“Thank you, my lord. That’ll make his day.”
As Andy left, Petey ran a hand up into my hair playfully. “Not your people, hey?”
I kissed him on the forehead. “Charles the First probably thought they werehispeople, and look what they did to him.”
Petey laughed. “Wasn’t he a first-rate arsehole, though? Are you expecting to be beheaded?”
“No, much like the jam, I’m expecting to be judged. I’m afraid they’ll think I’ve come up short.”
“Well, if they behead you, you probably will.”
I groaned. Petey smiled and kissed me on the nose. But the truth was, I really was worried. That article would have confirmed what everyone must already have been thinking: William Winters was a dumb jock who’d be the last of the Buckford Winterses.
Petey’s hand slid into mine.
“You’re going to be absolutely fine,” he said. “You look bloody gorgeous. The women will all be swooning after you, the men will all be questioning their sexuality, and I expect even a few of the chickens will be having unnatural thoughts while you judge them.”
I was wearing my new uniform—teamed, this time, with an air force blue blazer Bramley insisted I wear. Petey, meanwhile, was wearing an asymmetrical red tartan coat that fit like a glove, over what I can only describe as Mickey Mouse trousers.
“Besides, it’s me who should be nervous,” Petey said. “This is my chance to make a good first impression. I don’t want to blow it.”
“You recall this is afakeengagement, right?”
“That’s hardly the point.”
I squeezed his hand. “You look gorgeous. They’re going to love you.”
Petey kissed me, then stepped out into the daylight, dragging me along behind him. We walked up to Birdie Craddoch, a tweedy woman from my grandfather’s generation, at the tombola. I introduced her to Petey, and she curtsied.
“No, please don’t do that,” he said—getting the hang of the Buckford way of handling formality. I handed Mrs Craddoch my two-pound coin to exchange for a ticket. She refused to take it.
“I insist.”
Mrs Craddoch leant into me, her hand folded around mine, and whispered in my ear.
“Your money’s no good here, my lord.”
She winked, slid a yellow ticket into my palm, and turned to speak to the next person in line.
“That was weird,” I said to Petey as we walked away.
“What was?”
But before I could answer, he was dashing over to the shooting gallery. When he reached it, he turned back to face me, splaying himself playfully across the counter of pop guns, eyes full of mischief.
“Can you shoot?” he said. “I know your family don’t do guns and violence.”
“Canyoushoot?” I said as I reached him. “No, don’t tell me. Had your first shoot-out with the cops in an East End alleyway at five years old, brought down your first policeman single-handed at ten. The gang calls you Dead Eye Pete.”
The shooting gallery was being run by Noah, the village electrician, who made a couple of uncomplimentary comments about the state of my wiring. Nevertheless, I dug around in my pocket, fished out a couple of two-pound coins, and handedthem over. We took our shots. The rifles were so wonky my first cork nearly took off my ear. Petey didn’t fare much better, although his last shot did skim the edge of the baked bean tin and made it wobble. Noah walked over to it and gave it a bit of a nudge, and the tin fell.
“Congratulations, sir!” he called out, loud enough for the whole village to hear. “We have a winner!”
“No, we don’t,” I said as Petey took receipt of an enormous stuffed yellow duck, smile beaming across his face. “This is fraud.”
“Everyone wins a prize,” Noah said loudly. Then he leant over to me and grabbed my hand as if he was going to shake it, and I felt my coins tumble back into my palm. “My wife and I wish you all the very best for your impending nuptials, my lord. We hope you’ll be very happy together.”
I tried to hand him back the money, but he wouldn’t take it.
