“No, don’t bother. It’s amusing to watch Daphne fawn over him. And he’s enjoying himself. It’s nice to know at least one of my guests is appreciating the castle.”
With a flick of her thumbnail, Clio opened the lid of the salve. A wave of rich, pungent scent reached her. She recognized it instantly.
Oil of wintergreen.
She stood motionless for a moment, reckoning with its effect on her.
He stretched his fingers. “If you’re trying to tell my fortune, you’re staring at the wrong side of my hand.”
She gave herself a brisk shake, breaking the spell. With the tip of her middle finger, she gathered a small amount of the salve and dabbed it on his scraped knuckles.
No, she hadn’t been trying to tell his fortune. But that moment had given her painful insight into her own.
Sometimes, she believed, it was possible to see the future. No need to cross a palm with silver; no crystal ball required. All it took was the courage to look inside your own heart and be honest about what you found there.
What she saw today was this: For the rest of her life, even if she lived to see a hundred summers, anytime she smelled wintergreen, she would think of Rafe Brandon. The warmth of his coat, and the devilish tip of his grin, and the sweet way he’d kissed her in the rain.
She soothed her fingertip over his abraded flesh. Gently, as if his hand were a damp-feathered hatchling instead of an instrument of violence. “He never made you feel welcome to come back, did he? The late marquess, I mean. When you were a troubled youth and needed time to walk away, sort things out . . . He was too stubborn to welcome you home.”
“Can’t blame the man.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t like Phoebe. I was a true hellion. Too far gone.”
“Yours was the calmer head today.” She stroked his hand. “Thank you for coming to our rescue.”
“I know how you hate an unpleasant scene.”
“Sometimes an unpleasant scene is warranted.”
In truth, Rafe had dealt with the situation perfectly. He’d punished the cheater, defended Clio and Phoebe . . . And he’d given the crowd what they craved, as well. An impressive display of strength and danger. A story to tell, retell, and embellish in months and years to come. All of that with no blood spilled, no part of his pugilistic reputation compromised.
“Tomorrow I’ll go back to smooth things over,” he said. “And I’ll pay the tavernkeeper for the damage.”
She laughed a little. “You mean the plaster? They’re not going to patch that hole. They’ll probably make a frame around that tankard and display it with pride. ‘Rafe Brandon Drank Here.’ ”
As soon as the words came out of her, an idea took hold. Her mind began turning faster than a waterwheel.
“That’s it,” she said, closing the tin with a snap. “That’s what I need to make this brewery successful. A business associate.”
“An associate?”
“Yes. Someone who has a good rapport with the farmers and tradesmen. Someone with a name known in pubs and taverns all throughout England.” Excitement rose in her chest, and she looked him in the eye. “I don’t suppose you know anyone like that?”
His jaw was steely. “No.”
“Come along, Rafe. This could be perfect. We could . . . We could call it the Devil’s Own Ale. To advertise, you could go about England, punching tankards into tavern walls. I’d give you a share of the profits.”
“You want to hire me?”
She shrugged. “Why not? At some point, you have to take up a career.”
“I have a career. I’m a fighter.”
“But—”
“It won’t happen, Clio.” He cut off her objection by lifting her over the stile. Then he vaulted the wooden fence himself and resumed walking along the path.
End of conversation.
Clio walked a step behind him, sighing to herself. How could the idea of a brewery compete with the glory of a prizefighting career? How could anything?
She had to admit, the prospect of imminent fisticuffs had been rather exciting. When she’d thought Rafe was preparing to fight that cheating blackguard, chills had raced over her skin. Not merely because Rafe was a champion, but because he was acting as hers.
But even that rare, heady thrill was nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to the relief she felt when he punched the wall instead.
She’d followed the sport for years now, and she knew how these fighters too often ended. Forgotten. Impoverished. Sometimes imprisoned. Broken, in body and mind.
It would kill her to see that happen to Rafe.
Between the relative privacy and the lingering courage imparted by the beer, Clio felt brave enough to tell him so. She jogged to his side. “I think you lied to me when I came to your warehouse in Southwark.”
“How’s that?”
“You told me I hadn’t walked in on a suicide. Now I’m not so sure. I know you weren’t planning to hang yourself, but going back to fighting . . . ? Isn’t it a slower route to the same end?”
He shook his head. “Not at all.”
“I read the accounts of your fights, Rafe. And not just because I read the papers, and you happened to be in them. I sought them out. I read about all thirty-four rounds of your bout with Dubose. The magazines recounted it in such breathless detail. Every blow and bruise.”
“The reporters make it sound more dangerous than it is. It’s how they sell magazines. And it helps generate interest for the next fight.”