Chapter Sixteen

"I can't believe you didn't beat the brother senseless," Samuel Everett remarked wistfully, never taking his eyes off the pitch. "No doubt in your colorful career you've retired men for slighter offenses."

Harry reacted with an infinitesimal nod. That was a polite way of putting it, which was odd, since Samuel Everett was rarely polite. He was also rarely seen much these days, as he was expecting his first child with his wife, Myfanwy. And when he wasn't attempting to keep her safe in their home, he was at the London Ladies Cricket Club screaming at his players.

Standing next to him on the boundary while Samuel hollered at the poor girls was as close to having a heart-to-heart conversation with a friend as Harry could get. They hadn't always been on friendly terms—there was that prickly situation between Harry and Myfanwy—but the men had grown closer over the past year as they became business partners and Harry had become a greater benefactor to the club.

Harry would never tell Samuel this—and Samuel wouldn't care to hear it—but he valued their time together, even when Samuel barely acknowledged him. Harry needed this sense of balance in his life, especially since Samuel Everett never gambled and remained as far away from London's underbelly as he could get. Harry found the man unusual, exasperating, and refreshing, their talks even more so.

"I wanted to smash my skull into his sweaty face," Harry admitted. "But I didn't think my wife would appreciate it."

"That's rather magnanimous for a man who was at death's door a couple weeks ago. As to that, did you ever find out who done it? Who wanted to take a bite out of you this time? Bennie told me it was one of Dugan's men, but I thought you'd worked everything out with them."

"So had I, but I didn't come to talk about that," Harry said. He didn't tell Samuel that he'd actually held a meeting with Dugan that morning at the man's favored pub down by the docks. Over a drink, Dugan swore that he hadn't been behind the shooting, nor had he heard who was. A large son of a bitch, Seamus Dugan had hair the color of a carrot and hands like potatoes, thick and knobby. He was young and impetuous, quickly making a name for himself in the underworld—but he wasn't a liar. Harry believed that the dangerous man would sooner slice a throat than utter a falsehood when his character was in question.

So Harry had done all he could do. He'd taken Dugan at his word, finished his drink, and shoved off, no closer to knowing who'd spilled his blood than he had the day before. Vine must have got bad information. It happened. Or someone was trying to frame Dugan. That happened just as often. Regardless, Harry didn't feel like dumping all this on Samuel's door. Not when he had more important things to talk about—like money.

"Holly told me that orders keep pouring in for the miracle muscle-relaxing tincture. She's finding it difficult to keep up with demand. I told her to hire more workers. She wants to expand as well, has some ideas about other tonics that the girls at the club use, for their hair and other things. What do you think?"

"Fine, fine, that's fine. Whatever you decide is best," Samuel replied absent-mindedly before taking four angry steps forward. "No! Two hands! Two hands, Maggie! Christ, you can barely catch the ball with two hands. What makes you think you should do it with one? Think!" He backed up again, in line with Harry. "Sorry about that. Now what were you saying?"

Harry regarded his friend, shaking his head. "Do you care about anything other than cricket?"

Samuel snorted. "Obviously. She's over there on the sidelines glaring at me because I won't let her play. You understand; you've got a wife now. How the hell did that happen, by the way?"

At the mention of Ruthie, Harry searched for her among the players. It didn't take long. He found her by herself, far out in the field, fielding. Her hands were clasped in front of her, as if she were praying no one would hit the ball in her direction.

"What do you mean, how ?" Harry said. "I asked. Eventually, she said yes."

"Ha!" Samuel snorted again. "I doubt it was that easy. Miss Ruthie doesn't seem like your type."

"It's Mrs. Holmes now. And what exactly is my type?"

Samuel squinted against the sun, holding his hand up above his eyes. "I don't know. Someone…worldlier."

"Worldlier? Like a whore?"

Samuel finally turned to him. "No! That's not what I mean. I just…thought you'd want someone more talkative, less afraid of her own shadow. And yes, maybe a whore."

"Ruthie's not afraid of her shadow. She can be quiet, but she's not a wallflower by any means."

Samuel gave him a dubious look. "The woman never speaks in front of me. She's terrified of me."

"Because you're a terrifying fucking person!"

Samuel chuckled. "That's rich coming from you. I've seen one look from you make a man piss his pants."

Harry crossed his arms. "Well, my wife is stronger than you think. And I think you've spent too much time around Myfanwy, who throws out her opinion whether anyone wants it or not."

Samuel nodded, focus back on the field. Harry rolled his eyes as he watched the besotted man's expression soften. "My wife is an assertive woman, that is true. And I wouldn't have her any other way."

"Neither would I have my wife any other way."

"Well, that's lovely to hear," Samual replied. "I'm so glad everything is working out for you. Truly, I am. I just love it when one of my players finds her knight in shining armor and throws her life into chaos right before a new season."

Harry tensed at the blatant condescension, especially as Samuel crept closer.

"But your wife— my player —has dropped two catches today and was dismissed three times without scoring any runs. Ruthie isn't my best player, but she tries. She tries so damn hard, and that means everything to me. A person can't ask for more. So you can understand why I'm confused that she'd played so poorly when I know she's a hell of a lot better than that." His voice sharpened. "If you do anything to ruin her game— upset her —I will stomp your fucking teeth in. Do you hear me?"

Harry nodded.

Samuel grinned. He slapped Harry on the back and charged onto the field. "I'm glad we understand one another. Congratulations again!"

*

"I didn't know that you were coming," Ruthie said, falling into step with her husband as she left the field. She waved goodbye to Anna one last time as Anna's husband helped her into their carriage.

"I thought I would surprise you," Harry said. "Was it a good surprise?"

"Of course," Ruthie replied. "I just… I didn't play well today. Samuel was upset."

"Samuel's always upset," he remarked dryly.

"He's always so patient with me. I just don't want to let him down."

"You won't. You just need to show more confidence. Look like you're ready for the ball. Like you want the ball."

"But I don't want it!" Ruthie cried, wringing her hands. "Every time the ball comes near me, I panic. I'm afraid I'll make a mistake and let down the team."

"That's horseshit," he replied. "You need to want the ball. You need to believe that you're the best person who can make the play. You need to imagine yourself hitting the game-winning runs. And then it will happen, trust me."

"I don't think I could even imagine that," Ruthie joked.

He nudged her with his elbow. "And I bet you never could have imagined being married to me, either. And look at you now. Confidence, darling. All it takes is confidence."

Harry let his advice sink in, and they walked side by side for another few seconds, each lost in their own thoughts. He felt oddly content, but then again, he always enjoyed walking on grass. No cracks to be found.

When it became apparent that Ruthie wasn't going to divulge anymore, he broke the silence. "Was there something on your mind today? Something that made it difficult to concentrate on the field?" He hesitated, annoyed that Samuel's comment had got to him. "Something that I did?"

Ruthie's brow pinched as she stared at her. "No. Why would you think that?"

He shrugged.

She sighed. "If you must know, I spoke to my mother today."

"Ah."

"Indeed," she replied. "And she never disappoints."

"At what?"

"At being herself."

Harry locked his hands behind his back. The urge to tap was growing. "I could sense that about her when we met. I went by the house. I didn't tell you. I wanted to…but it didn't go as pleasantly as I would have liked."

Ruthie laughed darkly. "Yes, she told me. You shouldn't have gone. I could have saved you from being treated that way."

"Oh, I'm used to being treated that way. Your mother just had the nerve to do it to my face."

"Yes, the woman has confidence," Ruthie muttered. "She's never lacked for that. I suppose it's because she's so beautiful, used to everyone jumping to do her bidding."

"She's an attractive woman, but beautiful? I don't think so."

"Harry," Ruthie drawled. "You don't have to pretend to make me feel better. Everyone with eyes can see how lovely she is. Do you know that Eugene Delacroix asked to paint her once? My grandfather wouldn't let her because the artist insisted she be nude!"

"Huh." Harry chuckled, rubbing his jaw. "I think your mother might be lying to you. Now that I've seen her up close, she bears a startling resemblance to Liberty in his masterpiece."

"Oh stop!" She laughed, slapping his arm playfully. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"Quite all right," Harry said. He reached for her hand and placed it on his arm like they were any other couple enjoying a walk together. Who knew? Maybe they could be. As long as he wore his gloves.

"Why did you go to her?" he continued. "What did you need? I hope you're not worried about your clothing. I've already told Ernest to go shopping for you today. He was beyond excited."

Ruthie's smile was purely for his benefit. "Nothing. I mean, I asked about my clothes and things, but that wasn't really why I went there." She flicked something from her eye. "I went there to help, or to at least offer help, and she turned me away. She told me that she didn't want anything from me—us. She said I'd ruined everything, ruined the family in Society."

Harry took out his handkerchief and handed it to her. After wiping her tears, Ruthie gave it back to him, and he took it at once. Without hesitating, he put it back in his pocket, not even shuddering while he did it. He would have smiled if he wasn't sure she would have taken it the wrong way.

"You didn't ruin a damn thing. Do you think anyone will have the balls to slight my wife? Your place is safe, believe me. You might not be drinking tea with the queen anytime soon, but I'm sure I can work on that if it's what you want."

That got a truer smile out of her. "I don't need to take tea with the queen."

"Who, then? The prime minister? The archbishop?"

"No, thank you."

"Just as well. The man's breath is terrible."

"How do you know that?"

"How do you think? He loves the roulette table. Can't get enough of it."

"Oh," Ruthie said quietly.

Harry was getting desperate. He hated seeing her so down and plaintive. He wanted to order his wife to make a list of all her problems so he could go about fixing them in an organized manner.

Her fingers curled into his arm. "Why is it," she started slowly, "the people that need the most help never accept it?"

"Pride, I suppose," he answered. "Also, charity is a tricky thing. Most people want to feel like they've worked for what they have, that they've truly earned it."

"I never thought it would be this difficult."

"People are difficult."

"You're not."

Harry shot her an incredulous look. "I am the most difficult."

Ruthie shook her head. "Not to me. To me you've been nothing short of perfect."

"I doubt that."

"Well, maybe not perfect. But"—she blushed, glancing at his necktie—"you're trying. And that's more than a lot of people do."

Squinting, Harry leaned away, appraising his wife dramatically. "Look at you, Ruthie Holmes. You sound positively worldly."

She slapped him on the arm once more, wearing a shy smile. "Why are you so surprised? I am worldly," she announced. "Very worldly."

And Harry, who once considered change to be the root of all evil, was trying.

He wondered what Samuel would have to say about that.