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“How did you come to Charwell Park today, Mr. Webb?” Phoebe’s mother entered the conversation.

“By horse, ma’am. My current mount is a stallion quite well known within England’s racing circles.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, indeed. He has several ribbons to show for it.” Mr. Webb’s arrogance was back, and Phoebe had an irrational desire to douse it.

“Did you see him run at Ascot?” she asked. “I did hear that you frequent the place often.”

She recognized the shock in his eyes before he blanketed the emotion with a smooth smile. “As a matter of fact, the first time I set eyes upon him, he finished head and shoulders ahead of his nearest competitor in a seven-furloughs race. That was when I determined to claim him as my own.”

A footman arrived with a tea tray and then slipped away silently. Her mother began pouring the hot brew into the delicate china cups. She handed the first to Phoebe and the next to Mr. Webb. Phoebe took a small sip. She had little interest in horse racing, and if her mother did not contribute more to the conversation soon, she and Mr. Webb would quickly run out of things to say.

She looked to her mother and raised an eyebrow. Her mother took the hint.

“Mr. Hadford has not had an opportunity to attend Ascot since we moved here, but I daresay most gentlemen enjoy the races.”

It was not the change of subject Phoebe had hoped for, but it was something.

“True,” Mr. Webb said. “Although, I must say, not many come away with sufficient funds to purchase the winning racehorse.”

There it was. Her mother had unwittingly opened the door on Mr. Webb’s weakness, and the braggart had been unable to help himself. He had all but admitted to betting on the races.

Phoebe set her cup and saucer down on the nearby end table. “That would certainly take a lot of money,” she said. “You must place a great deal down on each race.”

Phoebe could almost see the conflict churning within him as he sought the best way out of his present predicament. If he admitted to winning large amounts often, he simultaneously admitted to gambling large amounts often. If he denied it, he lost all boasting privileges.

“I believe there is one gentleman within our community who has lost an enormous amount.”

Phoebe could scarcely believe her ears. Mr. Webb had completely evaded the issue of his own complicity in high-stakes gambling by pointing his finger elsewhere. Her mother shifted uneasily, and Phoebe straightened her spine. If her mother had picked up on that not-so-subtle jab, it was certain that anyone else would do the same. It was time to put a stop to Mr. Webb’s lies—even if she had to resort to using his tactics.

“I assume you are referring to Lord Dunsbourne,” she said.

His eyes widened at her direct approach. “It is no secret that he is penniless.”

“That may be true, but do you not think it odd that the rumor claiming he lost everything in a game of chance has been propagated so fully even though he has no record of gambling?” She fixed him with a pointed look. “Indeed, I have it on the best authority that during his schooldays, he showed no interest in making wagers even though an acquaintance from this very neighborhood was known to be a habitual gamester.”

The smile had slipped from Mr. Webb’s face. Phoebe acted as though she had not noticed.

“Of course, I have noticed that those who perpetuate mistruths about others often do so as a way of deflecting negative attention away from themselves.”

Her mother’s teaspoon rattled against her cup. A sure sign that her hand was shaking. “I believe it can also be said that truth almost always rises to the fore eventually,” her mother said in her most placating tone.

“I could not agree more, Mother. And I daresay the truth will win out eventually in Lord Dunsbourne’s case. Although I cannot help but think that it would be better for everyone involved if the lies were disavowed before those who continue to spread them are uncovered and undone.” She paused and met Mr. Webb’s edgy look with an unflinching stare. “What are your thoughts, Mr. Webb?”

“My thoughts, Miss Hadford?” He cleared his throat and reached into his pocket for his timepiece. After a quick glance at its face, he dropped it back inside his vest and pinned a smile to his face. It was not his usual self-assured smirk, and for a fleeting moment, Phoebe felt sorry for him. The emotion did not last long. “My thoughts are that if Lord Dunsbourne can ever rub two coins together, he would be well advised to take them with him to Ascot. A decent wager is the only way he will ever recoup his losses.”

A vision of Adam in his shirtsleeves, pouring apples into the mill trough, with sweat upon his brow, entered Phoebe’s thoughts, and she knew without a doubt that he would rather work shoulder to shoulder with Henry and Oliver for the rest of his life than risk losing his home in a bet. And in that moment of insight, she came to another startling realization: she would prefer to be in the cart shed beside Adam than at the finest of balls with anyone else.

Mr. Webb came to his feet. “I believe I must be off, Mrs. Hadford. I thank you for your hospitality.”

“Of course, Mr. Webb.” Her mother rose, her face pale. “Please give my regards to your mother.”

“I shall.” He inclined his head toward her and then to Phoebe. “Miss Hadford. Our discussion has been most enlightening.”

Phoebe’s new awareness of her feelings for Adam had set her emotions in a whirl, and a sensible response was beyond her. Thankfully, it seemed that Mr. Webb did not expect one. In a daze, she watched him walk out of the room, and as the closing of the front door reverberated from the main hall, she prepared herself for a tongue-lashing.

“Well. That did not go as I had hoped,” her mother said.