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CHAPTER ONE

Inglesbatch, Somerset – May 1816

Briarwood Estate was the ideal location for a cricket match. Extensive grounds, lush green fields, no trees to cast distracting shadows. The house itself stood pristine and polished, the east and west wings of the edifice extending past the center, as if the tan walls were outstretched arms, welcoming the guests and cricket players to its abode.

Edward Steele peered up at the front of the house with a wary eye. He was neither guest nor cricket player. To him, the home’s wide-open arms were nothing short of barriers flexing their dominance.

Doing business with the man who owned such a property should be flattering for anyone, but for Edward, working with Lord Ryecombe had been an unsettling experience from the start. Edward had far too much to lose, and more often than not, those with greater power and wealth were the ones who could damage a person the most.

Pulling his attention away from such discouraging thoughts, he focused on the cloudless, blue sky instead. The sun shone brightly that morning after weeks of rain, drying up the last of the dew and warming his shoulders and those of the attendees who’d already arrived to watch the match.

Gentlemen in fine suits and ladies in pastel gowns and flowery bonnets gathered at one side of the field, separated from the much more humbly—and sensibly—dressed families of the opposite team, the team made up solely of working class men.

Edward had been invited to play alongside them this year, but he hadn’t the time to engage in such merriment. At least until his situation changed.

With an impatient sigh, he swapped the large package he carried in his right hand over to his left then tugged at his cravat. He shouldn’t have worn his best jacket. Well, his only fine jacket. But Mother had encouraged him to avoid appearing even poorer than he was.

“Unfortunately, appearances matter to these sorts of people,” she’d said.

Edward had obviously agreed. But that still didn’t mean he enjoyed overheating in the jacket he barely found occasion to wear more than once a month.

The last of the carriages drove away on the long, circular path, having deposited the final guests at Briarwood. Lord Ryecombe had promised to retrieve the package from Edward the moment the guests had all arrived. Where was—

“Mr. Steele.”

Edward should’ve expected punctuality. Most gentlemen exhibited the admirable trait. How unfortunate it was that other desirable qualities did not make more of an appearance in their lives. Like humility. Or honesty.

He bowed, clearing his throat. “Lord Ryecombe, my lord. Good day.”

The man was nearly balding, but what hair he didn’t have atop his head was made up for by the thick set of side whiskers that carried from his hair, past his ears, to midway down his jaw.

“I take it that is my order?” Lord Ryecombe motioned with a tip of his head toward the leather-wrapped package in Edward’s hands. Apparently, he was as uninterested in exchanging pleasantries as Edward was.

He extended the package forward. “I trust they will meet your expectations.”

Lord Ryecombe huffed in disbelief as he took the bundle. The man had no faith in Edward. That much had been evident when he’d made the commission in the Steele’s woodshop a week before.

“Typically,” the man had said, “I would hire a proven woodworker. But seeing as how I need these by next week, you are my only option.”

The words still chewed at Edward’s patience. He’d been working at Father’s shop—now his shop—for nigh on twenty-three years, since the tender age of five. He’d proven himself and then proven himself again.

Of course, what with his sullied name, it was very unlikely Edward would ever not have to prove himself again.

Lord Ryecombe untied the twine around the bundle. “I trust you had no trouble accomplishing the task in the allotted time?”

Edward nodded in silence. He didn’t miss the pointed words. When the man had hired him, Edward had at first declined, saying he could not finish in seven days.

Lord Ryecombe had raised his chin. “I find that difficult to believe. From my understanding, your workload is not what it once was.”

He wasn’t wrong. But no man appreciated having his failing business pointed out by another. Even still, Edward had no choice but to accept the job.

Lord Ryecombe removed the twine and unfolded the top half of the package. He pulled the leather back, and it fell down around his other hand holding the bottom half, revealing the top of two cricket bats.

Edward had not enjoyed creating what were essentially glorified oars. Like most of his rare, latest commissions, they had required all function and very little finesse. How he longed for the days when he used to carve intricate designs into frames, shelves, and signs. Blast this world for turning stone statues into more of a fashionable commodity than wood.

If only stone was the sole reason he continuously found himself without work.

Lord Ryecombe continued to examine the bats, running his wrinkled fingers across the smooth edges of the flat, burnt-colored wood.