Chapter 3

"Obstruction in the path!" The man roaring was perched high on a penny-farthing. He kept pedaling, barreling toward James with the speed of a locomotive.

Griffith jumped the wall in a lithe motion and tackled James around the waist. Muriel barked her shin on the stone as she followed, stumbling gracelessly into the center of the path. She held up her palm.

"Halt!"

The man on the penny-farthing skidded to a stop. He didn't dismount. His front wheel was easily five feet high, and he twitched it left then right then left again to maintain his balance.

"Madam," he boomed. "It is highly irresponsible to leave your bicycle in the path."

Muriel's gaze dropped to Griffith's bicycle, which lay tipped on its side between them.

"We thought you were calling James the obstruction." She glanced at James, who was accepting a hand up from Griffith.

"He was also obstructing the path," said the man. "Paths exist to facilitate movement. If it's not moving, it shouldn't be in the path."

"Deighton, isn't it? James Raleigh." James flicked a leaf from his hat. "We met at dinner. Your party is staying at the Towans. So are we—Mrs. Pendrake and I. Arrived yesterday."

"We dined at the Towans." Deighton's glare was incredulous. "We stay in my family's summer residence, Titcombe Hall."

"How delightful for you." James gave him an idle smile. "Hall ownership is such a boon to a man's social life. Now that you mention it, I recall your friend saying something about Titcombe Hall. It's haunted, perhaps? By a murdered eighteenth-century smuggler? Bracegirdle was foggy on the details."

"Butterfield."

"Butterfield. That's it. Nice chap, Butterfield. Avoids pastry and takes cold baths. We had an interesting talk."

"He's in training." Deighton swayed on his penny-farthing. "Can't eat pastry when training."

"I don't know," said James blandly. "What if you're training as a pastry eater?"

"We are not." Deighton spat the words. "We are training as wheelmen. I'm the captain." He removed a hand from the handlebars and tapped one of the badges affixed to his jacket, the one shaped like a wheel, with gold spokes raying out against a blue enamel background. "Mutton Wheelers Cycling Club. We've toured all over England, recorded hundreds and hundreds of miles."

"Well done." James coughed. "You should call yourselves the Well-Done Mutton Wheelers Cycling Club. What do you think?"

He looked at Muriel for approval, and she gave a slight shake of her head.

"I thought it was rather good," murmured Griffith.

"Enough of this." Deighton's square-jawed face reddened. "What's good is an unobstructed path." He began to flick the lever on his bell.

"Mr. Deighton." James ignored the tinny noise. "Some physicians believe that cycling decreases indigestion, but increases chronic diseases of the heart and arteries."

"For God's sake, clear the way!" Deighton fairly bellowed it. "I have the heart of an ox!"

"And I have a sphygmograph at the hotel." James clapped his hands. "I'd love to study your pulse. Butterfield's too, if he's amenable, and whoever else."

Deighton tipped dangerously and compensated with a rather savage jerk of the wheel. "Mr. Raleigh," he snarled, in a lower voice. "Please assist the lady in clearing her bicycle from the path."

"It's not my bicycle," said Muriel. "It's Mr. Griffith's."

"What?" Deighton's eyes bulged. "You're joking."

Muriel glanced at Griffith. He stood beside James, on the edge of the path, looking faintly—rakishly—amused.

They'd kissed.

She was now Muriel of the slight seduction. Muriel of ticklish regions unknown.

Mortifying.

At least she'd shocked James.

She wasn't gawking at Griffith. Was she?

"It is my fault the bicycle's in the path." She snapped her eyes back to Deighton. "I stepped in front of Mr. Griffith, and he tried to avoid me and was thrown into the field."

"I don't know what's more disgraceful." Deighton stared down at Griffith with a horrified sneer. "Riding a safety, or getting yourself unseated."

"It didn't seem particularly safe," observed Muriel, and bent to right the bicycle. It was surprisingly heavy, the metal frame warmed by the sun. Griffith was there in an instant, taking it from her hands.

"Starley Sutton's latest," he said. "The Rover. Their finest machine yet."

Even upright, his bicycle was dwarfed by Deighton's.

He patted the leather saddle. "They call these low-mount models safeties. The Rover has direct steering. A chain drive. Wheels of roughly equal size. It's going to revolutionize cycling."

"Ruin cycling, you mean." Sweat was rolling over Deighton's brow as he jerked his handlebars from side to side. "It's a sport. It's not for women, children, or the elderly, or the infirm. They can recreate, within limits, on tricycles and safeties. But real cycling necessitates an ordinary, a high wheeler, like this one. Real cycling is for men with dexterity and skill. The day we cease to value the achievements of the strong so we can cater to the whims of the weak—that day is the day I die. The day our society dies."

"I wish I had my sphygmograph now," murmured James. "Mr. Deighton, I can hear your circulatory system."

"I hire out Rovers." Griffith addressed himself to James. "If you want to try one yourself." His gaze brushed Muriel's. "Either of you."

"You are the proprietor of the St. Ives bicycle shop?" Deighton listed precipitously and came back to equilibrium with notable strain. His thighs looked ready to burst the seams of his knickerbockers. "I saw the advertisement. You give lessons! And you can't even ride."

"I can ride." Griffith shrugged.

"Riding a safety—even if you aren't unseated—isn't riding."

"I can ride a high wheeler as well. I've raced high wheelers. I have three at the shop."

Deighton lit up. "A competition, then."

"You want to race?" Griffith's brows lifted. "There's no track. We could—"

"Joust!" crowed Deighton.

"Joust," echoed James. "As in, joust?" He cut his eyes toward Muriel. "Aren't you glad I brought my surgical bag now? I say, old boy." He looked back at Deighton. "Do you always travel with lances?"

"I'll fashion the lances." Deighton bared square, white teeth. "Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow's Sunday." Griffith inclined his head. "Remember the Sabbath. They certainly do in St. Ives."

"Monday, then."

"Brilliant." Griffith smoothed his cravat. "Shall we say four in the afternoon?"

"Brilliant."

"The pasture at Rosewall Farm?"

"Brilliant."

"None of this is brilliant," interjected Muriel. "Diverting, possibly. Brilliant, no."

"Will you attend?" asked Griffith. His eyes locked on hers, their expression unreadable.

A tingle started at the top of her spine and ended up in her toes.

What would it be like? A seduction that wasn't…slight.

She turned toward the stone wall, to retrieve the basket, and her eyes fell to the mangled plant at the wall's base.

The accident did have a casualty. The columbine had been shredded by the tire of Griffith's bicycle. The flower was gone, as though it had never been.

Time to remember she wasn't superstitious.

And to remember she had a purpose here.

She picked up the basket and turned back to Griffith.

"I have an engagement on Monday," she said. "Sadly, I will miss the joust."

She hurried to James, and Griffith wheeled his bike to them, and, at last, the path was clear. Deighton launched forward with a howl. The air he displaced as he hurtled away smelled of hot rubber and grease.

"We're going this way." Muriel pointed.

"I'm going the other way." Griffith pointed, and a little pause ensued. "Enjoy your picnic."

"Impossible." James shook his head. "It's Irish moss and seawater. Enjoy your joust."

"I believe I will," said Griffith, and he dinged his bell. His smile was wide and somehow indecent, far too transfixing for ordinary interaction.

The backs of Muriel's knees went damp.

And then he was pedaling off.

She released her breath, and James glanced at her, eyes dancing. He looked away, then back. He drew a breath.

"Don't," she warned. He began to laugh.

"Stop." She nudged him, so hard the jars clinked in the basket. "I thought your lips were too dry."

"They are," said James, and kept laughing.