Falling for Chloe

by Farr, Diane

  "Certainly, madam," he said, as if confirming her reading of his character. "I shall look forward to Sir Walter’s visit."

  Chapter 3

  Gil sat at the breakfast table in his dressing gown, staring with starting eyes at his copy of the Morning Post. A substantial repast sat before him, uneaten. The London traffic clattered past beneath his window, unheard. A stack of invitations and correspondence rested beneath his hand, unopened. Sylvester Gilliland appeared to have been turned to stone.

  A sound of fierce pounding, as of urgent fists upon a not-very-distant door, eventually penetrated to his consciousness. Voices sounded in the hall below, followed by the clatter of hurrying feet. Someone appeared to be racing someone else up the stairs. There were several other lodgers in the building, but Gil lifted his dazed eyes and, with a sense of bemused inevitability, fixed his gaze upon his own door. Within moments, it flew open, as he had been sure it would.

  The two cronies in whose company he had just spent a convivial evening burst into the room as if shot by a cannon. One was a gangly fellow, as tall as Gil, his thin face dominated by a nose that gave him an undeservedly fierce and hawk-like aspect. The other, younger and shorter, was a plump and genial soul with a perpetually-startled expression. Each waved a newspaper.

  "What the devil is this?" demanded Jack Crawley, in a squawk that matched his bird-of-prey face. Gil winced. Barney Furbush, perceiving that Gil was still at breakfast and apparently not fully awake, set his newspaper on the table and turned to soothe his companion.

  "Don’t shout, old man. We’ll soon get to the bottom of it. If anyone knows what this is all about, it’s Gil. Bound to!" He turned earnestly to Gil. "Suggest you make a clean breast of it, Gil. If you’re under the hatches, dear old chap, you know you can always turn to me. No need to marry an heiress."

  Jack dropped into the chair opposite Gil. "At any rate, you ought not to keep secrets from Barney and me," he said severely. "You never said a word last night. Shabby, I call it!"

  Barney pulled another chair up to Gil’s tiny table. "Now, Jack, don’t fly into one of your miffs. Daresay he forgot. Anyone might."

  "Forgot! Forgot he was getting married?"

  Barney rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "Daresay he didn’t care to remember it," he said wisely. "Happens all the time. Remember m’sister’s coming out party? I nearly went to Bath instead. If I hadn’t happened to run into my mother in Bond Street that morning, I’d have missed it. Think of the dust they would have kicked up! A very near-run thing."

  Gil’s eyes, still wide with shock, swiveled to fix upon Barney’s kindly face. He swallowed painfully, but did not speak. Barney nudged Jack and pointed this out in an undervoice. "Why, it’s my belief it’s all a hum. Look at Gil! He’s been landed a facer."

  Jack’s beetling brows climbed. "No. Really? I say, that’s a rum go." He shook his head sympathetically and picked up Gil’s coffee pot. "Some prankster must’ve planted the story in the Post, then. Daresay the chit doesn’t even exist."

  Barney, relieved, helped himself to a slice of toast and began buttering it. "Good thing, if that’s all it is."

  Jack frowned. "Yes, but who would want to do Gil such a mischief? I mean—notice in the Post! That’s serious."

  "Not if it’s just a hum. Gil can’t marry a chit who don’t exist. Goes without saying."

  Jack nodded, sipping coffee. Then his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "How can it be a hum? I mean—the Post, you know! That’s a devilish starchy outfit. You can’t slip a note under the door at dead of night and expect the Post to print it! Besides, if they start printing notices willy-nilly, what prevents your engagement being announced tomorrow? Or mine? A fellow might wake up any morning to find himself in the basket! Not likely the Post would lend itself to that."

  Barney appeared much struck. "No, by Jove." He turned his mild gaze upon Gil. "Crawley’s right, Gil. You must have placed the notice yourself."

  Gil made a sort of choking sound. The two friends waited expectantly.

  "Chloe’s father," he croaked. "Must have been Chloe’s father."

  "Ah," said Barney, satisfied. "That’s all right and tight." He nudged Jack with his elbow. "Girl’s father! Not a note slipped under the door."

  Jack was frowning again. "Then the chit does exist."

  "Lord, yes! I’ve known her all my life."

  Barney swallowed a bit of toast. "Is she really an heiress?" he asked, interested. "Featherstone says she is."

  Jack snorted. "Featherstone! When has he ever said anything worth repeating?"

  Gil poured himself coffee with a hand that shook only slightly. "He’s right this time, at least. Not that it matters. Chloe may have all the money in the world for aught I care. I don’t want it!"

  Barney nodded approvingly. "Quite right, old man. Oughtn’t to have mentioned it. Beg pardon! Daresay we should congratulate you, though." A qualm seemed to shake him. He turned to Jack for guidance. "That’s all right, isn’t it? To congratulate dear old Gil? I’ve heard people congratuling fellows who were marrying perfect antidotes. Customary!"

  "Of course it’s customary, you nodcock!" said Jack scornfully. "But there’s something havey-cavey about all this. Gil don’t want to be married."

  Barney looked shocked. "Yes, he does. Isn’t that why we’re here? Notice in the Post!"

  Gil raked a hand through his hair. "But it’s the most appalling thing!" he exclaimed. "I never offered for Chloe!"

  His friends gaped at him. "How is that possible?" demanded Jack.

  "You must have," said Barney simply.

  "Dash it all, I ought to know whether I offered marriage to a girl or not!"

  "You ought to," said Barney cautiously. "Perhaps you were a trifle disguised. A man might say anything when he’s in his cups."

  Jack rounded on Barney, annoyed. "Have you ever seen Gil foxed in the company of females?"

  "Haven’t seen him, foxed or otherwise, in the company of females. Come to think of it, I’m rarely in the company of females myself. Daresay a man needs a nip or two to bear it. Perfectly understandable."

  Jack seemed inclined to argue the point, but Gil interrupted. "I don’t need Dutch courage to spend time with Chloe! Haven’t I just been telling you, I’ve known her all my life? But I don’t want to marry her!"

  Barney clucked his tongue sympathetically. "Rabbity-faced? All heiresses are, I believe."

  Jack nodded. "It’s practically a law of nature. Every girl with plenty of rhino is hideous."

  Gil shrugged impatiently. "Not Chloe. She’s a perfect little beauty."

  His friends glanced at him in surprise.

  "Is she, by Jove! Then where’s the rub?" asked Jack. "Hot temper?"

  Barney shuddered. "I say, Gil, if she’s shrewish, don’t marry her. Now, there’s a horrible thing! My uncle’s wife is an absolute harpy. Torments him day and night. Daresay he’ll murder her one day and cause the very devil of a scandal. Frightful prospect for the family, but what can one do?"

  "Chloe’s not shrewish! She’s the best-natured girl imaginable. Always full of fun and gig; never takes a pet about anything. Sound as a roast."

  A brief silence fell. Gil’s friends stared at him very hard.

  "Well? Don’t keep us in suspense," said Jack impatiently. "Does she smell of the shop?"

  "The shop?" Gil gave a sudden crack of laughter. "I’d love to see her father’s face if he heard you ask that! Very high in the instep, Horace Littlefield. His mother was a Westwood. Chloe’s great-uncle is the present earl."

  "Then what’s wrong with her?"

  Gil’s eyes widened in bewildered astonishment. "There’s nothing wrong with her! Why the devil should there be anything wrong with her?"

  Barney and Jack looked at each other, as if mutely seeking guidance.

  Jack suddenly slapped the breakfast table with conviction. "Well, I’ll tell you what, Gil—if you won’t marry her, I will! She sounds a deuced paragon."

  Gil managed a rather shaky
grin. "Oh, she is! If she ever came to Town, she’d have ’em all eating out of her hand. Chloe’s a very taking little thing. But she won’t come to Town. Chloe don’t wish to be married any more than I do. In fact, far less! I do mean to marry someday, but Clo says she won’t marry anyone, ever."

  Barney looked at his friend uneasily. "I say, Gil, are you feeling quite the thing? I mean—you’re going to marry her."

  "Unless I do," said Jack hopefully. "If she don’t appeal to you, Gil, would you mind introducing us? She sounds just the thing to me. Beautiful—rich—sweet-tempered—well connected—"

  "She won’t have you, Crawley," interrupted Gil. "It ain’t that ridiculous beak of yours, so don’t poker up! Chloe won’t have anyone. I’m telling you, the chit’s determined never to marry."

  Barney appeared doubtful. "She’s female, ain’t she?"

  "I never met a female who didn’t want a wedding. They all do."

  "Not Chloe."

  "Why not?" chorused Gil’s friends.

  Gil opened his mouth, then shut it again. "Don’t ask me to betray a lady’s confidence, for I won’t do it!" He shoved his hands defiantly into the pockets of his dressing gown. "You may take my word for it, Chloe won’t want to step into parson’s mousetrap. With me or anyone else. Problem is—we are in the suds! No use hoping people won’t see that dashed notice. They will."

  Barney nodded sympathetically. "If they don’t see that one, they’ll see the one in the Gazette."

  Gil paled. "It’s in the Gazette, too? The devil! What am I to do?"

  Jack frowned. "I suppose you’ll have to send another notice, repudiating these."

  "Repudiate an engagement to a respectable female?" Gil cried, aghast. "What kind of ugly customer do you take me for?"

  Barney shook his head dolefully. "Scaly behavior. Very bad ton. But Jack’s right, old fellow. There’s nothing else to be done."

  "Aye, and the sooner the better. Before everyone starts congratulating you, wishing you happy and all that."

  Gil rose and took a hasty turn about the room. "But what about Chloe? What a shabby thing to do to her!"

  "Humiliating," agreed Barney. "But I daresay she won’t mind if you make a figure of her. No one else will have her, of course, once you turn short about. But you’ve already said she don’t wish to be married."

  Jack uttered a short bark of laughter. "People will always pursue an heiress, let alone a pretty heiress! You won’t do her any lasting injury."

  "I don’t wish to do her an injury, lasting or otherwise! There must be another alternative." Gil pounded a fist into his palm. "I shall think of something."

  His friends’ silence, though sympathetic, was unencouraging. Gil wished to high heaven he could discuss the matter with Chloe. Common courtesy dictated that he consult her in something that concerned her so nearly. Besides, if he knew Chloe, she would have very strong opinions regarding what they ought to do.If he returned and sought her at Brookhollow, however, he would run slap into Horace Littlefield. Gil felt fairly confident that if he met Horace Littlefield today, he would murder him the instant he saw him. He had no wish to spend the rest of his days hiding on the Continent, so a quick trip to Brookhollow was out of the question.

  In the end, he decided to send Chloe an urgent private message and await her reply. Although he did so immediately, this course necessarily engendered a delay before taking any action to dispel the rumors. Delay, he soon discovered, contained its own pitfalls. A saunter down Jermyn Street that morning brought home to him all the evils of his situation. Nearly everyone he encountered congratulated him and peppered him with what struck him as intrusive and impertinent questions.

  He returned to his flat in a rare swivet, by this time feeling much the way a hare must feel when set upon by hounds. He scarcely had time to draw a deep breath and savor his solitude, however, before he heard the sound of the knocker. He strode swiftly to his door and opened it, his gaze wildly seeking, and finding, his man Graves crossing the hall below.

  "I am not at home!" he hissed.

  "Very good, sir."

  Gil retreated behind his closed door with a sigh of relief and poured himself a stiff brandy. A man needed a restorative after the sort of morning he had just had. He plopped into a wing chair and glumly regarded the fire. He was in the briars, and how to extract himself—aye, and Chloe!—was more than he could fathom.

  The door opened. Graves stood there, evidently attempting to signal him, but Gil could not interpret the man’s grimaces and winks. "What the devil is it?" snapped Gil.

  "Females, sir!"

  Gil straightened in his chair, horrified. "No! No!" he uttered feebly, but a small hand, fashionably covered in York tan, appeared from behind Graves, insistently pushing him aside.

  "Pray do not block the door, Graves. I know perfectly well my brother is at home," announced a clear soprano voice in the hall, "and if you do not instantly permit me to have speech with him, I shall scream."

  And into Gil’s sanctuary strode two invaders. Gil automatically rose from his chair at their approach, but his aspect was far from welcoming. One was his sister Leticia, now Mrs. Dalrymple, a vivid brunette dressed very becomingly and in the height of the current mode. The other was Chloe Littlefield. Gil’s jaw dropped.

  "Clo, by all that’s wonderful!"

  Chloe glared speechlessly at him. Tish flew to her friend’s side and placed a sustaining arm about her waist. "Now, don’t rip up at poor Gil, Chloe," she said warningly. "I feel nearly certain he had nothing to do with it."

  "If I thought he had," uttered Chloe passionately, "I would never speak to him again!"

  "Take a damper," said Gil, exasperated. "You may go, Graves! And, mind you, if anyone else should call for me, for God’s sake keep ’em out! I don’t know what you were about, to bring these two up—"

  "Do not blame Graves," interrupted Tish. "We saw you come in, so he couldn’t fob us off."

  "Yes, but it’s the height of impropriety for you to be here at all! Females don’t call on single gentlemen."

  "That is what I told her," agreed Tish. "But she would come! So I had to accompany her, of course, to keep tongues from wagging."

  "You mean this visit was Chloe’s idea? Clo, in the name of heaven—!"

  "Oh, hush!" cried Chloe, her face suffused with agitated color. "If you don’t know an emergency when you see one, Gil, I do! I shall go mad if anyone preaches propriety to me, when we are in the worst scrape of our lives!"

  Any lingering doubts Gil may have had as to Chloe’s wishes vanished. Sobered, he begged pardon and waved his visitors into chairs, remarking, as he did so, that he wished it were permissible to offer them brandy. "For if I ever saw anyone in need of a bracer, Clo, it’s you," he said, observing her critically.

  She sat tensely on the edge of her chair, her hands clenching and unclenching in her lap. She was dressed in one of the ill-fitting muslins Gertrude Tewksbury had made for her, covered with a shapeless pelisse as practical as it was unflattering. Her soft, pale ringlets were crowned with a bonnet that was at least five years out of date. Sitting across from the dazzling Mrs. Dalrymple, she did not appear to advantage.

  "I will drink brandy if you think it would help," she said.

  Gil moved to bring her some, but Tish cried out against it, scandalized. "Really, Gil! You will only make bad worse! What possible use would spirits be in a situation like this?"

  "You’d be surprised," he muttered, but dropped back into his chair.

  Chloe turned wide, tragic eyes upon him. "You did not place that notice in the Gazette?"

  He straightened indignantly. "No, nor the Post! You can’t have thought that."

  "No," she said, her voice catching tragically. "But I had to know, Gil."

  "I told you as much," said Tish. She was perched gracefully on the edge of Gil’s wing chair, her hands buried in an expensive-looking fur muff. Her dark eyes were bright with curiosity and excitement. What was high tragedy to her friend and her br
other was clearly vastly entertaining to Tish.

  Chloe’s hands clenched again. "The devil fly away with Father!" she exclaimed miserably. "I am sure, now, it was he who placed the notices. But I would not have believed he could use me so!"

  Gil snorted. "Why not? He’s been trying to control you from the instant you were born! Although he never before had the effrontery to involve me in his attempts to bring you round his thumb. I suppose he simply did not think of it until now! For of all the high-handed, stiff-rumped gudgeons—but this bears the palm! Whatever possessed him?"

  Her eyes blurred with angry tears. "Need you ask? It was that stupid incident at Barlow’s cottage, of course. He’s been saying ever since that you compromised me. Such stuff! But it wasn’t only Father. You will not believe this, Gil—I can scarcely credit it, myself—but your parents have been saying the same thing."

  "What!"

  "Yes! Only to me, of course, but still—"

  "Good God! But they can’t have thought—that is—why, surely nobody believed—" Gil ran his hands wildly through his hair, heedless of the damage inflicted on his carefully-arranged locks.

  Chloe shook her own curls vehemently. "Of course not! That is what made the whole thing so absurd. I tried to laugh it off, you know—I was sure they would give it up once they came to their senses—but that only seemed to make matters worse. Father became absolutely unreasonable. He began insisting that I was ‘damaged goods.’ Did you ever hear anything more ugly?"

  Tish cried out in horror. Gil only stared at her, dumbstruck. Chloe seemed to take comfort from her friends’ indignant sympathy. Her spine straightened, and she sighed. "There was no bearing it, of course, so I came to visit Tish as you asked me to. I only arrived last night. I was going to send you word this morning, but then Mr. Dalrymple saw the notice in the Gazette—"

  Tish giggled. "Robert came in to breakfast and wished Chloe happy! You should have seen her face!"

  "Tish, it is not funny!"