Page 26

“Bloody fast, isn’t she?” Raleigh tossed the comment over his shoulder, his grin wider than his face.

Kit wasn’t in the mood to smile back.

What exactly was the nature of Raleigh’s friendship with Muriel?

It didn’t matter.

Kit watched the man’s long legs devour the ground. He’d catch up with Muriel in no time. And she’d tell the good doctor that Kit thought too much of himself to paint flowers, that he was too manly for watercolors and scoffed at commissions.

She’d jumped to conclusions, but he hadn’t disabused her. His desire to evade questions had made him surly and defensive, rude.

It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

“I like that fellow.” Ponsonby was catching his breath. “We fixed the fence together. My one act of service for the day. He’s a surgeon, though. He’ll probably deliver a baby before morning. What do you think it feels like to be so useful?”

“No idea.” Kit stalked down the hill. He wasn’t in the mood for anything. The sun beat down, but ice had spread through his chest, the feeling familiar. Whiskey didn’t warm it, but at least it blunted his thoughts.

He’d go home, drink half a bottle, tinker with his Rovers, and forget the drama that he’d watched play out across Muriel’s face—a blaze of eager hope reduced to stricken cinders. Hurt and contempt in her eyes.

Their expression had reminded him of Lucy’s.

In the distance, he could see Martha Curnow leading a cow toward the milking barn. Thank the Lord. Things could be worse.

The Curnows’ herd could be halfway to Penzance.

“Barmy bet you made.” Ponsonby fell into step with him. “I was thinking—maybe you could joust again instead, like Deighton suggested.”

His jaw tightened. “There’s no changing the terms of a wager.”

“To hell with all that. You can’t just ride off. It’s beastly timing. What about Coover?”

“Give her my regrets.”

“Your bicycle’s over there.” Ponsonby gestured, the motion of his arm conveying frustration.

Kit quickened his pace as he changed course.

“I’m sure they’ll stay until you’re back.” Ponsonby quickened his pace too. “Or we could cable and tell them to postpone.”

“I don’t want them to stay.” Kit’s feet carried him forward, but he felt detached from his body, as though his limbs moved of their own accord. “I don’t want to see them. To that end, I hope I can rely on your help.”

“Griff.” Ponsonby grabbed his shoulder. Kit tensed, then swung to face him.

“What are you saying?” Ponsonby wore a look of confused apprehension. “I don’t understand. We haven’t all of us been together for ages.”

“You’re bloody right. And that’s by design.” Kit raked both hands through his hair, only barely resisting the urge to rip handfuls up by the roots. “Christ. This little reunion is a frolic for you, but it’s hell for me. Why do you think I’m living at the edge of the fucking world?”

“Because…” Ponsonby had paled, his freckles standing out in dark clusters. “Because of Turner’s Cornish sketchbooks.” He tilted back his head. “The light really is extraordinary.”

Kit made an impatient noise.

“And because London can be a wretchedly small place.” Ponsonby said it softly, returning his eyes to Kit. “I expect you have a hundred reasons. But we’re talking about Coover.”

“I could explain.” He looked past Ponsonby at his high wheeler, propped against an oak.

Ponsonby followed his gaze. “You’d rather not, though.”