Page 16 of A Shore Thing

“Not your fault.” He set the bottle carefully on the table.

“But what—”

He cut the question off with a wave. “In any event, it’s not of any consequence.”

Lucy hadn’t responded to his letter. So what if she learned his location? His guilt made for a disproportionate reaction. She wasn’t going to leave her husband, her children, and storm to Cornwall to dress him down in public for abandoning the Sisterhood, even if he deserved it.

But did he? Had he betrayed her? Or had she betrayed him?

God, it was heady. Too heady for tonight.

“The New Rapid.” He joined Ponsonby at the bicycle. “I’m riding it in a joust.”

“Joust.” Ponsonby regarded him warily, searching for signs of anger. Presumably, he found none. The tension in his shoulders eased. “Joust joust? With lances?”

“Sticks is my guess.”

“If they’re wicker, you’re doomed.”

“I’ll forfeit at the first sight of wicker.” Kit smiled. “How would you like to be my squire?”

“I’d like it almost as much as I’d like dinner.” Ponsonby’s jollity was entirely restored. “Mrs. Oatridge extended you an invitation.” He drew out his watch. “We can’t walk, though. It will take far too long. We’ll miss the soup.”

As Kit fitted Ponsonby for a Rover, he related the story of his accident: beautiful Muriel Pendrake in the enormous boots; her friend, the flippant physician; and Deighton the lunkhead, captain of the undercooked Mutton Wheelers. They were both half-drunk and wheezing with laughter by the time they set off, cycling for town, their lamps lighting the way across the dark fields.

It felt like old times.

Except Kit wasn’t thinking about the past, about the Sisters he’d lost. The night air was scented with roses, and herbs, and the faint brine of the sea, teasing his senses, electric with possibility.

He was thinking about that kiss.

6

“I can’t believe it.” James began chortling before Mr. Bamfylde had closed his front door.

“Shhhhhh.” Muriel gave him a surreptitious shove. “He’ll think we’re laughing at him.” Mr. Bamfylde had the kind of fragile self-importance that reacted furiously to slights even when none were intended. Five minutes in his company had made it perfectly clear why his sister, Eva Bamfylde, avoided it.

“I’m laughing at you.”

“I know that. But he doesn’t. He’s a buffoon.”

“Shhhh,” said James, and chortled louder.

She accelerated away from the cottage, clambering over the stile into a long green field dotted with brown cows.

“I can’t believe it,” said James, catching up.

“You’ve already expressed your disbelief.”

“It was nothing easy, prying the name from him. My God, he made you work for it! Interrogating you about his sister’s activities, like he thinks collecting moss is a form of devil worship.”

“I remember. James, this just happened. It’s a bit soon to reminisce.”

“I’m not reminiscing. I’m relishing. There’s a difference. Oh, he’s beastly. An obvious skinflint to boot. And he claimed he bought the watercolor at auction as a charity! Hard to credit. Why do you think he gave it to the sister? My guess is she asked for money.”

“Why did I take you with me today? That’s the question on my mind.”

“Moral support.” He shook his head, beaming. “I can’t believe it. Never have I been so richly repaid for an unpleasant errand involving tea with a tyrannical nitwit.”