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“It has taken us the best part of three years, but I believe we have come upon a perfect blend. Try it and give me your opinion.”

Mr. Hadford swirled the liquid in his mug. The heady fragrance of apples filled the shed, and though there was no need for him to do so, he lowered his nose to the mug. “Smells like apples,” he said.

A wave of nervousness coursed through Adam. He had not anticipated feeling so vulnerable. He had all but requested that Mr. Hadford critique his work. There was no reason to believe the gentleman’s remarks would be anything other than brutally honest. He waited. Mr. Hadford took a sip, swooshed the cider around in his mouth for a few seconds, and then swallowed. He eyed Adam silently and then took another drink. Adam forced himself to remain still. Mr. Hadford set his mug on the nearest barrel.

“I wish to raise the order for my personal cellar from one barrel to three.” He pointed at his empty cup. “That is by far the best cider I have ever tasted.”

Relief, exhilaration, and optimism assaulted Adam with such force he barely knew what he was feeling.

“I am delighted, sir,” Adam said.

“As am I,” Mr. Hadford said. “Whenever you are prepared to talk business, my lord, I am ready to invest.”

Adam’s heart began to pound. Financial backing. It was something he had dreamed of, and yet, now that it was actually within his grasp, he hesitated. Could he trust himself to make the right decision?

“I appreciate the offer,” he said.

Mr. Hadford nodded. “As you know, I must be in London by week’s end. Think it over. We can discuss details upon my return.”

By then, the harvest would be well underway, and Adam would have a far better idea of what his orchard was capable of producing and what he might need to implement to increase output in the future.

“I shall consider the matter carefully,” he said.

“Very good.” Mr. Hadford started toward the open doors. “My thanks, Henry. I wish I had a man so knowledgeable as you at Charwell Park. I am ashamed to say I cannot tell you what variety of trees grows in our orchard.”

“I daresay his Lordship could tell you as well as me, sir.”

Mr. Hadford raised an eyebrow. “Is that true, Dunsbourne?”

“If I am familiar with the variety, I can likely recognize it.”

“Good heavens. I should have you come take a walk through the Charwell Park orchards with me. It is nowhere near as well maintained as yours, mind you, but I should be interested to know if we have similar apples.”

“It is quite probable,” Adam said. “I daresay they were planted within the same decade.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Hadford gave an exasperated sigh. “Inheriting a house is all very well and good until one wishes to know things that have been lost to the past.”

Adam had grown up on stories of Dunsbourne Manor. It undoubtedly gave him an advantage over a gentleman who took over an estate previously owned by an uncle.

“I would be happy to help you identify the trees in your orchard.” He thought for a moment. It would be far easier to ascertain the variety of apple with the fruit still on the branches. If he waited until Mr. Hadford returned from London, that advantage might be lost to him. “If it would not inconvenience you to have me come so soon before you leave, I could join you in the Charwell Park orchard tomorrow morning.”

“Most considerate of you, Dunsbourne.” Mr. Hadford looked pleased. “Better set a time this go-around, eh? Shall we say ten o’clock?”

“Ten o’clock,” Adam repeated. “I shall look forward to it.”

Chapter 15

Phoebe closed her eyes and then quickly reopened them. Nothing had changed. Did that mean she was not imagining the vision before her? Lord Dunsbourne and her father were walking together through the Charwell Park orchard, amicably conversing as though it were a casual, completely normal undertaking.

Rising to her feet from the bench near the hedge, Phoebe moved closer. She had been reluctant to go back indoors after her morning walk through the garden, so she had stopped to sit for a while. The bench at the edge of the orchard was her favorite. It was hidden from the house by the hedge that separated the wide lawn from the trees and gave her the illusion of being far from anyone else. For over half an hour, the only sounds had been the buzzing of bees, the songs of birds, and the rustle of the breeze through the leaves. Until she’d heard male voices.

“It seems to me that the vast majority of your trees are Genet Moyles.”

Phoebe’s pulse quickened. That was Lord Dunsbourne’s voice.

“The small grove of Blenheim Orange apples near the south hedge appear to be the only ones of that variety,” he continued. “And this one looks to be D’Arcy Spice.” The men had stopped beside a tree bent low with the weight of the fruit. “It is one of the newer apples, originating out of Essex. I would guess this one was planted more recently than the rest. It tends to be a tip-bearing tree. Once the apples are harvested, the branches will bounce back.”

“By Jove, Dunsbourne, you really do know your stuff.”