Chapter 5 #2
He stared into his lemonade. “It… well, it’s for bees.”
“Bees,” Sybella said dryly.
“The Apis mellifera to be exact.” He gestured toward the garden with such liveliness that his lemonade splashed out of his glass. He didn’t seem to notice. “The foundation raises awareness for the displacement of honeybees due to increased smoke from factories.”
I placed a hand over my heart. “You must send me the charity’s information so I may donate at once.”
“Really? I—I’d be honored, Miss Weston.”
“I like charity too!” Sybella touched the baron’s shoulder, and he stiffened. “Just last week, I gave my maid a pair of my old gloves. There were hardly any holes.”
The baron pulled away from her. “If you’ll both excuse me. I just spotted a Chrysoperla carnea.” He nodded, then fled as fast as his limp would allow.
“And I believe I’ve spotted a Vipera vulgaris,” I said, glancing at Sybella.
“A what?” she said, blinking.
I smiled. “I’ll take my leave too.” Mr. Hawke was now surrounded by five mamas and their daughters. I was quickly growing outnumbered.
Sybella grabbed my arm. “There is no charity, is there? I promise, any secret of yours shall die with me.”
I patted her arm. “Just picturing that brings me such peace.” She frowned, and I quickly added, “Look, there’s Mrs. Fitzgerald now. Why don’t you ask her about the charity yourself?”
“Believe me, I will. If only to ease my concern over your well-being.”
“How selfless of you.”
Sybella smirked, then released my arm and stalked away. Her meddling didn’t concern me in the least. I’d made the necessary arrangements with Mrs. Fitzgerald yesterday. The woman started a new charity seemingly every week and was enthused by the idea.
I looked back at Mr. Hawke. A sixth mama had joined the ever-growing mob of women. His back was pressed up against the wall, and his green eyes had a frantic look about them as he tried to keep up with six simultaneous conversations.
Odd, I thought. As a young, wealthy, and—admittedly—handsome gentleman, he should have been used to such attention. So why did he look like a crust of bread tossed to a flock of hungry geese?
I crossed the rest of the lawn and stopped in the middle of the chaos. “Excuse me, ladies! I fear I must steal Mr. Hawke. He owes me a game of battledore.”
Everyone stopped and looked at me, including Mr. Hawke.
“I do?” he asked.
“You invited me to play, remember? At the ball?”
His eyes widened as he realized the lifeline I was offering. “Ah, yes! Of course! Terribly sorry, ladies, but I must make good on my promise to Miss Weston.”
One of the mamas stepped in front of him. “But my daughter and I were so enjoying your company, Mr. Hawke.”
“My daughter enjoys sports too!” said another.
“So does my daughter! Do you like pall-mall, Mr. Hawke?”
“My daughter is just arriving now. Can’t your game wait?”
He stepped around the onslaught. “Sport waits for no one, I’m afraid.”
I grinned and held out my arm. “Will you escort me to the lawn, Mr. Hawke?”
“Forgive me, ladies. We shall continue this… later.” He led me away from the disappointed throng.
“Thank you,” he whispered as we strode across the lawn, “for saving me.”
“Oh, I’m hardly saving you, Mr. Hawke. I’m challenging you.”
“Wait—” He stopped in his tracks. “You were serious about the game?”
“I’m always serious. It is ideal weather for battledore, and the Pratts’ lawn is perfect for it. The gardeners trim with precision, you know.”
His laugh sounded vaguely sardonic. “Believe me, nobody knows that more than I.”
“Oh?”
He blinked, then resumed walking. His fingers tapped against his thigh as he said, “Speaking of the Pratts’ garden, do you—have you ever explored the hedge maze, Miss Weston?”
I frowned at the question, and my eyes flickered toward the maze. Within those suffocating green walls were memories I’d rather leave unexplored.
“Mr. Hawke, if you’re trying to change the subject in order to get out of a match with me, I won’t stand for it.”
“I just meant—” He sighed. “Have you played battledore before?”
“A few times. It’s an enjoyable pastime.”
“I thought you said that sports don’t interest you.”
“Surely you’re mistaken, Mr. Hawke. I love a good game.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘Sports don’t interest me much. I prefer social activities that challenge the mind.’”
“Do you remember every word I say, Mr. Hawke?”
He scratched his ear. “So this will be a friendly game, right?”
Hardly, I thought, grinning to myself.
“Here we are,” I said as we stopped at the edge of the sporting lawn.
A white net had been erected between two wooden poles hammered into the grass.
Parasols and tea tables dotted the sidelines, where a dozen or so young ladies admired Mr. Marceaux from behind fluttering fans.
Gabby Withers, Sybella’s closest friend and the ton’s worst gossip, waved her handkerchief at Mr. Marceaux, beseeching him to dry his brow with it.
The Frenchman accepted and dabbed his glistening face before kissing the handkerchief and tossing it back to Gabby. His brilliant smile was on full display as he shook hands with the dejected Mr. Bradford. The rake had just won his third match.
A grin pulled at my lips at the sight of Mr. Marceaux’s damp shirt clinging to his chest.
Yes, there was much I found interesting about sports.
“I thought you said we were playing battledore,” Mr. Hawke muttered. “But… there’s a net. What’s it for?”
“It’s a new version of the game. Mr. Pratt’s brother is an officer in India, and he says it’s what everyone’s playing there. It’s mostly the same rules. Just hit the shuttlecock over the net and don’t let it drop.”
Mr. Hawke frowned. “I haven’t played battledore with a net before. Perhaps we should just—”
“Ma chère.” Mr. Marceaux sauntered over to me and bowed with a flourish of his hand. “How pleasing to see you again. You are as luminous as a spring day.”
I could have sworn Mr. Hawke tensed beside me.
“Mind if we cut in for a game?” I asked.
Mr. Marceaux stared at Mr. Hawke. “You want to play… her?”
“He does.” I turned to my opponent. “Unless you’d like to return to the mamas.”
Panic widened Mr. Hawke’s eyes. “No, no. I’ll play.”
“It’s your funeral,” Mr. Marceaux chuckled. “I’ve never won against the formidable Miss Weston.”
Mr. Hawke arched an eyebrow at me. “I thought you’d only played a few times.”
“You must be mistaken. I’ve been playing since I was old enough to walk.”
“But you said—”
“Perhaps your memory isn’t as good as you think it is, Mr. Hawke.”
I took the racquet and goose feather shuttlecock from Mr. Marceaux.
I tossed the shuttlecock into the air, let it fall past my shoulder, then spun the racquet behind my back just in time to send the shuttlecock upward again in a perfect arc.
I caught it neatly in my palm, without looking, and turned to Mr. Hawke with a serene smile.
Mr. Hawke fell silent. Mr. Marceaux laughed and waved over Mr. Bradford, motioning for him to relinquish his racquet. Mr. Bradford handed it to Mr. Hawke and said, “May God be with you, man.”
Mr. Hawke’s smile looked forced. “Shall we?”
I brushed past him. “May the best player win.”
As soon as we took our places on either side of the net, Mr. Hawke rolled up his sleeves, revealing a set of arms more defined than any I’d ever seen. I snapped my gaze back up to his face. I was supposed to be distracting him, not the other way around.
He stood with his feet too far apart and gripped his racquet too high on the shaft, as if he didn’t know where to hold it. “How does one win?” he asked.
“You get a point whenever the shuttlecock hits the ground on the enemy’s side of the net.”
“Enemy?”
Heat warmed my neck. “I mean opponent. First to three points wins.” I set my stance. “I hope you’re prepared, Mr. Hawke.”
He grinned. “I’m always prepared.”
“Commencez!” Mr. Marceaux shouted from the sideline.
I tossed the shuttlecock up in the air and made a clean serve. Mr. Hawke returned it a bit too hard. He clearly had an unpracticed hand. My movements, on the other hand, were technical and precise—a strategy that had always won me the game.
But battledore was not the only game I was playing.
“Tell me about your family, Mr. Hawke,” I said, launching the shuttlecock to his left, forcing him to lunge for it. If he were related to anyone disreputable, that alone would be enough to persuade Father to remove Mr. Hawke as a candidate.
But Mr. Hawke had a long reach and was able to return the volley, even if it was a bit clumsy. “My family?”
I sent it right back to him. “Where are they from?”
He deflected. “Here and there, I suppose.”
Hit. “Any relations I would be acquainted with?”
Return. “I couldn’t tell you, considering I don’t know who you count among your acquaintances.”
I bit back a frown, not only at his wry response, but at the way he fumbled his next return. It should have been an easy shot, but he stepped back too far, and the shuttlecock fell to the ground.
“Good hit, Miss Weston.” He picked up the shuttlecock and tossed it to me. “Go again?”
I made the serve and continued my interrogation. “How do you spend your leisure time, Mr. Hawke? Cards? The races, perhaps?”
“What races?” he asked with his hit.
“The horse races, of course.”
“I don’t gamble, remember? Or is your memory faulty as well, Miss Weston?”
I clamped my jaw shut and hit the shuttlecock harder than I should have, causing me to lose control of the angle. It didn’t matter, however, for Mr. Hawke stumbled again, and the shuttlecock landed at his feet.
“You’re good at this, Miss Weston.” He picked it up and gave me a genuine grin. “Again?”
I scowled. He was letting me win.
That simply wouldn’t do. I’d always been able to pry information out of men. All it took was needling their pride through sport. But if Mr. Hawke purposefully surrendered points, then I’d never unbalance him, let alone get him to confess his faults.
“Fifty pounds on the Weston girl!” a voice roared.