Page 56 of A Shore Thing

“I was expanding my father’s tobacco company,” snarled Deighton Senior. “I was overseeing the construction of a new factory, launching three new brands of cigarettes.” He looked like he could light cigarettes off the hot coals burning in his eyes. “I was siring children. All disappointments. Girls. And Colin, who costs me considerably more than they do, with less chance of return.” He looked Kit up and down. “You knocked him into a dunghill. You! You can’t weigh ten stone.”

“Closer to twelve,” murmured Kit, which was true enough, with the knapsack.

“He’ll even the score.” Deighton Senior’s upper right eyelid twitched. “I’m not giving him a choice in the matter. He will knock you into a dunghill, or he’s forever disgraced. I’d rather die without an heir than suffer a weakling to carry on my name.”

Kit tried to imagine his own father speaking so about either of his brothers, Clive or Holt, and could not. William Holroyd was a big man himself, and reputedly bloodthirsty in his business dealings. Within the household, he’d always been the permissive parent, overriding his wife’s objections to Kit’s artistic pursuits and masculine outfits. When Kit had turned up at the dinner table with an Eton crop, unevenly barbered by a fellow student, he’d laughed and said it had decided him positively on the question of whether or not to invest in a Pyrenees wig company.

Would his father have cared more if his sons refused to perform as expected? Clive and Holt had both followed in his footsteps.

Kit stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and gave Deighton Senior a bland look.

“It was only a bit of fun,” he said.

“Fun at my son’s expense. He’s the butt of a joke. But not for long.”

“Sir,” said Kit politely. “We’re cycling the countryside together. The physical contest is now between each rider and the road.”

Deighton Senior’s lips drew back in a singularly nasty smile. “I wouldn’t be so sure. You’re leaving on two wheels, but you’ll return on four, in a donkey cart.”

Muscles tensed along Kit’s spine, but he managed to shrug, creditably blasé.

“I called to discuss the tour with your son. If he’s not at home…”

“He is not.”

“I’ll see myself out.” Kit moved around Deighton Senior, slowly, and paused in front of a Sèvres vase set on an ormolu-molded stand. He plucked the freshest gardenia from the browning bouquet and threaded the stem through the buttonhole of his blue morning coat.

“Thank you for the flower,” he said, glancing back at his host. “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.”

Deighton Senior released a growling breath of unadulterated disdain.

With a nod, Kit took his leave.

—

He arrived at the Towans Hotel earlier than planned. Muriel wasn’t meeting him until noon. He wheeled his bicycle through the English garden and leaned it against the gazebo, inside which she was safeguarding her own bicycle, at his suggestion. He climbed the gazebo’s three steps and sprawled on a bench to wait.

He’d mounted panniers over her rear wheel, so she wouldn’t have to carry her belongings on her shoulders. He could tell they were still empty. She’d yet to pack.

Sensible. Why strain herself on their last training ride? He’d advise her, though, to test the weight before tomorrow morning.

He was facing the hotel and could see guests coming and going along the walk. The tall figure in white, with the tennis racket—that was Raleigh. Ponsonby was strolling with him. No easel. He held a racket too, and was either waving it for emphasis or demonstrating his forehand.

Kit considered jogging over, but in the end, he refrained, watching the pair’s lively progress until the hedges screened them from view. He and Ponsonby hadn’t directly addressed their quarrel—if that’s what it had been—but they’d smoothed it over, and Ponsonby seemed to be making a point of avoiding the chappies he’d befriended at Svensson’s party.

Or perhaps he was just more interested in befriending the doctor.

Kit’s thoughts wandered until a new figure drew his attention. Muriel was approaching with long strides. She worked in the field, as a botanist. That explained her supple movement. As did the fact that she was a country woman, raised on a farm, or at least partially. She’d gone on to drudge for her cousin in a shop. He would never have guessed if she hadn’t told him. Her accent was cultured, and she behaved so comfortably with Raleigh, whose every plummy inflection and gesture screamed blue blood.

He watched as she drew closer, pleasantly mesmerized by the sight of her, and by his speculations, all the things he wondered and was poised to discover.

“It’s just us today,” she called, in lieu of a greeting.

“Yes.” He rose and steered her bicycle down the steps. “I saw our chaperones heading in the other direction.”

She gave him a small, irritated smile. “Oh, please. Those two couldn’t chaperone a turnip.”

He smiled back. “Then they’ve been outdoing themselves.”