Page 96

“All the Genet Moyles and some of the King of the Pippins.”

Mr. Hadford nodded thoughtfully. “Excellent.”

Adam frowned. That was hardly the response he was expecting.

“I have a proposition for you, Lord Dunsbourne. A precursor to the investment we discussed a few weeks ago, if you will.”

“What is that, sir?”

“According to your own study of the Charwell Park orchard, I own an abundance of heavily laden Genet Moyle apple trees. I propose that you harvest all you need from my orchard to create that flawless blend of apple juices you and Henry perfected last year. In exchange, you sell me the first three barrels of cider you produce this year and give me first right of refusal if you ever desire an investor—or better yet, a partner.”

If there had been a chair nearby, Adam would have dropped onto it. As it was, he remained standing, but barely.

“You wish to give me your apples?”

“Yes. There are plenty on the Blenheim Orange trees for my cook’s needs.” He cleared his throat. “I know Henry here is a master gardener, but it will undoubtedly take a few years to replace so many mature trees. I wish you to consider this agreement in effect until that time.”

“For someone who prides himself on being a shrewd businessman, this arrangement seems to be sadly lacking in benefits for you, sir.”

“My life and my daughter’s life, not to mention the five hundred pounds Freddie Payne would have walked away with had you not intervened—I believe I am the one coming out ahead with this endeavor, my lord.”

“I hardly know what to say.” Renewed hope. Gratitude. Humility. They all washed over Adam simultaneously.

“Yes, would be a good start. Followed by a time that you wish to meet my footmen in the orchard. I leave it to your discretion as to whether you create the tumps at Charwell Park or transport the fruit here first. You are in charge; I am merely the keeper of the Genet Moyle trees.”

“Yes,” Adam said, his heart lightening. “Henry and I shall be at Charwell Park within the hour.”

Mr. Hadford grinned. “I knew you were a man of action, Dunsbourne. Well done.”

“They’re lookin’ better already, miss.” Lucy set the bowl of foul-smelling ointment on the bedside table and wrapped Phoebe’s wrist with a fresh strip of linen.

“I think you are right.” Phoebe tried bending her other hand. The wounds Freddie had inflicted still smarted, but she could move her hands without the pain she had experienced last night.

“The grazes don’t look near as angry.” Lucy smiled encouragingly. “I don’t rightly know what Mrs. Wilson puts in her salve, but it works like a charm.”

Phoebe gently traced the cut that ran across her cheek. Perhaps if she were very fortunate, Mrs. Wilson’s ointment would prevent a scar from forming. She closed her eyes, remembering the feel of Adam’s fingers on her face and the feather-light touch of his kiss. Her heart fluttered. She could not tell when she had fallen in love with him, but it had surely happened. There could be no denying her feelings for him any longer.

“Will there be anything else, miss?”

Phoebe opened her eyes. Lucy was gathering her bandaging supplies. She was wearing the new blue dress Phoebe had ordered for her, and it suited her perfectly.

“No, thank you, Lucy.”

Her maid smiled. “I’ll leave you be, then.”

Lucy slipped out of the bedchamber, and Phoebe rose to her feet. She was sore and owned several bruises that had not been there a day ago, but a warm bath and sleep had worked wonders. Her mother was insisting that she stay in her room and rest; Phoebe thought she might go mad if she was not permitted out by tomorrow.

She moved to the window. The blessed rain of last night had passed, leaving the world damp and fresh. Lucy had passed along the news that the footmen and grooms had returned home in the early hours of the morning and that the Dunsbourne orchard fire was out. Phoebe ached for Adam. She wished she could be there with him.

Two swallows swooped in circles outside her window. As they cavorted high above the back lawn, two gentlemen came into view, cutting across the grass toward the orchard. Phoebe’s breath caught. Adam. She knew his walk, the curl of his dark hair beneath his hat, and the way he tilted his head slightly as he listen to Henry beside him. She pressed her hand against the glass as though it made him nearer. He stopped. Turning around, he studied the house. And then he saw her. Through the window and across the distance that separated them, their eyes locked. Her stomach fluttered. He raised his hand, and she smiled. He smiled in return. Henry said something. Adam nodded, and with one last glance her way, he turned and walked on toward the orchard.

Phoebe watched until they were lost in the trees, and then she lowered herself carefully onto a chair. Why were Adam and Henry at Charwell Park when there must be so much to do at Dunsbourne Manor?

A knock sounded on the door.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and her mother entered carrying a vase of roses.