Chapter 1 Sneak Peek
I lugged the heavy bundle of garment bags down the grand staircase at Netherfield, wincing as they hit each marble step with a thump.
“Getting rid of a body, are we?”
My brother, Charles, grinned at his own joke and stepped in to take most of the stack but his smile quickly slipped when he saw my expression. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, Caroline. Too soon?”
“Maybe a little.” I paused, searching for a change of subject. “I’m just donating some clothes I don’t need anymore.” I adjusted my grip on the load to free my arm from the coat hanger digging into it.
“You do realize that if you donate them, someone else will get them,” he teased.
“I should have thought of that. I do hate to be copied.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, I did love to be original.
But it made me happy to imagine people in such a small, out of the way place having access to designer fashion.
We reached the bottom of the stairs and Charles took a few more of the suede bags from me.
“You know, you could do laundry instead of buying new clothes every time you’ve worn something,” Charles teased.
I rolled my eyes. “Very funny. I’ll have you know, I have quite a few quality pieces that I rewear. But the Alexander Wang I wore to Club Meryton—I'm over it. I’m donating that dress, among other things.”
He looked pointedly at the twelve other bags in the bundle.
A wheeled clothing rack rolled up next to me. “Thanks,” I said brightly to the house. My voice echoed through the grand entryway. We didn’t fully understand the magical workings of Netherfield, but the house was quite solicitous, often anticipating my needs and providing assistance.
“How’s Jane?” I asked, hanging my garment bags on the rack.
Worry creased his brow. “She’s resting.”
Two days had passed since our sister Louisa had mistaken Jane for Elizabeth and tried to kill her.
Jane was still recovering at Netherfield, benefiting from Charles’s fae healing magic.
I shook my head, trying to banish the memory of my sister being taken away in handcuffs.
She’d been trying to help me, but the fact that she could be so misguided… it was terrible.
The massive, navy blue front doors swung open for us, courtesy of our conscientious house. Charles hung the bags he’d been holding and rolled the clothing rack forward. “I’m waiting until noon to check on Jane again. I don’t want to be… too much.”
“Charles, you could never be too much. Does Jane seem uninterested?”
“I don’t know. It’s difficult to tell.”
A chilly wind beat against us and my Merino wool tights, though soft and lovely, did not provide enough coverage to keep my legs warm. Maybe my short, black skirt hadn’t been the wisest choice for today.
I followed him to my silver Audi parked in front of the circular drive, battling my worry over this new girl and her potential to hurt my brother.
Our family had been through a lot lately. I was still pushing away the sting of my own heartbreak; the last thing I wanted was to see Charles get hurt because he gave his heart to some witch who didn’t love him back. I knew firsthand the pain of that kind of rejection.
Maybe I could talk to her and try to get a sense of how she felt about him. I popped the trunk. “I’ll look in on her later this evening.”
“I’m sure she’d love that, Carl. Thank you.”
The corner of my mouth twitched upward at my nickname. “Anything for my big brother.”
His grin hit up his whole face. He and I looked similar enough to be twins with our bright copper hair and turquoise eyes—the rarest color combination, or so I’d read.
Our fair skin was touched with a smattering of freckles, or at least mine would be if I didn’t glamour them away.
But we were nothing alike. Charles was warm and friendly and sincere and I was—me.
I carefully placed the bags inside my dark green upholstered trunk, careful not to wrinkle the Alexander Wang or the Dior.
Charles placed the other bags in the trunk and shut it gently. “On the subject of all the things you’d do for your big brother, I hope you’ll give Austen Heights a chance. I know it’s not New York or even Hunsford, but you might actually come to like it here.”
“Netherfield is wonderful. And Austen Heights—” I tried to hide my grimace. “Austen Heights is fine. I’m grateful that you’re letting me crash here with you while I get this interior design business up and running.”
He drew a deep breath, probably to say something meant to comfort me about the fact that without his generosity I’d be penniless. I spoke before he had the chance. “I’ve got a lot to do to get ready for the big reveal party. I’ll see you tonight.”
I wasn’t ready to receive the empathy brimming from his eyes, so I slid into the driver’s seat and donned my Balenciaga sunglasses. “Thanks for hosting the party for me. Once Lady Catherine de Bourgh sees what I can do, she’s sure to hire me to re-design Rosings Park.”
“She will,” he said, his sunny expression back. “After this party you’ll have so many clients you won’t know what to do with yourself.”
His confidence in me bolstered my own. If I could get clients, nobody would think of me as the Bingley who was disinherited. I’d be the self-made girl, the competent, independent designer who everyone wanted to hire.
Charles waved as I drove down the maple-lined driveway. The trees were a brilliant red, the entire grounds alive with color. At least Netherfield was remarkable, even if the town it was built in was not.
As I pulled into the donation center, I magicked a quick glamour over my face.
The illusion wasn’t much, just a few minor tweaks that cosmetics couldn’t do.
I made my lips fuller, my eyes slightly bigger, my jawline a touch more defined.
And I erased the freckles, leaving my skin flawless.
Little changes, nothing too strenuous. Keeping the illusion up for long without a rest was fatiguing, but I could do it when the occasion required it.
I tried not to wince too noticeably as the donation worker tossed my garment bags into a bin with ratty stuffed animals and a sour-smelling tablecloth.
To distract myself, I turned toward the street, fighting the impulse to snatch back my beautiful clothes and take them to a luxury consignment shop that knew how to handle them.
Even if the employees here didn’t understand the value of my donations, some shopper hoping to find something special might come across my clothes and fall in love with them.
Across the street, a man watched me through the window of a powder-blue sedan.
He was young, maybe late twenties, with gorgeous black cornrows falling to his well-toned, brown shoulders and the posture of someone who knew they had every reason to be confident.
A tattoo peeked out from under his sleeve.
Was that a dragon? Maybe this guy was a shifter.
My gaze caught his and I gave him a little flirty look.
“Excuse me, ma’am, would you like a coupon?” The thrift store employee wiped one hand across his sweaty forehead, then stuck his hand in his pocket, presumably to get a coupon.
“No. Thank you.”
When I turned back, the cute guy was gone. I consoled myself with a mediocre drive-through pumpkin spice latte—tall, though I’d ordered venti. I’d asked my assistant, Sydney, to meet me at Highbury Park, mainly because I’d wanted somewhere to wear my new peacoat.
One nice thing about a small, unimportant town, was that it was always easy to find a parking space. I parked next to a display of plaid and denim-clad scarecrows lounging on hay bales and grabbed my slate Dior briefcase from the backseat.
The trees were dressed to kill, flaunting rich reds, elegant golds, and flaming orange.
A cobblestone path wound around them, leading to the steps of a small, cedar-shingled gazebo where some slouchy fae girl with a high ponytail sat with her back to me.
I sighed. Sydney should have gotten there sooner and saved our place.
The girl turned, revealing familiar amber eyes and cheeks pink with cold. The slouchy girl was Sydney.
“No,” I said by way of greeting. “High ponies are not on brand.”
She gave me a flat look. “I thought messy buns were the only hairstyle you had a problem with.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I have problems with all sorts of hairstyles. How are clients supposed to take me seriously when my assistant looks like a high school cheerleader?”
Conceding defeat, she pulled out her hair tie, causing her chestnut waves to cascade down her back. Any light that shone on her hair was sucked in by it, like matte paint with a low LRV.
I tried to ignore it and sat next to her.
“Okay, we’re almost ready for the reveal party.
I’d like to check out”—I suppressed my shudder at the tacky shop name—”The Trinket Trove to find one more item to balance out the sideboard.
Something whimsical rather than functional. How’s the website coming?”
Sydney pulled her laptop out of a flimsy polyester handbag and tucked her hair behind one pointed ear.
Her hair was a pretty shade but it was dull, like the fur of a dog who never went to the groomer.
Worse, there was a crease bisecting the back of her head from where the ponytail had been.
It really wouldn’t take much to elevate her hair from frumpy to gorgeous. Maybe if I—
“Caroline.”
I blinked and focused on Sydney.
She sighed. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
“I literally just realized you’d been talking.”
Her eyes drifted heavenward like a martyr rather than the overpaid assistant to a soon-to-be important designer.
“Here’s the thing,” I said. “We’re not going to be able to get any work done until this—” I gestured vaguely at her head—“gets fixed. So you go get your hair done and I’ll go to The Trinket Trove.”