“The pineapple!” they all called next, jumping up and down. “Win us the pineapple!”
Colin’s mouth tugged sideways. The pineapple basket looked about the size of a teacup. He wasn’t sure it was even possible to fit the wooden ball inside it, let alone do so from a distance. “Don’t get your hopes raised, children.”
“Oh, but I’ve dreamed of pineapples.”
“My mum’s a housemaid. She’s tasted ’em. Says they’re like ambrosia.”
“You can do it, sir!” Elspeth cried.
Colin tossed the wooden ball to the plucky girl. “Rub it for luck, pet.”
Smiling, she did so and handed it back.
He gave Minerva a wink and a shrug. “Here goes nothing.”
Then he eyed the basket, sized up his shot . . . and threw the ball.
Chapter Twenty-two
As the wooden ball sailed through the air, all the hopeful children clutched their hands together and held their breath. Minerva held her breath along with them. And she didn’t even care for pineapples.
Go in, she willed. Go in.
It didn’t go in.
When the ball bounced off the basket’s rim and thudded to the ground, she couldn’t resist joining the collective groan of disappointment.
Colin shrugged and pushed a hand through his air. “Sorry, lads and lasses. Did my best.” He was good-natured in defeat. A gracious loser, as always. But she could tell he was disappointed, too. Not over his bruised pride, but on account of the children. He wanted to give them a treat to remember, and who could blame him?
Thrusting caution and frugality aside, Minerva pushed her way to the table and addressed the booth’s mistress. “How much for the pineapple? Will you take three shillings?”
The woman’s eyes flared with greed, but her mouth was firm. “It’s not for sale.”
“I’ll have a go, then.” A well-dressed young gentleman stepped to the fore. He looked to be the local version of a dandy—probably the son of some country squire, unleashed on the fair with a generous allowance of pocket money and an inflated sense of self-importance. He was flanked by a couple of friends, both of whom looked eager to be amused.
“Sorry, gents.” The stout woman crossed her arms. “This booth is closed.”
“Pity,” said the suave-looking young gentleman, casting a superior glance at Colin. “I’d rather looked forward to showing this fellow up.”
His friends laughed. Meanwhile, the children gathered around Colin, as if they’d claimed him for their own and must come to his defense. It was terribly sweet.
“Well,” said Colin amiably, “you’re still welcome to have a go. If it’s a contest of marksmanship you’re after, one can be arranged. With targets and pistols, perhaps?”
Excitement whispered through the assembled children. Apparently, the promise of a shooting match was an effective balm to their disappointed pineapple hopes.
The young man looked Colin up and down, smirking. “I warn you, I’m the best shot in the county. But if you insist, I should be glad to trounce you.”
“Then you should be glad to take my money, too. Let’s place a wager on it.”
“Absolutely. Name your bet.”
Colin rummaged through his pockets, and Minerva grew alarmed. He might well be an excellent shot, but surely he wouldn’t risk all their money.
“Five pounds,” Colin said.
Five pounds?
“Five pounds?” the young gentleman echoed.
Minerva couldn’t help herself. She went to his side, whispering, “Five pounds? Are you mad? Where do you mean to come up with five pounds?”
“Here.” From his innermost pocket, Colin drew a small, folded square of paper. “Just found it in my coat pocket. Must have been there for months. I’d forgotten it.”
She unfolded the paper and adjusted her spectacles. It was indeed a bank note for five pounds.
Five pounds. All this time she’d been fretting over how to stretch their shillings and pence, and he’d been carrying five pounds in his pocket. The impossible knave.
“You can’t risk this,” she whispered. “It’s—”
“It’s a wager.” The dandy pulled out a coin purse and shook loose five sovereign pieces. He dumped them into Minerva’s hand. “Five pounds.”
Oh dear. She didn’t have a good feeling about this.
They made a veritable parade, the whole group of them trooping to the edge of the fairgrounds, where a shooting contest could safely be staged. Dusk was gathering by the time a straw-stuffed target had been mounted, and a sizable crowd had amassed to watch—not just the children, but adults, too.
“One shot each,” the overconfident dandy said, tilting his head toward the bull’s-eye lodged in the center of a freshly plowed field. “Closest to center wins.”
“Sounds fair,” Colin said. “You first.”