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Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d ask Sally McDermott to accompany him on that blasted bicycle tour. Unless—hadn’t she mentioned a sketching trip to the Somme?

Bloody hell. No Sally. Too bad, but there were other possibilities. Except—worse—he didn’t have the sense to pursue them. Even now, his thoughts had begun to circle again around Muriel Pendrake.

She was too forthright to carry off a lie. Her angry blushes gave her away. She hadn’t hired an artist, of that he was certain. What if he convinced Takada to devote a few days to her illustrations? She might feel grateful enough to renew her offer to ride. She might think more highly of him.

He shifted uncomfortably, and the barstool gave a derisive creak.

He stood to lose his bicycle shop, a considerable investment, his only financial security, given his increasing distance from both his family and his artistic livelihood. Winning this silly wager was a serious imperative. It behooved him to act accordingly. He should have begun training with a new partner yesterday. Instead, he was dragging his heels, revolving fantasies in the back of his mind. Fantasies that featured a woman with penny-bright hair. A woman who happened to loathe him.

A new thought nettled. This preoccupation—it wasn’t because Muriel loathed him? Because he so disliked the thought of her dislike? He would feel gratified if he managed to convince her that he wasn’t a villain, and that she was swimming, needlessly, against a current of mutual attraction. But he was entirely capable of letting her go, letting her swim off, low opinion unchanged. No, this wasn’t about his ego, or his physical desire. He’d fixated for a different reason.

If she rode with him, the wager was as good as won. She herself had guaranteed it, and he believed her. She was all mettle.

He was slow to interpret the pressure at his side, someone leaning next to him at the bar. Lips brushed his ear.

“You’re a pretty fellow. Are you as pretty down here?”

As the man whispered, he slid his hand over Kit’s thigh. Kit grabbed a thick wrist before the groping fingers reached his groin.

“You’ve mistaken me,” he murmured, turning his head. It was the tourist, of course. A man of middle years, a pretty fellow in his own right, with that thick black hair and luminous smile.

“I don’t think so.” The man spoke playfully, but with more heat in his voice. “Another inch will tell if you feel as I do. We’ll see how it stands.”

His fingers crept forward.

Kit plucked his hand away, the movement forceful but discreet.

“Better luck elsewhere,” he said. The man froze and went deadly pale. Kit could read his expression all too well: the displeasure of rejection mingling with the fear of exposure.

He offered a smile. After a moment, the man took it, with a slight nod, and faded back into the depths of the room.

His departure revealed the presence of a second man, who must have approached the bar during the hushed exchange.

James Raleigh.

Kit rose, his eyes on Raleigh’s face, which showed exactly how much he’d understood.

Everything.

As though they shared a single mind, he and Raleigh turned and headed toward the exit, stopping in the shadowy passage that led upstairs to the rooms for let.

“You’re not a rake. You’re a renter.” Raleigh’s tone was neutral.

Kit shook his head, which sent a twinge down his neck. Every muscle had gone rigid.

“I’m not a renter, in fact,” he said. He paused. “You seem familiar with the type.”

If Raleigh had pegged him for a male prostitute, it revealed as much, or more, about him.

Raleigh propped a shoulder on the wall. “All right. I’m a sod. Aren’t you?”

The wind threw rain against the dark window glass, which rattled the panes like a handful of pebbles. What a filthy night.

“No,” Kit sighed. “That fellow mistook me. Wishful thinking. It’s not uncommon.” He winked, a gallant’s wink. “I appeal to all.”

The set of Raleigh’s jaw seemed to dispute the claim.

“Look,” he said, low. “I think of Muriel as my sister. Tell me. What’s your game? Do you also fancy women?”