The Lucky Catch (The Cricket Club #4)

Chapter One

Manchester, England, July 1849

B lood. So much blood.

Lady Maggie swayed on her feet, a flash of heat spiking up her neck. She zeroed in on the pathetic, damaged creature as he hung limp and beaten in Samuel Everett’s fierce hold.

“Don’t look, Maggie,” her aunt ordered her sharply, waving a wide fan furiously at her pale neck. “This brutish behavior is not fit for a young woman’s eyes… not even yours.”

Too entranced by the dramatic scene that had just played out, Maggie let the barb slide. She couldn’t respond anyway. Her throat felt dry and permanently locked as she followed the dastardly man—Vine, she’d heard somebody scream—gain consciousness and struggle in her cricket coach’s arms.

Samuel, who was never one to temper his colorful words even in the presence of ladies, launched a tirade of curses and dragged Vine out of the chapel, with the remainder of the wedding guests following close behind.

Maggie began to follow, but Aunt Alice stopped her, placing a strict hand on her arm, forcing her to stay in her pew.

“Oh, no you don’t. Stay and catch your breath,” Alice barked. “Your parents asked me to watch over you and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. What will they think when they hear that you’ve been at the scene of murder… at a wedding ceremony, no less?”

Maggie spun to the altar. Her friend, Ruthie Waitrose, stood strong with her husband, Mr. Harry Holmes, leaning heavily against her side. Ruthie was remarkably composed despite the gory situation. Hers and Harry’s heads were together as they whispered back and forth. Blood stained Harry’s jacket, though he appeared in much better shape than Vine. As the couple limped down the aisle toward the exit, Maggie’s great sigh of relief bounced off the stone ceiling.

Ruthie met her eyes as she passed and nodded to Maggie, seemingly telling her she was fine. Or as fine as someone could be after having their husband shot at and almost killed during their wedding vows.

Maggie turned to her friend. “This wasn’t the scene of a murder,” she replied off-hand. “No one died.”

Alice humphed . “Well, no one yet. Things don’t look good for the assassin. Did you see the look on Mr. Everett’s face when he knocked the gun out of that horrible man’s hand?” The billowing wind from her fan caused Maggie to shiver. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that angry before.”

Maggie stifled a smirk. Clearly, Alice did not play for their cricket club. Samuel, the club’s coach, was usually that angry whenever Maggie dropped a ball in the field.

She scanned the chapel. Poor Ruthie. It wasn’t the wedding Maggie had wished for her friend. Granted, Ruthie had already married Harry weeks before, but he’d planned to give her another, more special memory. Last week, after the London Ladies Cricket Club had played in their exhibition game against the local team in Bath, Harry had gathered his wife’s teammates and invited them to the ceremony, saying that he’d wanted it to be a surprise. Rather bashfully, he’d explained that the first time they exchanged vows hadn’t been terribly romantic. He’d hoped to rectify the situation and give Ruthie the wedding she deserved.

Maggie wondered if Harry would try again. Or maybe he’d just cut his losses. It was true, having a man try to shoot you dead in the middle of the ceremony wasn’t the stuff of dreams; however, it was memorable. Frankly, it would be hard to top.

Footsteps faded into the cobblestone floor as the final guests left. “We should go,” Maggie said absent-mindedly, realizing that everyone had exited their pews. For some reason, she didn’t want to be the last person in the chapel; something felt oddly morbid about it.

“Not yet,” Alice insisted. She flipped her wrist, directing the fan on Maggie’s face. “You look entirely too pale, my dear. You’ve had a fright. We’ve all had a fright… but you look positively dreadful.”

Maggie frowned, batting the fan away from her nose. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“I doubt that.”

“Well, I am.”

“No, you’re not. You look—”

Maggie snapped, “Stop telling me I look dreadful.”

Alice’s lips thinned, smoothing out the wrinkles gathering around her nose. She was a handsome woman with bright-green eyes and alabaster skin she tirelessly worked to keep the sun from reaching. Her fan stalled. “Fine,” she replied stiffly. “If you insist.” She led the way into the aisle, her high forehead pinching. “Do you think they’ll still host a wedding dinner for all of us? I am awfully hungry.”

Maggie shook her head. The next time she saw her parents, she would give them a piece of her mind. Why on earth they thought that Aunt Alice would be a respectable chaperone was beyond her. The woman was absurdly out of touch, but since she’d been the daughter of an earl, most just considered her eccentric.

“How can you be hungry?” Maggie exclaimed. “You were just present at the scene of a murder, remember?”

Alice raised a regal eyebrow, shrugging a dainty shoulder with the elegance of decades of good breeding. “You’re the one who said no one was murdered. I’m sure a real murder would have taken my hunger away, but an attempted one only seems to have enhanced it.” She placed a hand over her cinched abdomen. “There’s something so visceral about almost seeing one’s life taken, don’t you think? It’s quite thrilling. I feel so alive, like I could climb the highest mountain or eat an entire lamb.”

Maggie massaged her temple with her fingers, trying to remember how long her parents said they would be gone this time. Was it eight weeks or twelve? She should have paid more attention, but her parents were always running off to some foreign place with their friends, seeking adventures all over the Continent. Maggie had forced herself to stop caring years ago, but that was when she used to stay with her grandmother, the dowager countess, when she was still alive. Those days had been filled with excitement and learning, a veritable feast of education and animation. She hadn’t had time to miss her parents or ponder why they had so little time and energy for their children.

Now that Maggie was stuck with her aunt, the abandonment of her parents stung even deeper.

People had whispered at the time that the dowager countess hadn’t been a good influence on the young lady. The old woman had let Maggie run wild, applauding and encouraging her tomboy ways. But Maggie had never felt wild with her grandmother, only free. And for some mysterious reason, people couldn’t fathom the difference.

Maggie closed her eyes while her aunt’s rambling words continued to dance in her periphery.

“I do hope they have eels. Yes, eels sound wonderful right now.” Alice smacked her lips. “And roasted capon… and sour plums! And I hope they have more than one pudding. I’m craving something and I don’t know what. I need options. What do you think?”

Maggie ignored the nonsense spouting from her aunt’s mouth.

“Maggie? I asked you a question. Honestly, dear, I considered that you were hard of hearing, but now I believe that you choose not to answer me.”

Maggie sank her fingers into her forehead even further, coaxing away an incoming headache. “Um… I don’t know. I’m sure whatever they serve will be good.”

Aunt Alice sniffed. “ Good is hardly good enough for a wedding dinner.”

“I’m sure it will be better than good, then. You don’t have to worry—Oof!”

Her eyes still closed, Maggie failed to notice the reticule in the aisle, no doubt forgotten by one of her teammates in the drama. She tripped forward, throwing her arms out to latch on to her aunt’s shoulders. But Alice dodged at the last moment, leaving Maggie’s hands clutching air. Her body tensed as she readied to smack face-first into the cobblestone… and then two arms swept into her sight, catching her waist at the last second.

Maggie blinked, releasing a grateful exhale before straightening her spine. “Thank you so—” The words stalled in her mouth.

Lord Michael. In the flesh, with a lazy smile on his handsome—and so very annoying—face.

Alice finished Maggie’s sentence for her, crowding into the viscount’s side. Her eyelashes batted like a hummingbird’s wings. “Much,” she said sweetly, forgetting or maybe just choosing not to remember that she was old enough to be the man’s mother. “Thank you so much for saving my niece. You’re our hero! Lord knows what would have happened if Maggie had fallen. Her face! Oh dear, could you imagine her face!”

“I would have been fine,” Maggie grumbled, straightening her skirts a little aggressively.

“Oh no,” Alice went on. “You might have got a cut on your cheeks, or maybe even a black eye.” She tutted. “Then you wouldn’t have been able to come to dinner. No one wants to stare at a Cyclops when they eat, my dear.”

Lord Michael chuckled, dragging Maggie’s gaze back to his face despite her best efforts. Speaking of black eyes… he was sporting one, though it appeared old and faded, almost healed. Naturally, it made him seem more dashing.

Shame at her weakness swarmed inside Maggie’s chest. Lord Michael was so used to fawning and attention that she hated giving him any ounce of it.

“It was my pleasure,” he stated, his words sliding through the air like a knife through warm butter. Maggie’s chagrin deepened because she couldn’t help but notice the fullness of his mouth, the strong cleft in his chin, the way his wide shoulders broadened at the easy praise from her aunt. Everything was always so easy for Viscount Burlington, the Earl of Waverly’s only son.

“And you’re quite right, madam,” Michael said, bowing lightly to Alice. “Cyclopses don’t make the best dinner guests.”

Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Because they might turn your stomach? I had no idea you had such a weak constitution, my lord.”

Michael chuckled, cocking his head. His thick, dark hair didn’t move once, staying perfectly in place, swept off his forehead. “Hardly,” he replied as if Maggie was a child who’d given the wrong answer. “Because everyone knows when you have dinner with a Cyclops, you are the dinner.”

Alice burst into giggles, swatting the center of Michael’s chest with her fan. “So true, so true,” she fawned, her high cheekbones glowing a dark pink. “I had no idea you were such a wit, my lord. Isn’t he a wit, Maggie? Tell him! Tell him!”

Maggie’s lips soldered shut as Michael watched her, a teasing tilt to his mouth, waiting, just waiting for her to succumb to her aunt’s dictate.

“He’s…” Maggie searched her brain for the mildest compliment. “He’s truly quite something.”

Alice nodded like a crazed chicken. “Yes. Yes, he is. Quite something, indeed.”

“Quite something,” Michael repeated, trying out the words like foreign food, tentatively and warily. “I’ve never been called that before. A magnanimous compliment indeed from little Peggy.”

Maggie saw red. Instant and scalding. “Don’t call me that.”

And there. There was the glint in his sparkling blue eyes. The games had begun. Though, Maggie had to admit, she’d known Lord Michael for most of her nineteen years and the games had never really stopped. Like fashion, they just evolved. And just like fashion, never for her benefit.

“Oh, come now,” he said, feigning surprise. “We’re old friends. Surely intimacy is allowed.”

“Of course it is,” Alice replied instantly, shooting Maggie with a look of warning. Behave, it said.

Michael shrugged. “I’ve called you that since we were children.”

“No,” Maggie said. “You called me that once when we were children. Peggy Piggy, remember? And then all your friends have called me it ever since.”

“Is that true?” Alice asked him, going on without waiting for a response. “Well, that’s what friends do, don’t they? And I’m sure they don’t say it to your face.”

Maggie studied Michael, enjoying the wave of uncertainty nipping at his conscience. “No, you’re right, Aunt. They stopped saying it to my face years ago. They only say it behind my back now.”

“Oh, well that’s a relief,” Alice said, fanning her face again. “No harm in that.”

Michael’s countenance turned stony. He was a man clearly not accustomed to having his actions called into question. Maggie made a mental note to do it as much as possible from now on.

“I can’t be blamed for the sins of others,” he replied stiffly.

“I suppose men never are.”

“Quite right. Quite right,” Alice said.

“And I’m not the one who told you to play in the mud,” Michael added.

Maggie threw her hands up. “I wasn’t playing in the mud, and you know that! I fell in the mud. Very different.”

Michael’s lips curled up at the sides.

Maggie had had enough. “What are you doing here?”

The viscount frowned and ducked his head before bending over and snatching something from the ground. He raised a reticule in front of her triumphantly. “Lady… um… Lady”—he snapped his fingers—“Ella. Lady Ella said she’d left her bag and asked that I fetch it for her.”

“Like a dog,” Maggie quipped.

Alice squeezed further into his side. “Like the most loyal and wonderful dog, she means. Maggie adores dogs. Such a compliment.”

Michael squinted wryly. “Yes, I remember Maggie’s fondness for dogs. Being likened to a dog is just as moving as ‘quite something.’ I’m afraid if your niece doesn’t stop, I might get a bigger head.”

Maggie huffed. “If that’s possible.”

“Niece!” Alice hissed, offsetting the admonishment with a nervous chuckle.

Michael waved a casual hand in the air. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about me, Lady Alice. I’m quite familiar with Maggie’s brand of humor. From all the time we’ve spent together, I’ve gotten used to it.”

Maggie crossed her arms. “We have not spent that much time together.” She hated the churlish note in her voice, but it was difficult to stay placid when Michael used that patronizing tone with her.

“We’re practically family,” he countered.

“We are not family,” Maggie argued. “Now are you going to tell me why you’re here or not?”

Why was his smile getting wider? It practically took up his entire, chiseled face! Damn him for being so attractive! Nay, beautiful. Oh, all right, gorgeous! Maggie could still hate the man and admit he was dazzling. During one of her summers with her grandmother, she’d taught herself to juggle. It still came in handy from time to time.

Michael wiggled the gold, beaded pelisse in front of her nose. “You know why I’m here. I already told you.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, swatting it out of her face. “Not here here.” She waved her arms. “Here.”

Michael lowered his chin, the smile fading into a confused smirk. “I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do! Stop teasing me!”

“Niece,” Alice scolded her. “You have to excuse her, my lord. As you can imagine, she’s had such a shock today.” She patted Maggie’s shoulder. “My sister’s daughter has such a gentle constitution. I think it was all a bit too much for her.”

Maggie gritted her teeth; she could tell Michael was holding back laughter. Why couldn’t her aunt see it too?

Michael scrutinized her from head to toe, stopping for a long moment on the hands clenched at her sides. “Yes,” he replied slowly, arching one brow. “Your niece has always been a delicate flower, hasn’t she?”

“Oh, yes,” Alice agreed, gaining momentum. “Just gaze upon her face. Do you see how pale she is… how drawn and deathly her skin looks? Usually, she has a ruddy complexion—all those hours spent in the sun playing that silly game, cricket—but now look at her!”

“You’re right. So right,” Michael said, holding a hand up to his chin, regarding Maggie like she was the bearded lady in a circus act. “Thank you for pointing it out. She’s as white as a ghost.”

“I am not as white as a ghost,” she seethed. “If I’m pale it’s only because I wear a hat morning, noon, and night.” And I can’t possibly be pale because I’m fuming, and my cheeks feel like they’re on fire!

Alice continued, adopting the same hand-on-chin gesture as Michael. “Yes, ghostly is the perfect word. You’re so astute, Lord Michael. Unhealthy is another word, don’t you think?”

“Horribly unhealthy,” Michael concurred, failing to hide the chuckle in his voice that time. Again, it appeared that Maggie was the only one who noticed it.

Alice’s face fell and she turned a dismal eye on the viscount. “I’d hate for her to miss the wedding dinner.” She tilted her head. “Do you know if they’re having one still?”

“Indeed, I hear eels are on the menu.”

Alice clapped her hands. “Marvelous! Anything else?”

“I think Cornish hen.”

“Ah, well, I’m sure that will be fine. I did so hope for capon.”

“I did hear mention of a lovely sauce to go with it.”

“Mint?”

“Cherry.”

Alice clapped once more. “Excellent.” Maggie cleared her throat and Alice blinked, as if remembering that her niece was a part of the conversation. She tsked . “I don’t think you’ll be able to handle the excitement, niece. It’s all been too much to you. I think it best you go back to your room and rest. I’ll make sure something is brought up in time.”

Maggie opened her mouth for a rebuke, but Michael beat her to it. “Yes, it’s obvious you’re not well enough for company.”

“It’s the complexion,” Alice said. “Ghostly.”

“So wraithlike,” Michael added.

Maggie couldn’t take it anymore. She was seconds away from pulling out all her hair, but she calmed herself, knowing it would just make her seem more “wraithlike.” “Will you two stop? I am fine. Yes, the shooting was terrible, and I was… alarmed by the ordeal, but no more than anyone else in the chapel.” She lifted her chin and stared over Michael’s shoulder toward the door. She had to get out of that room; she feared for her sanity. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go join my friends—”

“I think you should carry her to her room,” Alice cut in, disregarding every word from her niece’s obstinate mouth. “Please, dear boy, I don’t think she can make it on her own. If she fell, I’d never forgive myself.”

Michael nodded instantly, taking a step toward Maggie.

“Don’t you dare!” Maggie pushed against his chest. The man wouldn’t move. He barely flinched. She had assumed that Michael, like most aristocratic men, was doughy and soft underneath his expensive clothing. However, the steeliness beneath her fingers painted a different story.

Michael glanced down at her hand before slowly meeting her eyes, one brow arched. Maggie retracted her arm. The chapel was sweltering. When had the room become so blisteringly hot?

Her lashes fluttered. “I mean… I don’t need… I’m fine… just fine.”

Alice’s brow wrinkled in concern. She covered her mouth with her hand. “The poor child. Do you see, my lord? Her brain is positively addled by the horrible event. She can’t even speak!” She released a sob, and Maggie regarded her in dismay. Her aunt couldn’t be serious. She had to be acting for Michael’s benefit. Maggie had once bumped against one of her aunt’s precious teapots, and Alice had spent the following hour checking it for bruises.

“A doctor is needed,” Michael stated, his voice hard and distinctly viscounty . “I will carry the lady to her room. You have nothing to worry about, Lady Alice. I’m here now. I will take care of everything. You can rely on me.”

Alice retreated just in time for Michael to close in on Maggie, sweeping his hands under her and lifting her in his arms like a baby. Maggie squirmed, fighting his embrace, but the viscount only became more adamant, locking his arms around her until she stopped.

Maggie simmered, recounting the last time she’d been so humiliated. It didn’t surprise her that that appalling event had also involved Michael. Ten years before.

With long, unhurried steps, he strode down the aisle, leaving Alice and her breathless clapping behind.

When Michael reached the thick oak door that was no doubt as old as England itself, he jostled Maggie with little effort, using one hand to hold her while he pushed open the slab. He flashed an arrogant grin before carrying her across the threshold.

“Admit it,” he said as they entered the garden leading back to the main house. The sun was beginning to set, and shadows cast by the sycamore trees flitted over him, highlighting the sharp angles of his face. “You’re impressed.”

Simultaneously, Maggie huffed, rolled her eyes, and shook her head. “Because you opened the door with one hand? Hardly.”

“Not the door.”

“Then what?”

Michael snorted before throwing that toothy, dazzling—and infuriating—grin down on her once more. “That I got through that entire conversation without laughing once.” He hefted Maggie higher upon his chest. “It’s good to see you, Peggy. Believe it or not, I think I might even have missed you.”