“Phoebe.” Clio breathed the name as a sigh of relief. “What a surprise. Lord Rafe and I were just . . .”
“It’s the hop yield,” her sister interrupted, uninterested in explanations.
“W-what?”
Crops. Her sister was wandering the castle in the dead of night, reading The Times and puzzling over hop yields.
Yes, that sounded like Phoebe.
Her sister lowered the newspaper. “Lord Rafe was right. Hops are a fragile crop and a risky investment. But I’ve found the way you can protect yourself from ruin.” She pointed at an article. “Each year, speculators wager hundreds and thousands on the final hop yield. It’s in all the papers.”
Clio searched her memory. If something appeared in the papers, she would know about it. “Yes, I remember reading the forecasts. I didn’t realize wagering was so widespread.”
“Damn right it is.” Rafe took the paper. “In some taverns, there’s more money bet on hops than on prizefighters. They make charts of every passing rain cloud.”
Clio approached to have a look at the paper herself. “But we can’t foretell the weather. How would I know what to predict?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Phoebe said. “You’re going to bet against yourself.”
“Bet against myself? But why would I . . . ?” As she ran through the outcomes in her mind, Clio was beginning to understand. “So if the farming goes well, we make money on the crop, but if it’s a lean year . . .”
“Then you collect on the wager,” Phoebe finished. “The earnings are limited, but so are the losses. There’s no way you can lose everything.”
“Hedging your bets.” Rafe scratched his jaw. “That’s just mad enough to be genius.”
Phoebe shrugged. “I’ve been called both.”
“Well.” Clio took her by the arm. “As your oldest sister, I am calling you to bed. We have an important day tomorrow. It’s your first proper ball.”
Her sister’s face was grim. “Oh, yes. The miserable ordeal.”
“It won’t be so bad. These things can’t be avoided forever. Not if you’re to have your come-out next season.”
“No one’s going to court me. Why must I have a come-out at all?”
Clio caught a lock of her sister’s hair. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be there for you. I do know how it is.”
“You don’t know how it is for me.” Phoebe’s dark head turned, and the lock of hair slipped from Clio’s fingers. “Lord Rafe, you are coming with us tomorrow, aren’t you?”
Rafe’s eyes were dark as they met Clio’s.
Please, she silently begged him. Please come.
His presence would soothe Phoebe, and as for Clio . . .
This could be her last chance. Their last chance. Once she’d broken her engagement to Piers, she wouldn’t have an excuse to invite Rafe to these things. What it could hurt, for the two of them to have one evening to remember?
“You still owe me a dance,” she reminded him. “I think it’s time to pay the debt.”
“It’s not a good idea. There’s a reason I left your debut ball. I’m out of my element at those things. Restless. And when I grow restless . . . that’s when the devil in me rises. People get hurt.”
“I rather like the devil in you,” she said. “I’ll be hurt if you stay away.”
In a move that was as awkwardly sweet as it was uncharacteristic, Phoebe reached out and clutched Rafe’s forearm. “Please. Do say yes.”
He sighed. “I’ll sleep on it.”
Chapter Nineteen
Rafe didn’t sleep at all that night.
And when dawn arrived, he left.
For an hour, maybe two, he kept the horse at a walk. He didn’t want to push his mount too hard, and in his current mood, that was all too likely. Step after step, he put distance between himself and Twill Castle.
And Clio.