“And he didn’t listen to you at all?” Lady Stanhope asked, her eyes wide with incredulity.

“No,” Lavinia admitted, her shoulders sagging. “Armand and the others are convinced that Lord Gatwick must be bad and Dr. Maqsood must be good, or at least not part of whatever plot Lord Shayles is hatching.”

“But you’re convinced it’s the other way around?” Marigold asked, looking uncertain herself. She must have seen some degree of hurt in Lavinia’s eyes, because she rushed on with, “It’s just that we’ve all known Gatwick is Shayles’s strongest supporter and has been for years.”

“Then explain this.” Lavinia drew the letter from the waistband of her skirt, opened the envelope, and pulled out the letter the men had sent to Gladstone.

Marigold and Lady Stanhope gasped. “You can’t let anyone know you have that,” Lady Stanhope said, gesturing for Lavinia to hand it over. As soon as she did, Lady Stanhope tucked the letter back in the envelope and thrust it into a hidden pocket within her skirts. “We need to get this letter as far away from Shayles as possible as quickly as possible.”

“It should be destroyed,” Marigold said.

“I agree,” Lavinia added.

Lady Stanhope nodded. “I’ll take it up to the house and burn it.” She started to move.

“But what about the match?” Marigold asked.

“And whatever attempt on Armand’s life that is about to be made?” Lavinia added.

Lady Stanhope glanced from Lavinia to Marigold and back again. “If the men won’t listen to us, which they never do, we’ll have to take things into our own hands. We don’t have to worry about the letter anymore, but we do have to worry about reprisals when Shayles finds out we’ve outsmarted him.”

“Why let him know he’s been duped?” Marigold suggested. “Let him think he’s won and get him out of here as fast as possible.”

“Good thinking.” Lady Stanhope nodded. “Which means we can’t tell Malcolm and the others about switching the letters until after Shayles leaves. They’d gloat too much and give it away,” she added with a smirk. “And they think we’re the overly emotional ones. Lavinia,” she went on, “if you truly believe Armand is in danger, see what you can do about pinpointing exactly what will happen. Marigold, keep an eye on Shayles to see if you can help her.”

“I will.” Marigold nodded. “What are you planning to do?”

Lady Stanhope’s eyes narrowed. “After I burn this letter, I’m packing my things and heading to Starcross Castle to tell Peter and Mariah what’s going on.”

“Do you think Lord Dunsford could help?” Lavinia asked.

“If Armand is in as serious trouble as you think he is, yes, then I believe Peter can help. At the very least, he’ll want to be involved in whatever the men choose to do next.”

“Agreed,” Marigold said.

With a final nod, Lady Stanhope marched away, heading toward the house. Lavinia glanced across the field. The second innings were already underway, and from the look of things, Armand’s team was having a hard time. Not more than two overs could have passed, but already, one of the opening batsmen had been bowled out. The Indian players were far more dangerous than they looked. But it was danger of a different kind that had Lavinia bristling with anxiety.

“I need to move closer to where Lord Shayles’s team is sitting,” she told Marigold as she searched for an inconspicuous path through the crowd. “That’s the only way I’ll be able to tell if what Lord Gatwick said to me was true. He mentioned a knife.”

She started to leave, but Marigold caught the sleeve of her dress, holding her back. “Do you really believe Lord Gatwick?” she asked, her expression serious. “Or are you simply predisposed to think Dr. Maqsood is out to do your husband harm because of the hospital offer? I wouldn’t put it past Gatwick to use that against you.”

Lavinia shook her head. “I trust Lord Gatwick. I can’t tell you why. He simply comes off as trustworthy to me.” She paused, then said, “There’s more to Lord Gatwick’s story than meets the eye. I felt it from the moment he arrived at Broadclyft Hall the other day.”

Marigold still looked wary, but she said, “All right. You follow your instincts and I’ll see what I can do to keep Shayles under observation.”

They parted, and Lavinia made her way through the crowd feeling far less confident than she wanted to. She was still several yards away from Shayles’s team’s kits and other bits and pieces, attempting to look like nothing more than a hostess ensuring her guests were enjoying themselves, when a groan swelled up from the crowd. She glanced toward the wicket to see Lord Malcolm walking off the field, swatting the grass with his bat, looking red-faced and furious. The majority of the Indian players had rushed to congratulate the bowler, but Lord Shayles and Dr. Maqsood stood chatting seriously several yards apart from the rest of the team. Lord Gatwick stood near the boundary with his arms crossed, looking unconcerned with the match.

That would have sparked Lavinia’s curiosity enough on its own, but as Lord Malcolm reached the bench where the rest of his disheartened team sat, Armand walked out toward the wicket. Lavinia’s heart beat faster. She’d been certain he wasn’t supposed to bat until lower in the order, but Mr. Croydon must have sent him in sooner. It gave her no time at all.

She wedged her way through a few spectators to stand right on the edge of the boundary. Lord Shayles and Dr. Maqsood broke apart, and Dr. Maqsood called out a friendly greeting to Armand as he took his place on the wicket, facing the bowler.

Before the over could begin, Dr. Maqsood held out a hand, signaling for the bowler to wait. “Shariq, a word,” he shouted and jogged up to the wicketkeeper.

The two had a brief exchange, then Dr. Maqsood jogged backwards to his place in the field. A slow, deadly smile spread across the wicketkeeper’s face, and he adjusted his keeping gloves as Armand thumped the ground with his bat just a few yards away on the other side of the stumps.

As the bowler began his approach from the other end of the wicket, Lavinia could have sworn she saw a flash of something metallic in the wicketkeeper’s glove. The ball hurdled toward Armand, he missed it, and the wicketkeeper caught it and leapt forward as though trying to stump Armand. Lavinia gasped as she saw what could happen. If the wicketkeeper had some sort of weapon, all it would take was a feinted stumping and he could stab Armand in the back of his legs where his pads didn’t protect him with whatever he held. She may not have known much about anatomy, but she knew there were vital veins in the legs that, if cut, would cause a man to bleed to death within minutes. Pandemonium would break out, and the wicketkeeper would be hauled off to jail for murder, but if Shayles truly had planned the whole thing, chances were the murderer would be on a ship headed far away from England by day’s end.

“He’s bold, I’ll give him that much,” Lavinia murmured, praying that Armand could see what was going on.

But he had his back to the wicketkeeper as the bowler prepared for another delivery. Lavinia squinted hard to try to make out what the wicketkeeper was holding. The action on the wicket was too fast. Armand hit the ball, then ran for the other end.

Lavinia was so busy watching the wicketkeeper that she jumped when a howl of pain erupted from the field. She jerked her head to see what had happened, only to find Dr. Maqsood collapsed in the grass, clutching his leg. Lord Gatwick straightened beside him, throwing the ball toward the wicketkeeper. His expression was unreadable as he then bent to help Dr. Maqsood.

As soon as the play was over, Lord Shayles rushed to Dr. Maqsood and Lord Gatwick, along with several of the Indian players. Lavinia glanced back to the wicketkeeper, who was fiddling with his leg pads. She thought she saw whatever shiny thing the man had in his hand slip into one of the pads. Mr. Bondar and the other umpire didn’t notice the action. They were too busy heading over to where Dr. Maqsood was still rolling on the ground, clutching his leg. The wicketkeeper stood, calling out something to the other umpire, who nodded, then jogged toward the boundary. On the field, Armand moved to join the rest of the men crowding around Dr. Maqsood, but he stopped as Alex, the other batsman, met him in the middle of the wicket.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” Dr. Miller called, looking winded as he trotted across the field to attend Dr. Maqsood. “I’m a doctor, I can handle this.”

Lavinia didn’t know where to look. On the one hand, with Lord Shayles, Lord Gatwick, and Dr. Miller huddled around Dr. Maqsood, anything could happen. On the other, the wicketkeeper reached his team bench only a few yards away from her. He said something rapid-fire in his own language and was met by a flurry of comments that Lavinia couldn’t understand. He sat on the bench and unbuckled his pads.

“Wait.” Lavinia took a step toward them. “Wait, you can’t just cast those aside. You have a knife.”

A few of the spare Indian players glanced in her direction, but it was unclear to Lavinia whether they understood what she’d said. One got up and held up his hands, attempting to keep her away from their area.

“But he has a weapon hidden in those pads,” Lavinia insisted. A few of the English-speaking spectators were beginning to look at her strangely. “You can’t just—”

It was too late. The wicketkeeper’s pads were off, and in a rush of movement so fast that Lavinia couldn’t fully see what happened, they were whisked away by other players and replaced with fresh pads.

“No,” she shouted. “You can’t.”

“Watch out. Move out of the way.”

Lavinia was forced to leap back as Dr. Maqsood was carried toward the remaining cluster of players and deposited on the ground in front of the bench.

“I’ve never seen a ball hit so hard that it fractured a man’s ankle,” Dr. Miller said in awe and delight as he squatted by the pale and groaning Dr. Maqsood’s side. “Gatwick, you were standing right next to him. How did this happen?”

“He tried to stop the ball with his ankle,” Lord Gatwick said with a bored sniff. He spotted Lavinia hovering near the edge of the encroaching onlookers and stepped subtly in her direction.

“No,” Dr. Maqsood moaned. “You did this.”

“I may have failed to block the ball on my own,” Lord Gatwick admitted. His mouth pinched in a look of extreme distaste. “Give the man some laudanum so he stops groaning.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve got some right here,” Dr. Miller said, gesturing for one of the Indian players to hand him a medical bag.

“No,” Lord Shayles said, wedging his way between the others, wide-eyed, in an attempt to stop him. “You can’t give him anything. I need him alert and functioning.”

“You brought fifteen players, my lord,” Mr. Bondar said from the side. “You’ll have to take over captain duties, but it doesn’t look like Dr. Maqsood will be able to play anymore. Two more minutes and we resume play.”

“No,” Lord Shayles growled, dropping to squat beside Dr. Maqsood. “Snap out of it, you filthy native. I need you.”

“Excuse me, my lord.” Dr. Miller wedged his way between Lord Shayles and Dr. Maqsood, holding a small vial to Dr. Maqsood’s lips and urging him to drink it.

“What the devil?” Lord Shayles exclaimed as Dr. Maqsood drank the mixture and lay back in the grass. “Miller, you fool!”

“He’s in pain,” Dr. Miller defended himself, looking shocked at the force of Lord Shayles’s ire.

“I’ll flay you alive,” Lord Shayles growled. He pushed back, standing. “Where’s Khan?” He spotted the wicketkeeper and marched toward him.

Lavinia swayed into action, ready to follow in an attempt to catch Lord Shayles red-handed. But the wicketkeeper was nowhere in sight. And before she could take a step, a hand on her arm stopped her.

“This isn’t a scene for a lady,” Lord Gatwick said, just inches behind her.

Lavinia whipped to face him. “Why are you helping us?” she demanded in a whisper.

“I’m not helping you,” Lord Gatwick said, his expression blank but his eyes flashing with emotion. “I’m helping myself. It just so happens that, at the moment, helping you helps me.”

There wasn’t time to untangle the motivations behind his words. Mr. Bondar was calling for the match to resume, Dr. Miller was carrying on about taking Dr. Maqsood to the village physician’s house, and Lord Shayles was tearing through the confused Indian players, looking for the vanished wicketkeeper.

“Is Armand safe now?” Lavinia asked, grabbing Lord Gatwick’s arm in case he tried to bolt.

“For now, yes. The wicketkeeper knows he was almost caught, and Dr. Maqsood will be in no condition to carry out what he was planning for after the match.”

“Did you break his ankle?” Lavinia blinked.

Lord Gatwick blinked right back. “How would I be able to do that?” he said, though his eyes told a different story.

“Get Lord Shayles away from Broadclyft Hall as soon as you can after the game,” Lavinia whispered, letting Lord Gatwick in on part of their plan. “It’s essential for what my friends have planned.”

Lord Gatwick nodded and started to walk off. He paused and turned back to her. “Someday, my lady, I do hope we can become better acquainted.”

In spite of everything, Lavinia smiled. “I think I’d like that, even if my friends think I’m mad for trusting you.”

“You are mad for trusting me,” he said, then nodded and walked back onto the pitch, resuming his position in the field as though nothing had happened.

Lavinia let out a breath and wove her way through the dispersing crowd around Dr. Maqsood as fast as possible. She spotted Marigold coming toward her with a curious and panicked expression and switched direction to meet her.

“We’re out of danger,” she told her friend as soon as they met.

Marigold grabbed her hands and squeezed them in relief, but Lavinia felt as though she’d told a lie. Armand’s life might have been safe for now, and the incriminating letter destroyed, but with those external impediments out of the way, all she had left to concentrate on was the raw hurt Armand had inflicted on her by pushing her away.

Armand was bowled out within five balls of the match resuming. His focus was no longer on the game. Dr. Maqsood had been carried off the field in pain, and from his vantage point on the wicket with Alex, it looked like he wouldn’t be coming back any time soon. In fact, as Bondar resumed the match, Armand caught sight of Dr. Miller accompanying the men who hoisted Dr. Maqsood on their shoulders and carried him off toward the village.

All that aside, the letter was still at stake, and Shayles’s players were still far, far better than the Broadclyft men. No more than five minutes after Armand was bowled out, Alex was caught out.

“This is a disaster,” Alex grumbled as he marched off the field and threw his bat aside.

“We’re not going to get that letter back,” Armand said, wracking his brain to think of an alternative plan on the fly.

“If Shayles wins this,” Malcolm began, but was unable to finish. His face was a mask of rage, and Armand was afraid the man would burst a blood vessel in his temple. Rupert took one look at him and scooted farther down the bench.

Two more of their batsmen got out within three overs, leaving them at the very bottom of their order. Armand paced restlessly in front of his team’s bench. There had to be a way they could salvage the situation. It wasn’t too late to simply steal the letter from the scorer’s table and rip it to shreds. The blasted thing was still sitting there, the red edges of the envelope as bright as blood, mocking them.

His gaze traveled beyond the table to the sloping lawn that led up to the house, and his heart dropped to his feet as he spotted Lavinia walking away from the pitch. Without a moment’s hesitation, he took off after her.

“Armand, where are you going?” Alex called out. “The match isn’t finished yet.”

“Yes, it is,” Armand called back. He dodged around a few people until he was free of the crowd, then broke into a run.

He was halfway across the lawn by the time he caught up to Lavinia. “Lavinia, wait!”

She turned with a startled expression that quickly dampened to the same sort of weary disappointment with which she’d looked at him for the past few days. “Armand, what are you doing? The match isn’t over.”

“We don’t have a chance of winning now,” he said, moving to stand between her and the house. “Malcolm is fit to be tied, and Alex isn’t much better. We’ve lost the letter, which means our problems are just beginning.”

To Armand’s surprise, Lavinia glanced down, her cheeks going pink, but not in alarm or panic. “I suppose you’ll want to go off with your friends to make things right, then,” she said instead.

“Of course,” he said. “We’ll need to put Malcolm’s plan into motion by writing another letter and sending it to the press. We may all have to return to London earlier than anticipated.”

Lavinia glanced up at him, her expression pinched. “India. London. Where to next? Peru?”

Inwardly, Armand winced. “I mean for you to come to London with me, of course. I need you to find a suitable place for us to live.”

She nodded, but he had the distinct impression his words hadn’t actually made anything better. “I’m sure Mama already has half a dozen places in mind.”

“I’m sure.” Armand attempted to grin, but instead of turning into a moment they could share, Lavinia glanced off over the cricket pitch.

“It appears as though the match has ended,” she said with a sigh, then met his eyes. “You’d better go back to your friends.”

“Lavinia.” He took a step closer to her, reaching for her hands. “It feels like whatever I say is the wrong thing and whatever I do only makes a bigger muddle of things. Please, tell me what I can do to make things right between us.”

She glanced up at him, a spark of hope in her beautiful eyes. He squeezed her hands harder, praying that she would say something that he could act on. He was ready to abandon everything else but her if she told him to.

“I need to know that you’re committed to—”

“My lord, Mr. Croydon needs you immediately,” Maxwell called as he dashed across the lawn toward them.

Armand cursed under his breath, cursed his title and position as a peer, cursed Parliament and its machinations, and cursed the blasted day he befriended Malcolm, Alex, and Peter as they’d all lain in their cots in the Crimean battlefield hospital.

“You need to go,” Lavinia said, slipping her hands out of his. “And so do I.”

A chill passed down his spine, making him wonder what she meant. “As soon as this is taken care of, I’ll come find you so we can talk.”

She lowered her eyes and nodded, then turned and headed on to the house.

Everything within Armand wanted to go with her. He wavered on his spot for a moment, debating telling Alex and Malcolm what they could do with their stupid letter.

“My lord?” Maxwell prompted him.

Armand growled and turned away from the house, jogging with Maxwell by his side back to the cricket pitch. As much as he hated it, in that moment, affairs of state needed his attention more than his marriage. The spectators were already leaving and the Indian players were packing up their kits when he arrived.

“I believe this is the prize, gentlemen,” Miss Pennington said, standing from her seat behind the scorer’s table and handing the letter to Shayles.

“Bad luck, lads,” Shayles laughed as he took the letter. “Looks like Gladstone is going to have a tempest on his hands come November. Sooner than that, really.”

“That letter will get you nowhere,” Malcolm snarled at him, the picture of fury. “We’ll have the press believing that letter is a fake in no time.”

“Your plot will fail,” Alex added. “Your club’s days are numbered.”

Shayles continued to laugh. “My club will still be alive and kicking years from now, though I can’t say the same for all of you.” He sent Armand a pointed glance.

It could have been another of Shayles’s baseless, bold threats. The man liked to hear himself talk, especially when he could frighten others by doing it. But Lavinia’s cautions hung in the back of Armand’s mind. Though with Dr. Maqsood away receiving medical treatment, it didn’t seem likely that he was in danger.

“We should leave,” Gatwick said from his standard place by Shayles’s side. “All this country air disagrees with me.”

“You’re right,” Shayles said, still looking at Armand instead of Gatwick. “I trust you’ll allow us to exit your estate without impediment?”

“Over my dead—” Malcolm started.

“Yes, of course,” Armand grumbled. The sooner all of them left Broadclyft Hall, left him and Lavinia alone, the better.

“Come along, then, Gatwick,” Shayles said. “We’ll collect Miller on our way through the village.” There was a menacing note in his tone that made Armand glad he wasn’t Dr. Miller.

“Should we warn Miller that Shayles isn’t in a good mood?” Armand asked a few minutes later as he and his friends and Rupert cleaned up the last of their team’s things.

“Let’s leave them to sort it out amongst themselves,” Alex answered, his eyes narrowed.

It took them half an hour more to set everything to right on the cricket pitch and to direct the servants to take down the tables and chairs that had been brought from the house. By the time Armand started up the hill to the house, Malcolm and Alex walking in silence with him, the sun was already low in the sky.

“We need to get a new letter sent tomorrow,” Alex said as they made their final approach to the front door of Broadclyft Hall. “We need to act faster than Shayles can act.”

Armand surprised his friends by saying, “I want you all out of my house by tomorrow.” When they glanced to him, stupefied, he said, “My marriage has suffered enough already. I need to be alone with Lavinia for a while.”

“I’ll gladly be out of your hair tonight if you tell me this means there will be no India,” Alex said.

Armand sighed. “There was never going to be an India.” He could see that now. Whether by Dr. Maqsood’s alleged alliance with Shayles or simply because he would rather spend his time with Lavinia than patients, India was out of the question.

He was on the verge of explaining as much to his friends when the front door opened. Katya stepped out, carrying her own suitcase and dressed for travel. But to Armand’s distress, Lavinia stepped out after her with a bag of her own, her traveling coat buttoned up tight.

“Lavinia? What are you doing?” he asked rushing ahead of his friends and up the stairs.

“I told you,” she said, her face a mask of misery. “I need to go.”