Page 9 of A Shore Thing

His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.

He was older than she’d thought, within a year or two of her age, perhaps three and thirty. His skin was fine-grained, but lines bracketed his mouth.

His mouth.

Muriel swallowed with difficulty.

The rake’s gaze was knowing. He flicked it back to James.

“You’re also visiting from London?” James asked.

The rake—Mr. Griffith—approached him.

“Permanently. I live here.” His chin pointed toward the basket. “You’re on a picnic?”

James snorted.

Muriel shook herself and started forward…just as another bell began to ring.

3

“Obstruction in the path!” The man roaring was perched high on a penny-farthing. He kept pedaling, barreling toward James with the speed of a locomotive.

Griffith jumped the wall in a lithe motion and tackled James around the waist. Muriel barked her shin on the stone as she followed, stumbling gracelessly into the center of the path. She held up her palm.

“Halt!”

The man on the penny-farthing skidded to a stop. He didn’t dismount. His front wheel was easily five feet high, and he twitched it left then right then left again to maintain his balance.

“Madam,” he boomed. “It is highly irresponsible to leave your bicycle in the path.”

Muriel’s gaze dropped to Griffith’s bicycle, which lay tipped on its side between them.

“We thought you were calling James the obstruction.” She glanced at James, who was accepting a hand up from Griffith.

“He was also obstructing the path,” said the man. “Paths exist to facilitate movement. If it’s not moving, it shouldn’t be in the path.”

“Deighton, isn’t it? James Raleigh.” James flicked a leaf from his hat. “We met at dinner. Your party is staying at the Towans. So are we—Mrs. Pendrake and I. Arrived yesterday.”

“We dined at the Towans.” Deighton’s glare was incredulous. “We stay in my family’s summer residence, Titcombe Hall.”

“How delightful for you.” James gave him an idle smile. “Hall ownership is such a boon to a man’s social life. Now that you mention it, I recall your friend saying something about Titcombe Hall. It’s haunted, perhaps? By a murdered eighteenth-century smuggler? Bracegirdle was foggy on the details.”

“Butterfield.”

“Butterfield. That’s it. Nice chap, Butterfield. Avoids pastry and takes cold baths. We had an interesting talk.”

“He’s in training.” Deighton swayed on his penny-farthing. “Can’t eat pastry when training.”

“I don’t know,” said James blandly. “What if you’re training as a pastry eater?”

“We are not.” Deighton spat the words. “We are training as wheelmen. I’m the captain.” He removed a hand from the handlebars and tapped one of the badges affixed to his jacket, the one shaped like a wheel, with gold spokes raying out against a blue enamel background. “Mutton Wheelers Cycling Club. We’ve toured all over England, recorded hundreds and hundreds of miles.”

“Well done.” James coughed. “You should call yourselves the Well-Done Mutton Wheelers Cycling Club. What do you think?”

He looked at Muriel for approval, and she gave a slight shake of her head.

“I thought it was rather good,” murmured Griffith.