they were remorseless ducal thieves.
“Mind the vase,” Bean said. “I’ll give you the signal when it’s time.”
He shut the door.
Chloe brightened, her heart skipping anew. She pulled the vase into her lap and gazed out of the carriage window toward the duke’s front door.
In order to maintain her anonymity in case she needed it in the future, she’d never risked speaking to Lanbrooke. As for his father... well. Chloe could apparently dance a jig on the duke’s toes and he still wouldn’t remember her. He didn’t notice her when she was right in front of him.
Would Lanbrooke be different? What would he say when he saw her?
Of course he would be different. Wasn’t he different from his father in all other aspects? The real question was whether Chloe would have an opportunity to meet him.
Perhaps the duke would exchange the painting for the vase and that would be that. Perhaps the duke would order his butler to make the exchange, or his footman, or a maid, and neither man of the house would put in an appearance on the doorstep.
Perhaps—
She frowned and touched the window. Bean was walking back to the carriage. Alone. Empty-handed.
Something had gone wrong.
“What is it?” she blurted out when he stiffly hoisted himself back into the coach.
“The Duke of Faircliffe is a craven knave,” Bean replied. “No Wynchesters are to be allowed past the threshold.”
“You’re not just a Wynchester,” she stammered. “You’re Baron Vanderbean!”
It was more than that. Bean never returned empty-handed.
Bean leaned his head against the back of the carriage. “Faircliffe’s leg is on the mend, but his internal injuries are more dire than first thought.”
“The butler told you that?”
“Lanbrooke did.” Bean rubbed his temples. “It was part of his don’t-come-back speech. He says