Chapter Five

"L adies, please, quiet down now—please, we really need to get something done today," Mrs. Myfanwy Everett cried, clapping her hands together loudly. "I know everyone is excited to reconvene, but I absolutely must return home before Samuel realizes I'm gone. If he finds out, he won't let me out of his sight until the baby is born. I love my husband, but I'm beginning to realize there's something to that old saying, ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder.'"

Lady Jennifer Bramble rolled her eyes playfully at her friend. Her equally growing belly added evidence that so much had changed since Ruthie first joined the London Ladies Cricket Club last season. "You shouldn't have come! I told you that we didn't need to meet at the clubhouse; we could have gone to your home instead."

Myfanwy pulled a face, swiping a few errant brown wisps of hair off her forehead. "No, I needed to get out of there. Samuel has taken to hovering. He's always next to me, asking if I'm all right or if I need anything. The second he told me he had to spend the day at the Flying Batsman, I knew that was my chance."

Ruthie lifted her eyebrows at her friend, Miss Anna Smythe—nay, now Lady Anna—and suppressed the smile on her lips. Surprising no one, Myfanwy had married the team's surly coach, Samuel Everett, at the end of last season and was now abundantly with child. Along with his other numerous business ventures and a cricket career, Samuel owned the inn that sat next to the club's new field and clubhouse.

"I'm confused," a brown-haired woman replied, scrunching her nose in thought. Lady Maggie had joined the group around the same time as Ruthie, although they hadn't formed an easy friendship. Even though Maggie was the daughter of a marquis, Ruthie's mother ordered her to keep her distance from the lady during Society events. She referred to Maggie as a "tomboy," and not in a good way. "Aren't we all supposed to want husbands who lavish us with attention and care?" Maggie asked.

Myfanwy returned a wry grin that didn't reach her eyes. "Well, you know what they say about too much of anything…"

The group chuckled as the captain attempted to wrangle their attention. "Let me speak and get this over with. I can't sit for more than ten minutes without my lower back aching. Now I know why God chose women to carry the babies; men wouldn't have been able to handle it."

Jennifer patted Myfanwy's hand. "Get to the point, dearest. We don't want to scare the poor girls away from having children."

"Too late," Maggie quipped.

"All right… Where was I?" Myfanwy went on. "Honestly, I can't keep a thought in my head for more than a—"

Jennifer broke in. "Myfanwy!"

The captain's back straightened. "Yes, indeed. I know we have a few more months before the season begins, and I can't wait until we're once again training for our match with the matrons. I have no doubt we will clobber them this year and every year after."

A round of affirmations came from the ladies.

"Are they still calling themselves the Matrons Cricket Club?" Lady Anna asked. "Some of us are married now, which is why we changed our name. Why don't they?"

"They aren't exactly fans of change," Lady Everly replied wryly. She would know, thought Ruthie. The matrons had politely kicked Lady Everly out of their club after her late husband died. And just as the matrons refused to change, so did Lady Everly refuse to let that old wound heal. Even now at the mention of her old club, her lips puckered as if she'd just swallowed a lemon.

Ruthie would never breathe this confession to anyone, but Lady Everly tended to frighten her. Yes, the lady was a few years older than her, no doubt wiser and world-wearier, but it was more than that. The beautiful woman spoke with a confident forwardness that Ruthie was certain she would never obtain. Lady Everly's severity reminded Ruthie so much of her own mother, and she didn't appreciate those reminders whenever she was lucky enough to be out of the house.

"Ladies," Myfanwy cut in, "we're not here to discuss the matrons and their lack of creativity"—she lowered her voice—"or their lack of talent. The reason I've called you here today is to let you in on some great news! As you know, Lady Anna put on a clinic a few months ago to introduce our beloved sport to young girls. Well, I don't need to remind you that it was a resounding success. The turnout for the event was better than we could have imagined."

The group broke into an animated round of applause. Lady Anna lowered her chin, her cheeks blooming red. "It wasn't just me," she said bashfully. "I couldn't have done it without Lady Everly and Miss Ruthie."

The applause turned to Ruthie, and it was her turn to blush. Needless to say, accolades weren't something she experienced often—especially at the cricket club. Even she could admit that the sport didn't come naturally to her, and she was far from the best player on the team…maybe close to the worst. However, she had to give herself some credit. Mr. Everett's coaching style was ruthless yet effective, and she was making decent strides. By the end of last season, she'd stopped being considered an easy out whenever she was up to bat. She still had leagues to go before being as great as Myfanwy or Jennifer, but Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither would her cricket career be.

"You all did wonderfully," Jennifer announced through the cheers. "It was a monumental undertaking."

"It certainly was," Myfanwy agreed. "And it helped us gain some much-needed exposure that will allow us to take our little show on the road."

Anna paused in sipping her tea. "On the road?"

"Yes," Myfanwy replied excitedly. "I've been contacted by a few women's teams outside the city—not too far, but far enough. They've asked if we would put on clinics for them and also play in a few exhibition games for their towns. And they actually want to pay us to come! Isn't that wonderful?"

Ruthie scooted to the edge of her seat. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Getting paid to play cricket? Putting on more clinics for women? It all sounded like a dream.

"How far is far ?" Anna asked. Ruthie's excitement abated as she regarded her friend. Anna hadn't told the group that she, too, was with child. Speaking of dreams, having a child was Anna's, and she'd never thought that it would happen. Now that it was almost within her grasp, there was no way she would let anything jeopardize it.

"Not too far," Myfanwy replied, inspecting her nails despite the fact she was wearing lace gloves.

"Myfi," Lady Everly drawled. "How far?"

Myfanwy faced the group. "Just Exeter and Bath…and maybe Ipswich and Manchester."

"Exeter!" Lady Everly cried. "They've heard of us all the way in Cornwall?"

"It's Devon, not Cornwall," Maggie cut in.

"Close enough," Lady Everly muttered.

"I've never been to Manchester before," Jennifer said. "It sounds so exotic."

Maggie scoffed. "Manchester? Exotic?" She snorted, and Ruthie could practically hear her mother tsking in her ear. "It's full of factories and smells even worse than the Thames on a hot day. Also, it's full of Irish people."

"What's wrong with Irish people?" Ruthie asked tetchily.

Maggie shrugged, casting her a curious look. "Nothing," she said slowly. "It's just something my father always says. There's just a lot… That's all."

Ruthie sat back in her seat, squeezing her hands together. That was odd. Why had Maggie's comment made her so upset? She felt the entire group watching her and wished she could hide behind her chair.

"Anyway," Myfanwy went on, steering the focus back to her, "by my calculations, we could be on the road for three to four weeks. Since the season is winding down and everyone is retreating to the country for summer, I think it's perfect timing. I'm already negotiating houses for us to stay in, families that have the rooms to accommodate us—and who are perfectly respectable, so no one's parents should balk. Besides, Jennifer and I—and now Anna—are perfectly suitable married ladies and will make wonderful, responsible "—her smile turned malicious—"chaperones for all of you."

Ruthie's excitement plummeted. As Myfanwy's news created fresh rounds of animated chatter, she had an indescribable desire to melt into a puddle on the carpet. Three weeks? Away from home? Her mother would never allow it. It didn't matter that the season was winding down. Her mother's only goal this year was to see her eldest daughter suitably engaged —which meant to the richest man who would take her. So far, Ruthie's Season had been an unmitigated disappointment; however, the lack of suitors didn't make her mother more despondent, only more determined.

"I'll be making calls on all your mothers," Myfanwy continued, "to make sure that everyone is comfortable with the arrangement. In the meantime, brush up on your skills. I know we're probably rusty, since we've been lazing about all winter. Don't worry, though—I'll schedule some practices for us before we leave. Nothing too intimidating, maybe five or six…maybe ten or twenty. Let me think on it."

Ruthie slouched back in her chair as the whirlwind of conversations took off around her. She didn't have anything to think on. Her club was going to leave the city for a month, and she wouldn't be able to join them. And ever since Harry Holmes uncovered her ruse at the Lucky Fish, she'd been too timid to ask Reggie to take her to another gaming hall. Time was running out, as were her options. If Ruthie didn't recoup her brother's losses soon, her mother would throw her to the highest bidder in an effort to save the family in the short term.

It was all too much.

And it was all Ruthie's fault.

For a brief moment, she'd allowed herself to have high hopes in a different purpose. A different kind of future than the one mapped out for her.

She'd taken a chance on herself and was coming up short.

*

Lady Celeste glided into the foyer the moment Ruthie closed the front door. The epitome of femininity and gentle breeding, Ruthie's mother never rushed or gave the vulgar notion that she was any place other than exactly where she was supposed to be. And to Ruthie's disappointment, that place was usually right over her shoulder, watching her like a beautiful and ruthless hawk.

"Finally!" Lady Celeste exclaimed, helping Ruthie take off her lightweight shawl to hand to the maid. "I didn't expect your little club to run so long. Lord Dawkins dropped in. He mentioned that we all might take a walk in the park today. I told him you'd be delighted. Straighten your shoulders, dear. No one wants a warped wife."

Lady Celeste had been too focused on her daughter's shoulders to notice her expression. Ruthie was quite positive that men didn't desire wives who looked like they wanted to spit each time they were referenced.

"Do I have time for tea?" she asked, moving to the drawing room, her mother one elegant step behind. Her legs were half the length of Ruthie's, yet, still, she always managed to keep up with her daughter's long gait with minimal effort, as if she were floating instead of walking.

"Yes, but do it quickly, please," Lady Celeste replied before asking the maid to bring in a tray with tea and only tea —no biscuits. "And don't make a mess. We don't have time for you to change. He'll be here any minute."

Ruthie sighed, sinking into her seat. The last thing she wanted to do was spend the afternoon being judged and inspected by her mother and Lord Dawkins. The viscount had visited twice in two weeks, and Ruthie couldn't understand why he kept coming back. He only ever spoke with her mother and barely looked at her, which stood to reason, since he was closer to her mother's age, and Lady Celeste was undeniably lovely. It was the same for all of Ruthie's suitors—if one could even call them that. The men her mother foisted on her never suited her.

"Mind your dress, Ruthie," her mother ordered her. "Maybe you shouldn't be sitting. I'd hate for it to wrinkle more than it already has."

Ruthie's neck wilted, but she refused to stand. For some sad reason, this little form of disobedience felt like she'd won a small war.

"Ruthie, please," my mother said. "Your shoulders. I've told you—women of your height need to be aware of their poor posture. If you keep that up, you'll look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame."

Ruthie couldn't hide her exasperation at her mother's chuckle. Nor could she contain the sardonic bitterness in her voice when she replied, "Really, Mother? You believe that my poor posture might one day turn me into a hideous, reclusive monster that makes women weep and children cry?"

Lady Celeste swatted her daughter's knee playfully. "Not if Lord Dawkins has anything to say about it!" When Ruthie's countenance didn't change, her mother tried again. "I was only joking, love. There's no reason to stay so sour. I only want the best for you. I know you think I'm being hard on you, but it's for your own good. You'll understand when you have your own daughter one day."

Ruthie sulked. "When I have my own daughter, I won't force her to spend time with men who aren't interested in her or constantly harass her by pointing out her faults—"

She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. Had she really just that? Out loud? In front of her mother?

What was the matter with her? Ruthie didn't have to think on that question too long. She knew the reason too well. A dismal cloud of pity had trailed her the entire way home from the cricket club meeting, and it had only swelled heavier and blacker with each step.

The maid entered the room with the tea, setting it up on the side table next to Ruthie. The light clinking noises sounded like the bells of Notre Dame as Ruthie waited for her mother to speak, which would happen the second the maid left. Lady Celeste's pale, lineless face was pinched, as if the words were trying to tear out of her mouth, but she wouldn't dare reproach her daughter in front of the servant.

"I'm sorry, Mother," Ruthie rushed out the moment the maid was gone. "I didn't mean it. I know you only want what's best for me." Her conscience was racked with guilt—not because of her rude comment, but because she wanted to say so much more but had, as ever, lost her nerve.

Lady Celeste took her time, wallowing in the apology. Slowly, methodically, she ran one finger along her temple like she was searching for a stray piece of her rich russet hair to put back in its place. It was an act. Nothing was ever out of place on Lady Celeste. From the top of her hair to the tips of her shoes, the lady always looked the part. And would spend the majority of her life making sure her daughter did as well.

Whenever she was alone with her mother, Ruthie often thought of balance and how the world needed it to make sense. Heaven had its hell, men had their women, and the summer had its winter. Now, Lady Celeste had her daughter. One of the greatest beauties of the ton had a plain, gawky giantess for a child. The notion created some kind of order. Because who could have everything ?

In her day, Lady Celeste had made a decent match. Her father had only been a baronet, and she'd married a baron—an incredibly handsome one. They had caused quite the stir in London. People would attend the same balls as the couple if only to stand in the periphery of their luminous selves. They were a lively pair, gay and fun, and always the last to leave an event.

But…balance.

The partying, the fun, had taken its toll. The marriage became tempestuous and volatile. Gossips gleefully filled Society papers with the marvelous rows the couple had. And after three children, the baronet refused to slow down. He continued to attend the same balls and soirees as before—only without his capricious wife. In the end, there was nothing original about the story. The fashionable crowd had heard it time and time before. Men tired of wives. Women tired of husbands and sought outside pleasures to hide the disappointment. The baron may have boasted a gorgeous figure, but he never had a head for money. And he quickly spent his own as well as his wife's.

Life was the one party that the baron left too early. When he died, Ruthie had just turned ten. Her brother, Mason, was barely twenty and would now be the head of the family, with an inconsequential title and very little in the coffers.

But…balance.

Lady Celeste had two daughters and, by God, she would make the most of them.

Ruthie tensed, sipping her tea silently, waiting for the tirade. But it didn't happen. Instead, Lady Celeste lowered into the chair next to her daughter. Ruthie watched her mother carefully, surprised at how tired she looked, how the bags under her eyes were more pronounced than usual, full of colors that juxtaposed with the woman's creamy, even visage.

When her mother finally spoke, her voice was haunted and grave, a figment of the real thing. "You know the money's gone. Been gone for years," she said, clasping her hands together primly in her lap.

Ruthie swallowed the lump in her throat. "I do," she croaked. It was something the entire household knew but never spoke about. Their situation must be dire if her mother had deigned to acknowledge it now.

Lady Celeste went on. "Your brother is doing his best, but we might… Well, we might have to leave town soon." She blinked slowly. "Perhaps live with my brother and his family in Berkshire. We would rent out this house to…make ends meet."

Doing his best? Doing his best ? If by "doing his best," her mother meant that Mason was putting the family even more into debt, then yes, he was doing his best!

But Ruthie only had the heart for one outburst that day, and she curbed her ire.

"Where is Mason?" she asked instead.

"He's still sleeping. I was told he came in late last night."

Ruthie snorted. "Of course he did."

Lady Celeste's bright eyes narrowed. "Your brother is making contacts, doing all things a young lord needs to do in the city."

Ruthie's fingers whitened around her teacup. If she was the ever-devoted daughter from the Bible, then Mason was the prodigal son who was always welcomed back to his family's table and given a place of honor.

"You should only support your brother," Lady Celeste insisted. "He is trying to do what's best for this family."

"While I'm the sacrificial lamb being sent out to slaughter?" Ruthie slapped her hand over her mouth once more.

Lady Celeste's eyes had turned into slits. "A bride is hardly a sacrificial lamb. I'm giving you a life, not taking one away."

Ruthie scoffed, all her willpower retreating. So much for being the dutiful daughter. "By selling me off to a man who is old enough to be my father?"

"Lord Dawkins is a viscount!"

"An old viscount who only looks at my chest!"

"Because his head only comes up to your chest. It's not his fault he's short!"

A knock banged on the front door.

"Oh, he's here!" Lady Celeste exclaimed, hopping to her feet. She glided over to a glass cabinet against the wall, pinching her cheeks while checking her reflection—an unnecessary action, since Ruthie's comments had already made her face and neck red.

Ruthie lumbered to the window that looked onto the street and peeked out the lace curtain. Indeed, a gentleman was waiting outside the front door, only it couldn't possibly be Lord Dawkins. For starters, he was much too tall and had too much hair. Too much black hair. Raven hair…

The gentleman turned around on the steps, glancing her way, and Ruthie stumbled back from the window, throwing the curtains from her fingers. She must be hallucinating. It couldn't be him . What was he doing here?

Although Ruthie was struck into a daze, the lies tumbled out of her mouth. "It's only Reggie, Mother," she said, running out of the room. "I'll tell him that we don't have time to talk now."

"Tell him to come back tomorrow," Lady Celeste called. "And don't scream like a hoyden. Don't run, either."

Ruthie beat the butler to the door, slamming her hand over the handle before him. "I'll open it, Baker. It's Reggie."

With a slight, disbelieving sniff, Baker stood down, giving Ruthie a curious glance before retreating from the foyer.

Ruthie closed her eyes and took a steadying breath before yanking the door open.

Mr. Harry Holmes faced her on the doorstep, his hand poised in the air to knock once more. Freshly shaven and smartly dressed, he was a different man from the last time she'd seen him. For starters, he wasn't covered in blood. A man in the prime of his life, he stood tall, healthy, and full of vitality. Lady Celeste would have approved of his posture.

"What. In the world. Are you. Doing. Here?"

Harry flashed his white teeth. "Well, it isn't the best greeting I've ever received, but certainly not the worst." His brow lowered as he sobered. "No matter. I came to tell you I owe you ten pounds." He ducked his head, his smile turning sheepish. "And that I'd like you to be my wife."