Chapter 2
“Thisisahuntinglodge?”
Howard Barrowman, nicknamed Barrel by the rest of the Rotherham Rovers for his rotund build and ability to hold copious volumes of wine, slapped Archie on the back with enough force to send him stumbling forward. “If it has ale, I don’t care if we’re at a bloody palace.”
They’d barely stepped out of the hired hack before Archie’s jaw dropped at the sight of the structure hosting the traditional gathering of players. The late afternoon sun cast brindled streams of gold across the manicured lawns as it pushed through the ancient oaks bordering the pastures beyond. Leaded windows studded the three-story façade, twice as wide as it was tall. Warm electric light poured through the open French doors and from the torchieres placed at intervals along the flagstone path to the front door. Archie unrolled the sleeves of his linen shirt down his forearms,buttoning the cuffs before sliding his jacket over his tweed waistcoat. “Do they know we’re rugby players?”
Barrel licked his palm, then slicked the top of his ruddy hair into submission. “If not, they’re about to find out!”
Archie winced, rubbed the back of his neck as they approached the house. He’d been sore before the game started, having stayed up far too late the night before, bent over contracts for a business acquisition. Starting his own legal practice meant he took any work sent his way, even if he wasn’t an expert in that area of the law. Last week, he’d solved a dispute between two neighboring farmers over a turnip field before settling an estate argument over a potentially haunted grandfather clock. He would do anything, it seemed, if the money continued to fill his fledgling coffers.
“I’d love to stay longer, Barrel, but you know I’m an early riser.”
Barrel chuckled. “You’re not a farm boy anymore. The cows won’t miss you.” He guffawed at his joke—if one could call it that—then threw himself through the wide front doors and into the palatial building. Archie followed and stumbled at the sight.
The entryway alone could fit his family’s entire farmhouse, stretching two stories high with thick wooden beams supporting a balcony that wrapped entirely around the second floor. The walls were barely visible beneath a riotous display of taxidermied game animals alongside portraits of the long-deceased men who presumably sent said creatures to their demise. Servants in matching livery fluttered between the rooms on either side, one billowing smoke and the distinctive clatter of snooker balls colliding. The other room housed a kaleidoscope of society in the mantleof recreational rugby players—factory workers, tradesmen, professionals, and farmers—sitting at baize-covered tables and being dealt cards by footmen.
Archie let out a low whistle but broke off his assessment when Owen Morgan, a veteran of the Welsh national squad who enjoyed a rousing game of chess as much as pummeling opposing players, punched his arm and grunted in greeting. Archie was the team’s captain, but Owen served as the de facto manager, de facto in that he resisted the title but refused to hire or appoint anyone else for the task. He’d left Wales two decades prior after a disagreement—the story had long become the stuff of legends, and Archie doubted it would be unearthed until Owen was in his grave. Upon first seeing the Rotherham Rovers during a regular practice, Owen dubbed them hopeless and appointed himself as the Rovers’ leader.
“Evening, Owen,” Archie said with a grin, clapping the smaller man on the shoulder. Most men were smaller than Archie, but that fact irritated Owen to no end.
“Ah, go play wit’ yer granny,” Owen grumbled and stomped his cane on the floor, and Archie chuckled. “I need ye to meet the countess.”
Archie nearly choked on his tongue. “There’s acountesshere?” Had he hit his head harder than he’d thought during the match?
Owen rolled his eyes in a movement so reminiscent of Archie’s younger sister that Archie almost laughed aloud. “It’s her place. Her husband’s a patron o’ the Hornets, so show yer manners.”
For a man dependent on a cane, Owen propelled Archie with remarkable ease through the throng to the woman holding court by the entrance to the card room. “Milady,” Owen bellowed, sounding more like an Oxford don than a grizzled Welsh expat, “the captain of the Rotherham Rovers, Mr. Archie—hell, what’s yer last name again?”
Archie winced, but bowed his head. “A pleasure, milady. I appreciate your hospitality.”
The countess—Archie didn’t think he’d met a real countess before—was not what he’d expected. For one, she was far from a stalwart society dame, but perhaps a decade his senior with chestnut hair in a loose braid over her shoulder, dressed in a shirtwaist, riding breeches, and boots. She grinned at him and extended her hand. “Call me Lily, and I’m thrilled you could be here. Less thrilled with how the game turned out, particularlyyourcontributions on the pitch. Three tries, if I recall?”
The tension drained from his spine like a plug had been pulled from a tub. “And a penalty, milady.”
“Damn,” the countess said with an exaggerated grimace. “I’d hoped you’d forgotten.”
He grinned. The Rovers considered him their most reputable member, in that his profession as a barrister required him to interact with some of the higher echelons of society while arguing in court, as well as the dregs of it. He knew how to adapt, to change himself to be what the other expected, to charm and leave those surrounding him comfortable. Consequently, he often was called upon to be the spokesperson, the exemplar of a Rover off the field.He’d chased that feeling most of his life, the knowledge that he was setting an example to be proud of, not someone spoken of in hushed tones, a person to be avoided.
A person like his father.
And he’d pleased their hostess, thus fulfilling his obligation to the team. Between his performance on the pitch and at the party, the Rovers might keep him on another season and forgive his divided attention and increasingly poor attendance. “I apologize, milady—Lily. When we welcome you to Rotherham next, I’ll do my best to be more hospitable and score less,” he said with his most charming smile.
“Archie’s great at bein’ hospitable,” Barrel interjected with a lecherous chuckle, but Archie shot him a silencing glare.
Archie enjoyed flirting, and while the countess was beautiful, nothing would pass between them. The lady was married, and adultery was a line he would never cross. Besides, and he loathed to admit it, he hadn’t experienced more than a passing attraction to anyone in months, not since he’d started his own practice and thrown himself into the numbing existence of keeping it afloat. Bedding a woman he hardly knew felt like yet another chore, something else to fit into the fleeting hours of the day.
“Come along,” the countess said, pulling Archie from his thoughts with a tilt of her chin towards the card room. “A celebratory drink is in order.”
Moments later, Archie clutched a crystal flute that was far too delicate for his massive hand, drinking champagne far too fine for his pedestrian taste.
“To the Rovers!” the countess bellowed, and both sides called out in response. Pewter tankards and glass collided in a cacophony of inebriated celebration. Archie tossed back his champagne and rubbed his nose as the bubbles tickled.
Another round followed, and when the countess bade her farewell to attend to other guests, he set his glass down on the bar and nodded to his teammates. “Enjoy your evening, gents.”
Owen shot his cane out to block his path. “Like hell, ye’re leavin’. The sun isn’t even down.”
Archie glanced out the French doors, their gossamer curtains billowing in the breeze. Indeed, the sun’s curve was straining over the horizon, painting the rolling hills in shades of lavender and gold. “I have to get up early.”
