Chapter Four

Despite her reservations, Myfanwy was actually enjoying herself at the viscount’s garden party. A few of her friends from the cricket club had also accepted invitations, and the women had hidden themselves away in a corner of shrubs to amuse themselves.

Myfanwy didn’t have time to fixate on her old home or her father’s heart issues that had led to his passing that fateful night when they’d been sharing a quiet evening together. Looking back, Myfanwy could only be grateful for how quickly everything happened. One moment her father was sitting in his chair, chuckling over Charles Dickens, and the next he was slumped over, lifeless though still smiling.

After the initial grieving process, Myfanwy determined that if she was ever fortunate enough to meet the author, she would tell him thank you. The viscount had died happy, and, even at twenty, Myfanwy was old enough to understand that one couldn’t wish for more than that.

At the present, unfortunately, she was also wise enough to know that when a group of women were standing together chuckling, entertaining each other with in-jokes, a man must come to spoil all the fun.

“What could possibly have you in such thrall, ladies? You must tell us at once.”

With a put-upon sigh, Myfanwy turned to see Sir Bramble creeping on the outskirts of the group with Lord Cremly close at his heel. She wasn’t sure what upset her more—the interruption or Jennifer’s barely contained grin when she spotted her suitor. Honestly, what did she see in Sir Bramble?

If someone forced her, Myfanwy could acknowledge that the baron was a decent-looking man with dark brown hair cut short to his head and delicate—dare she say it—almost pretty, feline features. He was tall and fit and always up for a laugh. Myfanwy found that the most disturbing. Nothing seemed to perturb the man. Sir Bramble was positively tickled by all and sundry—even her dour expression whenever he ventured too close!

“Oh, we weren’t discussing much,” Jennifer said blandly. “Nothing important.”

Myfanwy shot her friend a confused look. “Yes, we were. We were talking about batting setup… When to be aggressive or when to play it safe. You know, back foot, front foot, that sort of thing.”

Sir Bramble appeared lost. He was a terrible cricket player, and Myfanwy was well aware he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about—which was precisely why she’d said it. How could Jennifer—an amazing athlete—consider this man as a life partner? Her children might be as terrible at sport as he, and then where would she be?

True to form, Sir Bramble never lost his smile, and his white teeth glistened against the sun. “You ladies,” he said, wagging his finger, “are always discussing cricket. What lively creatures you are.”

The other women tittered with polite laughter, which was well and good, since it drowned out Myfanwy’s groan.

Lord Cremly sauntered to the side of his friend and hung an arm around Sir Bramble’s neck. It was the only time Myfanwy saw the baron appear remotely uncomfortable. She couldn’t blame Bramble for that. Even at a far distance, Lord Cremly—with his arrogance and unctuous attitude—made her skin crawl.

Damn fine cricketer, though. Myfanwy had to admit that. She’d first seen him play when he represented Eton in the famous Eton vs. Harrow match at Lord’s. That was years ago, but he was still one of the best amateurs in London.

“Cricket. Now that’s a wonderful idea, girls,” Lord Cremly said. He issued a disgruntled frown across the garden toward the viscount’s home. “Our host has left us out here without any worthwhile diversions. Who’s in the mood for a match?”

Myfanwy clapped her hands together before she could temper her delight. She shuddered when Lord Cremly slid an appreciative gaze up her body.

“It looks like Miss Myfanwy is game. Anyone else?” He cocked his head in her direction. “By the by, you should smile more, Miss Myfanwy. You’re a changed woman when you do.”

Myfanwy bit her tongue so hard she thought it might bleed, simultaneously stopping any smile or sharp retort.

Her friends saved her from an ignominious action as they expressed their agreement for the lord’s proposal. It proved infectious, and in no time, Lord Cremly had rounded up a handful of men to join them in the sporting endeavor.

“All right, now,” he said, surveying the crowd with a critical eye, hands on his narrow hips. Years spent playing cricket had weathered his skin, giving him a distinguished quality. His luscious black hair kept most of the women in the ton in a constant state of flighty agitation. He ran a confident hand through his locks now, causing some ladies to hide their dreamy sighs behind their fans. “We’ve got enough for two teams of five. How do you suppose we divide it up?”

Myfanwy opened her mouth to respond, but Sir Bramble beat her to it. “I’d like to be on Miss Jennifer’s team.” Without an ounce of shame, he added, “She’s a wonderful player, and I need her to help me look good out there.”

Jennifer lowered her head, blushing mightily under her straw bonnet. Myfanwy might have thought the entire scene adorable if it didn’t infuriate her so much. Jennifer was her teammate—not Sir Bramble’s!

Casually, not conspicuously in the least, Myfanwy meandered over to the couple and inserted herself between them, slightly—very slightly—nudging the baron further away from her friend. “I always think girls against boys is more interesting, don’t you?” she asked, raising her chin toward Lord Cremly.

He responded with a slow smile.

It was a political maneuver. Like would always identify like, and Myfanwy understood Lord Cremly’s reputation well enough to know that he hated to lose just as much as she did—even in friendly matches like these. Due to his unfounded prejudices, there was no way he would welcome a woman on his team.

“But there aren’t enough women,” Miss Anna Smythe stated from across the circle. Myfanwy leveled her with a weighted look, but Anna wasn’t getting the message. “It would be four of us against six of them… Hardly fair.”

Myfanwy swooped in. “We’ll be fine—”

“Oh, come now, Miss Anna,” Lord Cremly purred, cutting Myfanwy off. “Do you really take us men for such blackguards?”

It soothed Myfanwy’s soul that not one woman responded to that question, leaving the answer up in the air where it belonged.

Lord Cremly meandered to the middle of the circle. “You didn’t truly think that the men would play to full strength?”

Myfanwy stepped forward. “Well, yes, of course. Why wouldn’t you—”

He cut her off again, this time adding a rude swipe of his hand. “We wouldn’t dare embarrass you like that. Besides, we want to have fun as well, and beating you easily wouldn’t be fun at all. What do you say, men? Should we play left-handed?”

Masculine laughter answered Lord Cremly all around.

“Not good enough. How about with one hand tied behind our backs?” a gentleman called out.

“Not good enough,” another responded. “How about with our legs tied together?”

“What about no hands at all? Would that make it fair?”

“Let’s wear blindfolds!”

Lord Cremly’s grin dripped with condescension. “Now, now, gentlemen. Let’s not go that far. I’ve seen some of these women play. The matrons versus singles game is quite…adorable.”

Adorable?

Myfanwy gripped the handle of her parasol and thought she heard the wood crack. The men were being ridiculous and childish. She had grown up with most of them, and, other than Lord Cremly, they could use four arms and it wouldn’t make any difference.

“I hardly think that will be necessary,” Anna said, her voice higher than usual. Myfanwy nodded at the woman. By the heightened color in her cheeks, it was clear Anna was just as offended as she was.

This was why the ladies needed a safe place to play cricket, away from the whims and prejudices of these kinds of men. Unfortunately, it was these sorts of gentlemen who owned all the cricket fields and directed all the county leagues—the women played at their convenience. And Myfanwy had a feeling that it would never be convenient for these sorts of gentlemen to ever see the women as real cricket players. They were just amusements, diversions, entertainments for them to laugh at like exotic animals in a zoo. To the women, cricket was the game. To these men, the women would always be the game. And in their minds, men never lost.

Lord Cremly zeroed in on Anna, patronizing her with a hefty exhale. “I applaud your confidence, miss”—he placed his hand over his heart—“but as a gentleman, I have to insist. We’ll all play left-handed. What say you, men?”

The others closed the discussion with a slew of ayes.

But Anna, dear, stubborn Anna, wasn’t having it. “No, no, I still say it isn’t right. The women need one more player to make it fair.”

Lord Cremly dropped his hand from his heart, vexation deep and evident. He spun wildly, eliciting more laughter from his friends. “I’m afraid I’m at a loss. No one else is here—no one else you’d want on your team, anyway. I suggest you just take the terms I’ve set for you. I’m looking out for your best interests, after all.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” came a hard voice from outside the group.

Heads swiveled side to side, searching for the man who’d spoken. Bodies split until a path opened up with Samuel Everett standing alone and looking rather bored on the other end. Myfanwy thought she was seeing things as Samuel inspected his nails and continued in that lazy drawl. “From what I remember,” he said, “the only interests you ever look out for are your own.”

Crunching grass and silk rustling were the only things to be heard as everyone nearby shifted on anxious feet. After an uncomfortable pause, Lord Cremly chuckled, but nothing about the man was amused. “That’s hilarious coming from you, Everett,” he returned easily, “considering you won’t even walk onto a pitch or pick up a cricket bat without a promise of payment first.”

Samuel shrugged as if he’d heard the insult many times before, but his lips curled back from his teeth in a menacing way when he responded, “A man has to make a living. Professionals get paid so others can enjoy watching the game.”

“Ha!” Lord Cremly sneered. “It’s professionals like you that ruin the game, jumping from team to team. No loyalty, no beauty—only playing for the highest bidder. Amateurs like me are who people come to see. Amateurs are the only ones maintaining the integrity of the great sport.”

Myfanwy’s ears were pounding, but she still heard a few gasps break from the crowd. She scooted next to Lord Cremly, fearing that Samuel might throw himself on the man and tear his throat out. She had no love for the lord…but she didn’t want anything to get in the way of playing the game that afternoon.

“Gentlemen, we’re losing the light,” she began. “I suggest the ladies go to bat first.”

But no one budged. She didn’t even think anyone heard her. All were too engrossed in Samuel’s next move.

However, those expecting more drama were sadly thwarted. Because all Samuel did was laugh, clasping his hands behind his back. Myfanwy had a sinking suspicion he did it to keep himself from throwing the first punch. “Is that why you ruined Benny Hardcastle’s benefit match last year? To maintain the game’s integrity?”

Myfanwy turned to Lord Cremly. He wasn’t squirming…though it was close. “I ruined nothing. The conditions were terrible that day. My side determined—as a whole—that it was the safe decision not to play.”

For the first time, real anger sparked from Samuel. His eyes flashed and he took a quick step forward before containing himself. “It was barely spitting rain. You just wanted to deprive the man of income. All because whenever he faced you at the bat, he made mincemeat out of you.”

Was that true? Could the lord be so spiteful? Myfanwy wondered. Benefit matches were incredibly important for cricketers who were retiring. Since there was no pension or way for them to earn money after they quit, clubs and friends hosted benefit matches, donating most of the proceeds from the event to the player and his family. Good benefit matches gifted a man with thousands of pounds that could see him living comfortably while he figured out what to do with the rest of his life. Bad benefits left a man with little more than well-wishes and money for dinner that night.

Myfanwy had never heard of a player ruining another’s benefit match on purpose. That wasn’t just unsportsmanlike—that was plain cruel.

The sardonic grin stalled on Lord Cremly’s face as the crowd waited for him to speak. When he did, his lips barely moved. “Was there a reason why you interrupted us, Mr. Everett? Surely it can’t be just about old grievances. It’s bad form to speak like this in front of the ladies. Even a bricklayer’s son knows that.”

Samuel’s eyes flickered to Myfanwy, landing with the force of a brick. They narrowed as he held her gaze for a long while, saying so much, but in a language she didn’t understand. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said wistfully. “These women are stronger than you think.”

Lord Cremly shook his head and turned away from Samuel. Addressing his friends, he said, “Let’s forget about that, shall we? Now, what did we decide about the teams? If I remember correctly, the ladies were searching for another player—”

“I’ll play,” Samuel called out, stopping the crowd of people from cutting him off from the circle. Once more, it widened at his announcement.

Lord Cremly gritted his teeth. “Thank you, but the men don’t need another player. Maybe next time.”

“Not with you,” Samuel spat. He nodded toward Anna. “Them. I’ll play with the women… If they’ll have me, that is.”

Lord Cremly snorted before granting Anna a disbelieving grin. “I think you can do better than that. The man can barely walk…or see, for that matter. Here. Let me go into the house. I think there’s a six-year-old boy who wants to learn to play. Even he would be a better option for you.”

“We’ll take him,” Myfanwy called out instantly.

Samuel clapped his hands and began to jog out to the far field. “Fine. I thought the talking would never end. Let’s play, shall we?”