“Why are you so set on this?” he asked, frowning. “Why does my scoundrel brother’s prizefight matter to you?”
The question hung in the air for a moment.
“Because I love him,” she said, breaking the glassy silence with the only words that possessed sufficient blunt force. “And you should come with me because you love him, too.”
“How long have you been in love with my brother?”
Piers asked the question while they were rattling down the Old Kent Road, somewhere near Gravesend. As if they were just continuing the conversation they’d paused two hours prior, in his office.
“Since always, I think.” She folded her hands. “But I only realized it recently.”
His reaction was predictably stoic.
She couldn’t fathom how Piers could remain so calm in the face of her revelations. Much less in the face of this traffic. Good heavens, the snarl of carriages and carts waiting at the bridge would have given her brother-in-law an apoplexy.
Even Clio was drumming her fingers on the seat and tapping her toes in her slippers. The autumn day was heating to a simmer, and the warmth didn’t improve her patience.
The coach lurched to a sudden halt.
“Why are we stopping? Is there a turnpike?”
“The road is clogged with carriages, all the way to the bend,” Piers said, craning his neck. “We must be close.”
Clio checked her timepiece. Almost noon.
There wasn’t any time to waste.
She reached for the door latch. “Then I’ll cover the rest of the distance on foot.”
“Clio, wait.”
She laughed as she pushed the door open and escaped the confines of the carriage. Of all the futile words to call after her.
Clio, wait.
She wasn’t waiting one second longer.
Piers followed her as she raced along the side of the road, clambering over a stile to cut across a field. High, impertinent grasses tangled about her boots and grasped at the hem of her skirt.
When she reached the tavern, she could see the fight had drawn onlookers by the score. Perhaps by the hundreds. They were flocking like linnets toward the grassy meadow behind the inn.
She picked up her skirts and dashed the remaining distance, attempting to pick and weave her way through the crowd. “Excuse me, please. I beg your pardon. Please let me pass.”
A man trod on her boot.
She made a fist and cocked it. “Move.”
The last, inner ring of spectators gave way, and Clio emerged into the center clearing.
There he was.
Rafe.
Standing not thirty feet away. His back was to her, but she’d know those shoulders anywhere.
“Rafe!” She hastened across the meadow. “Rafe, wait!”
He turned, pausing in the act of fixing his cuff. He frowned at her. “Clio. You’re early.”
Early?
Perhaps she ought to have wondered why he seemed to be expecting her, but she was too busy feeling relieved that she wasn’t too late. Evidently the fight wasn’t due to start quite yet. He was dressed much too fine for boxing—wearing a blue tailcoat, freshly starched cravat, and a striped silk waistcoat.
And those tall, gleaming boots.
Dear heaven, he looked magnificent.
“What are you doing?” he asked, looking past her toward the road. “Where’s my br—”
“I’m not . . .” She pressed a hand to her belly, breathless. “I’m not here to stop you.”
“You’re not?”
She shook her head. “I won’t even watch if you don’t want me to.”
“You . . . won’t.”
She shook her head. “But I wanted you to know I’m here. Cheering for you. Believing in you. Most of all, I needed to show you this.” She pulled a paper from her pocket and unfolded it, handing it to him. “Go on, have a look.”
He peered at it.
“It’s for the brewery,” she explained. “I’ve just ordered seven hundred casks with that design. So you’d better win. I should hate to have to change them all now.”
He read the inscription aloud. “Champion Pale Ale.”