Benedict Rutherford laughed himself into a coughing fit, then clapped Gavin on the shoulder with a jovial “What sport!” before falling back into animated conversation with his wife and Mr. Teasdale. Even Lady Stanton had unfrozen long enough to smile at her daughter.
Before Gavin had an opportunity to assimilate this new turn of events—much less join his voice with the others—a chest-high blonde launched herself into his arms, squeezed him tightly, then seized hold of his hand to drag him forward through the crowd.
“Thanks ever so much, Uncle Lioncroft! This is the best birthday! Ever! Oh—look! Are those the mallets we’re to use? Such colors! May I pick any one I want? I want the pink one. No, the yellow. Which one is yours? If yours is the yellow, I’ll take the pink. Unless yours is the pink, in which case I’ll take the—”
“Jane,” he managed to interject at last. “I have no claim on any particular color, as this is the first time the set has been used. You may use any mallet you wish.”
“Oh! Truly? I’ll take the pink one, then. It’s lovely. This is so exciting! I’ve never played pall-mall before. May I be on your team?”
“No,” cried two small voices. The twins ambushed him from behind and clung to each of his legs. “We’re Uncle Lioncroft’s team.”
“You are your own team,” he explained, attempting quite unsuccessfully to continue walking with a five-year-old attached to each thigh. “There are no teams in pall-mall. Everyone gets a wooden mallet and a ball, and everyone takes turns knocking them through the wickets.”
“What’s a wicket?” the twins chorused.
“The iron hoops sticking out of the grass.” He pointed them out. “See the little metal arches? Those are wickets. May I have my legs back now?”
No sooner was the question out of his mouth before the twins were off and running toward the mallets. They tugged the topmost colors from the pile and lurched back toward him, dragging the mallets behind them and leaving a trail of displaced sod in their wake. His gardener might be less than pleased, but Gavin found himself, for the first time in years, tempted by the uncontrollable urge to throw back his head and laugh. Rather than make a spectacle of himself, however, he knelt down to eye level with the twins before shaking his head and chuckling.
Nonetheless, the sound did not go unnoticed.
Miss Pemberton glanced at him, then just as quickly away. The Stanton chit stared at him as if he’d grown another head, which was pretty much how she regarded him on a regular basis. Benedict and Francine Rutherford looked from him to the ruined grass to the twins and started laughing themselves. Rose gazed at him with a little half smile and a wistful sheen to her eyes.
Gavin stopped smiling. No one with such a tender motherly expression could’ve murdered the father of her children. Miss Pemberton didn’t know what she was talking about. He’d have to show her she was wrong.
He rose to his feet, gave the girls a brief overview of the game, and then steered the twins to the first wicket so they could have the first shot.
“Remember,” he reminded them as he bent to help each twin swing, “Just because I’m helping doesn’t mean I’m on your team.”
They dropped their mallets and raced across the grass, using their booted feet to aid their balls’ forward momentum.
“You’re too nice to them,” came Nancy’s wry voice from behind his shoulder. “They’ll go home spoiled now.”
He grinned. “What are uncles for?”
Nancy snorted and adjusted her stance. “Be forewarned—you’re in for it now that you’ve gainedfavoriteuncle status.”
He stared at her, speechless, as she took off after her ball.
Favorite uncle? Him? All he did was—was—talkto them. Tease them. Play with them a little. He glanced around the laughing, joking melee with dawning horror. Was it possible that he had caused his own ostracism? That perhaps his peers might’ve tolerated him years ago if he’d bothered to make himself, well, tolerable?
He searched the crowd until his gaze fell upon a familiar lopsided chignon. He should go to her. Apologize for leveraging his knowledge of her Gift to extort favors when he ought to have tried asking first. Tell her he—
“Mooncalfing again, Lioncroft?”
Gavin started to find Edmund smirking at him over the top of a silver flask.
“I do not mooncalf.” He hoped.
“Tell that to anyone who laid eyes on you during the picnic. Oh, right, that was everyone. I’d wager if we weren’t about, you would’ve turned up the Pemberton chit’s skirts right there on the grass.”
Gavin knocked the flask from Edmund’s hand. “Mention her skirts again and I’ll erase your smirk with this mallet.”
Edmund dropped to the ground and grappled for his open flask. “Easy, easy.” He fumbled to close the lid. “I didn’t know it was like that.”
“Now you do.”
Gavin turned, smashed his ball through the wicket, and sauntered off in the direction of Miss Pemberton.
