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At that moment, there was a commotion in the crowd next to their table and Jack came bursting through it.

“Benedict, thank God!”

Benedict’s mouth tightened. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to know right now!”

“Trust me,” Jack panted. “You’ll want to know about this!” Benedict opened his mouth to deny it, but did not get that far. “It’s Nat!” Jack blurted. “Nat Jones! He’s here with a bunch of his fancy backers. They’ve come to watch you fight. Ben,” his brother’s voice shook, “this could be it. If you impress them now, this could be a real shot for you at the big time.”

Benedict went very still, and Lizzie reached across to touch his sleeve. His eyes shot to meet hers.

“Go,” she said simply. “We can finish this later.”

He started to shake his head. “No, Lizzie, we haven’t cleared the air.”

“Benedict,” she urged. “It’s fine. We can pick this up later. This sounds important.”

“So is this!”

Seeing his frustration, she squeezed his arm. “We’ve got the rest of our lives for matrimonial strife,” she joked weakly. “I’m not going anywhere, and we can take a walk later and finish this … conversation.”

He swore, low and profane. “I shouldn’t have raised all this between us right now,” he said, raising her hand and pressing it to his lips. He closed his eyes fleetingly. “The timing couldn’t be worse.”

“No, this is a good thing,” Lizzie insisted. “I will spend the time arranging my thoughts so I’m coherent later. I was ill prepared for this conversation.” She hesitated. “You made some very good points,” she said softly. “And you’re right, we need to have this out properly.”

“Ben!” Jack burst out in an agony of anticipation. “They’re waiting at the tent!”

“Lizzie – ”

“Just go, Benedict,” she managed a smile. “I have Sebastian to escort me back, and we’ll sort finish this later. I promise.”

She watched him being swallowed up into the crowd as he sent one last backward glance her way. She glanced down at Sebastian. “Come on, boy.”

Sorely tempted as she was to find out what was happening between Maggie and Frank, Lizzie turned her steps toward the exit intending to head for the wagon, when she heard her name called. The voice that called it almost made her miss her footing. She halted and turned slowly about.

No, she had not been mistaken about those sweet, high tones.

It was her cousin, Betsy.

27

It took a moment for Lizzie to register that Betsy was not alone but accompanied by two others. As Lizzie stood frozen immobile, Betsy gave a smile and stepped forward, looking extremely neat in a fur trimmed cloak and bonnet of sage green. “Cousin,” she said and extended a dainty gloved hand. Lizzie stared a moment at the yellow kid glove and then met Betsy’s gaze.

“What do you want, Betsy?” she asked aloud.

A soft gasp behind them drew both their attention, and Lizzie noticed with surprise that Aunt Hester was stood nearby looking agitated with a handkerchief held to her mouth.

“Aunt,” Lizzie blurted. “What are you doing here?” It seemed incongruous in the extreme to see her respectable aunt stood surrounded by gaily colored striped tents. Aunt Hester’s tastes in life had always been so puritan.

Lizzie’s gaze traveled on to the third person who stood supporting her aunt. It was not her uncle, but a much younger man dressed in a gray tweed suit. She vaguely recognized him as Mrs. Lessing‘s nephew, though she could not recall his name just now.

Seeing the direction of her gaze, the young man said with a polite bow, “Perhaps you do not remember me, Miss Anderson, but we were introduced at a garden party last summer. I am Mrs. Lessing’s nephew, Frederick Mountford. Perhaps you remember me?”

“Of course,” Lizzie answered automatically, though in truth, her memory of him was dim. All she really remembered was Betsy saying what a shame it was that so handsome a young man should have to dance attendance on his disagreeable old aunt in the hopes of inheriting.

Now it seemed Betsy did not mind so much, if the warm eye she was casting over him was any indication. “You must not address my cousin as such, Mr. Mountford,” she said gently. “For she is a married lady now, is that not so, Lizzie? And as such, her name is Mrs. Toomes.”

“Your pardon, Mrs. Toomes,” Frederick Mountford said with a charming smile and Lizzie nodded. When the awkward silence stretched, he cleared his throat. “I hope you would not think it impertinent for me to suggest we all repair somewhere we can have some quiet conversation?”

“Oh yes!” Betsy cried at once, sounding relieved. “That sounds the very thing, does it not, Mother?”