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“Who hurt him?”

“Blast and wretch!”

Edward leaned forward with the rest of the crowd, both teams racing toward the seats where Edward managed to catch a quick glimpse of Lord Ryecombe rocking back and forth, holding his hands to his mouth.

“Is there a physician?” shouted someone standing beside the injured man.

“Make way, please!” A man with sandy-brown hair pushed forward. “I’m a doctor.”

Lord Ryecombe swatted him away. “I’m more than well, Cooper,” he grumbled. “Continue with the match!”

“Forgive me, my lord, but I must insist that you allow me to see to the wound, if only to ensure nothing worse comes of it.”

“You are thimply trying to end the game now your team ith winning,” Lord Ryecombe growled, his swelling lip impeding his speech. “Upon my honor, he’ll pay for thith!”

Lord Ryecombe was clearly referring to the man who had struck him. Edward glanced around, but he could not see a single soul who bore the regret and guilt he ought to for hitting a member of the gentry in the face with a cricket ball.

“Did you see the accident?”

Edward paused. A female voice was close to him, but clearly, she wouldn’t be speaking with Edward.

He kept his focus on the crowd gathering closer around Lord Ryecombe, his view of the man now gone.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Her voice sounded closer. Was she speaking to him? He glanced over his shoulder, startled when those stunning eyes—green, now that he could see them closer—watched him again.

Heat poured into his cheeks. Did she recognize him as the pastry pilferer? “Pardon?”

“I merely asked if you happened to see the accident.”

Perhaps she didn’t recognize him. Her expression was innocent enough. “Yes. I mean…That is to say, no. I heard the incident.”

A touch of disappointment flickered in her eye. “So you did not see the culprit?”

“I am afraid not.”

She pulled her lips to the side and peered around him at the working-class team. Edward hesitated, facing forward again.

“Do hold still, my lord,” the doctor was saying, though Edward could no longer see them.

“Are you a supporter of the game?”

Was she speaking to Edward again? He turned around, and sure enough, her focus was still trained on him.

He glanced from side to side. She had to be at least twenty, still in need of a chaperone. Where was her family? Would they think it was he who had prompted the start of their conversation?

“I enjoy watching a match every now and then,” he replied simply.

She nodded in silence.

Wishing to avoid any misconceptions or condemnations, he gave a nod to end their conversation then faced forward again.

Most of the crowd had dissipated from around Lord Ryecombe, the teams already returning to the field. So the earl had gotten his way, and the game would continue. Not that that came as a surprise to Edward. Wealthy gentlemen always received everything they—

“Have you played cricket yourself?”

Edward started at the woman’s voice piping up directly beside him. When had she moved up there?