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Marianne’s shoulders fell as she walked away. Her sister had said neither of them would marry anyone less than a gentleman. But then, would Marianne even have the chance to marry if her sister never chose a spouse?

As it was, it was probably for the best that Beatrice had not fallen for the working-class man. Marianne wouldn’t like having a man so handsome for a brother-in-law.

CHAPTER THREE

Lord Ryecombe was upset. When the working-class team won and the bats held up without so much as producing a splinter, he handed—rather flung—Edward’s payment at him with a begrudging look.

“Ath promithed,” he grumbled. His lip had swollen large in an angry, purple bruise.

“Thank you, my lord,” Edward said, clutching the payment as he battled with his lips to thwart a smile. Was his chipper tone far too pointed? Was it terrible that he did not care if it was? Having the earl humbled—in appearance and in paying Edward—was simply too satisfying. As Mother always said, “Injustice has a way of working itself out.”

“Excellent cricket match,” Edward said. He motioned to Lord Ryecombe’s mouth. “I am sorry to see you injured, though.”

Lord Ryecombe muttered a few unintelligible words, clearly seeing through Edward’s fabricated sorrow.

At the earl’s dejected tone, Edward’s mood lifted even higher, like leaves raising toward the sun. His day had turned out immeasurably better than he’d thought it would, especially when the odd woman had finally left him to his pastries in peace. He was more than fine not having seen her again once she’d darted away from whoever had called out for her.

Lord Ryecombe shifted away from Edward without another word, turning to speak to a gentleman with fair hair who had come up beside the earl.

As they engaged in their own conversation, Edward slipped the payment into his satchel with a satisfied smile. Mother would be pleased to see the amount. They would live to see another day at the shop now.

“Well done with the bats, Steele.”

Edward looked up as his friend, Michael Cavinder, walked past, sweat still beading his brow from the match.

“Thank you,” Edward returned. “And well done on your victory.” He glanced to Lord Ryecombe, who was still occupied with the gentleman. Lowering his voice, he said, “Did you see who hit the ball at Lord Ryecombe?”

Michael paused, laughing in his throat. “Does it matter who did, so long as we all got to witness it?”

Edward shook his head in amusement. He and Michael had been friends for years now, having first bonded over their shared love of the arts—Edward with carving, and Michael with painting.

Michael rubbed his jaw, his eyes still shining with mirth as he spoke in a hushed voice. “You know, my father painted the earl’s portrait. I do wonder if he should make an adjustment to Lord Ryecombe’s likeness now that he’ll have a proper scar on his lip.”

Edward chuckled, and the men tipped their heads to each other in departure.

Securing his satchel closed, Edward made to leave Briarwood Estate, but Lord Ryecombe stopped him, calling out from behind.

“Mr. Thteele?”

Edward turned to face him again, the other gentleman still at his side, focusing his attention on Edward.

“Is this the maker of the bats then?” the man asked.

Lord Ryecombe nodded, his voice taut as he spoke. “Mr. Coventry, thith ith Mr. Edward Thteele. Mr. Thteele, Mr. Jacob Coventry.”

Edward greeted the gentleman with a short bow. Mr. Coventry responded with an observing eye, looking Edward up and down as one would examine a new milk cow.

“I’m quite impressed with your work, Mr. Steele,” he said. “I happened past your shop last week and viewed your fine carvings from the window.”

Edward quite liked this man, despite his being a gentleman. “Thank you, sir.”

Lord Ryecombe looked green in the face. Whether that was due to the praise Edward had received or because of the obvious pain the man was in due to his purple lip, Edward couldn’t decipher.

“Excuthe me,” the earl said with a bow.

He wandered toward two working men waiting nearby. A mention of a pair of bay horses drifted to Edward’s ears, and he focused on their interaction, distracted by their looks of dismay. Eventually, the earl walked away, and the two men were left with scowls.

“…ever come through with the blunt…” one of them said as the other shrugged.