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“Perfectly, my lord,” he said with fisted hands.

Lord Ryecombe gave a satisfied smile. “Very well. You may seek me out after the game. You may remain here or return later, I care not.”

With a firm nod, he ended their conversation, leaving with both bats gripped in his hands.

Those bats were a mere pittance to a lord. Not even a dent would be made against the man’s boundless wealth if he paid Edward now, so why would he not?

With an irritated shake of his head, Edward swept his gaze around him. The large area in front of Briarwood had filled with even more individuals.

The scent of cucumbers, strawberry turnovers, and cheese drifted past his nose, and Edward’s stomach rumbled. The table nearby nearly overflowed with silver trays filled with pastries, biscuits, and rose-painted cups near a large serving bowl of lemonade.

The corners of Edward’s lips raised.

If the bats did break, which they wouldn’t—they wouldn’t—and Lord Ryecombe refused Edward payment for his troubles…then Edward knew just how to make his money back—through his stomach.

Perhaps he’d stay at the match after all.

With an appetite the size of Somerset, Edward helped himself to his first plate of food, consisting of a plain pastry biscuit, stewed fruit, and a few pieces of cheese.

As he ate, his heart threatened to sink at the guilt knocking at his chest, but he refused to give answer to it. He did not need to feel badly for eating his weight in Lord Ryecombe’s food. He was now, for all intents and purposes, the man’s guest, and he would behave as one.

He munched on what he hated to admit was the most delicious food he’d eaten in months, all while the men gathered on the green in their respective teams.

The gentlemen’s team laughed gleefully, clapping one another on their backs as they stretched their arms in circles.

On the other side of the field, the working-class men huddled together, listening intently to the man who was clearly their captain, Mr. Reginald Sinclair, whom Edward recognized as the nephew of the postmaster.

From what Edward had heard of Mr. Sinclair, they had both had similar experiences with their fathers being treated poorly by the upper class. But where Edward held onto a grudge, Mr. Sinclair did not. At least, as far as Edward was aware.

Either way, Mr. Sinclair’s team admired him, hanging on to his every word with nods of devotion and understanding.

By the time the game began, Edward had nearly finished with his second plate—jam puffs, blancmanges, and a plum cake—and was more than ready to fill his third with two pieces of pound cake.

He wasn’t a gluttonous man. He merely enjoyed a small taste of revenge now and again. No, no. Not revenge. Equality and fairness. Even though he hardly knew what fairness in life was.

As the points increased for both teams and the bats held up under the pressure of the game, Edward’s confidence grew. Yes, he would be receiving payment that morning, and all would be well.

For the time being, of course. Lord Ryecombe’s promised payment would hardly cover half of February’s rent. Past and future rent would still need to be paid, broken tools would still need to be replaced, and food would still need to be purchased. He couldn’t afford any of it.

He ate his newly plated pound cakes, the sugar turning to sand in his mouth. This was all due to men like Lord Ryecombe. Selfish, heartless. Did he not know he injured Edward’s mother by withholding the payment, too? Either way, the man obviously didn’t care.

But Edward cared.

He meandered back to the table, slipping pieces of plum cake and sponge cake and a strawberry turnover into his handkerchief. Securing the pastries in the now-stained white folds, he then placed the food into his leather satchel. Mother would appreciate these, even if they were a bit dismantled by the time she could eat them.

After stashing away his pilfered-for-a-good-cause pastries, he looked around to ensure he’d remained unspotted. All eyes were focused on the game.

That is, all eyes except for a stunning pair directed straight at him.

His heart dropped. Had the young woman who boasted such eyes seen his thievery? He glanced away but could still feel her gaze on him.

As casually as possible, he took a few steps back and slid into the crowds, the food twisting round in his stomach like a spiral auger. Suppose she told Lord Ryecombe? The man would never pay Edward then.

The usual crack of a ball against the bat echoed around the field, but instead of the usual cheers, screams bore out, and Edward’s pastries were forgotten.

“Lord Ryecombe!” came a voice above the rest.

“Is he injured?” cried a man from behind.