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“I travel to Berkshire quite often, as it happens,” he said. “I should be happy to come.”

Hadford’s relief was palpable. “Well then, I suggest we do not delay our meeting. What do you say to coming to dine on Thursday?”

“The day after tomorrow?” Freddie made a show of considering the matter. “It is rather short notice, but I believe it is feasible.”

“Marvelous.”

Freddie took out his pocket watch and glanced at it. “Forgive me, but I must be on my way.” He snapped the gold lid closed and slid the timepiece back into his vest pocket with a smile. “Until Thursday, then, Hadford.”

“Yes.” Hadford appeared dazed. “Thursday at Charwell Park.”

Freddie nodded, and then maintaining his slow and laborious gait, he started back the way he had come. He heard Hadford’s brisk footsteps going the opposite direction, and only when he could hear them no more did he chance a glance over his shoulder. The gentleman had already reached his waiting carriage and was climbing inside. At last, Freddie allowed himself to grin. Today’s meeting could not have been scripted more perfectly.

Henry tipped the barrow over the tump, and Phoebe guided the rolling apples to the outer edges of the large pile.

“We won’t be needin’ many more,” Henry said, shifting his hat a fraction and running his sleeve across his glistening brow. “Then this tump’ll be ready for straw.”

Phoebe nodded. Now that they were out from under the protection of the apple trees, they were feeling the full effects of the afternoon sun. The unseasonably warm temperature was marvelous for the apples but not quite so pleasant for those working to harvest them.

Henry turned the barrow and started back toward the trees. Phoebe went to follow him and then hesitated. She glanced over her shoulder. A few yards away, the grass ended at the banks of the river, and the soothing gurgle of cool, running water was hard to ignore.

“I think I shall walk to the river, Henry,” she said.

“Right you are, miss.” The old gardener gave her a craggy smile. “It will take a bit fer us to ’ave another batch ready fer transport, so you take yer time.”

He continued forward, and as the sound of squeaking wheels disappeared into the trees, Phoebe crossed the short strip of grass and dropped to her knees at the riverbank. Peeling off her gloves, she set them on the ground beside her and reached forward until her hands entered the water.

It was beautifully cool. She moved her fingers against the current, loving the feel of the water slipping through them. A bee buzzed past. Phoebe raised her head and sat back on her heels. Shaking off the water from her hands, she tugged at the ribbons beneath her chin and took off her bonnet. She placed it on top of her gloves, dipped her hands into the river again, and scooped up some water.

A trail of drips discolored Lucy’s dress as Phoebe applied the water to her cheeks and neck. She closed her eyes, reveling in the simple joy of the moment.

“Are you quite well, Miss Hadford?”

At the sound of Lord Dunsbourne’s voice, Phoebe’s eyes flew open and she swung around, her arm brushing her bonnet and sending it rolling over the riverbank.

“Oh no!” She lunged for the errant headwear, but it was already in the water.

The ribbons sank below the surface, but the bonnet bobbed up and down a couple times before the current caught it and it sailed out of reach.

“Stay there,” the baron called.

A splash followed, and Phoebe turned from watching her bonnet swirl into the center of the river to see Lord Dunsbourne wading out to capture it. She rose to her feet in dismay. Although the river was relatively shallow and the water clear, the tops of his boots were completely submerged. He teetered once before steadying himself long enough to reached out and catch the bonnet by its brim. With her bonnet in hand, he turned and sloshed his way back to the bank.

Phoebe watched him approach, struggling to know which should come first, an expression of gratitude or an apology.

Still standing in the water, he extended the wet bonnet to her. “Your bonnet, Miss Hadford.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Phoebe bit her lip and took it from him. “I am so terribly sorry.”

“Nonsense.” He climbed out of the river, water streaming down his legs. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“You are soaking wet, and your boots are likely ruined.”

He looked at his feet. Puddles were forming around them. “These are my oldest working boots. They have survived far worse than a brief immersion in river water.” He paused. “Although, it might be best to ensure that no minnows entered them.”

Phoebe gasped. The horrifying possibility that tiny fish might be swimming in his boots had not even occurred to her.

“Take them off at once!” she said.