Page 9 of Discovering Dahlia (The Blue Orchid Society #5)

The ride back to the port after the tour was mostly silent. Many of the participants dozed on the omnibuses. On the seat beside Miles, Dahlia stared at the passing landscape. A few times, he considered engaging her in conversation, but even though his instinct was to continue to offer reassurance, he decided against it. Not only because she would not wish for others to overhear but also because the fright she’d suffered seemed to have left her emotional state quite precarious, and the last thing she would want would be to break down in tears again, in front of the others.

Miles’s own thoughts proceeded along a different path. Once the group had reconvened in the cathedral apse and discovered that Dahlia and Mrs. Griffin were absent, he, Dr. Jackson, and Benedict had relit lanterns and rushed back through the doorway into the crypt. The lights along the staircase and in the few main rooms had been extinguished when the tour group had departed, but following the path they’d taken before, they found Mrs. Griffin in a smaller room off to one side, where Miles had last seen her and Dahlia.

When he’d discovered that Dahlia had gone off on her own, Miles had left to find her. She had not wandered far but had gone in completely the wrong direction, deeper into the unrestored parts of the crypt. It was lucky she’d not fallen into one of the places where the floors were missing or tripped on the piles of debris.

Dahlia’s reaction to being lost in the darkness had shocked him. She had been so utterly vulnerable and without a trace of her typical self-assured confidence. Even at the Marquess of Molyneaux’s ball a year earlier, she had held her head high, and her chin hadn’t even wavered as she’d walked from the ballroom. She had been uncertain for a few moments this morning as she’d considered whether or not to cancel the cruise. But this was different in every way. In all the years he’d known her, he’d never seen her fall completely to pieces.

You came. I knew you would. Those words had been spoken through her terror, so reasonably, Miles should not put much stock in them. But he could not get them out of his mind. While he had always felt a genuine concern for Dahlia’s health and welfare, those two sentences had triggered something deeper. A protectiveness that was fierce in its strength and primal in its nature had come over him, and he’d had to force himself to release his embrace once she’d pulled away, and to allow her to walk back up the stairs unaided. Dahlia would not appreciate being treated like a child or a fragile teacup. Miles would have to tamp down the medieval compulsion to don a suit of armor and follow the woman around with a sword.

This love business—it really was trying on a man’s state of mind.

The omnibuses reached the port, and the passengers began to disembark.

Miles helped Dahlia descend, and the moment her feet touched the ground, she snapped back into her role as leader. Just by walking a small way away and speaking in a loud voice, she had everyone’s attention. “There are still two hours until supper,” she said. “Plenty of time to explore the seashore, visit a café, or take a short nap. And you will not want to be late this evening. Our entertainment has come all the way from Paris to perform songs from Jacques Offenbach’s new opera.”

Excitement followed this announcement.

Dahlia thanked the carriage drivers and tour guides.

The group dispersed, most making their way toward the seashore, while Dahlia and a few others started toward the ship.

Miles started to follow, glancing around for Ben.

The man had stopped with his wife on the path. Catching Miles’s eye, Benedict held up a hand, motioning for him to join them.

Once he did, Lady Covington excused herself, hurrying away to join Dahlia and their other friends.

“Thought I saw Ruben down that way,” Benedict said.

Miles looked in the direction he indicated. The walkway along the seashore was lined with caf é s and shops between which tourists strolled. Beneath an umbrella on an outside table sat a man alone, staring out at the water. After watching for a moment, Miles nodded, recognizing him by his mannerisms. It certainly was Ruben.

“What do you think, old boy?” Benedict said. “Want to join him?”

Miles glanced at Dahlia. She had stopped and, seeing him with Ben, had given a quick nod of approval and continued on toward the ship.

“Why not?” Miles said, patting his friend on the shoulder as they started off along the road toward the café.

When they neared their friend’s table, Ruben held up his glass in welcome. “How was the tour, gents?” He spoke in a sarcastic tone. “Did you get your fill of historical facts and castle gardens?”

Choosing to ignore the question, Miles took a seat, glancing at the brandy bottle in the center of the table. “Did you enjoy sea bathing?”

“Well enough,” Ruben said. “Water’s a bit cold for my taste. But the ladies liked it.”

The calm in his voice took Miles by surprise. His friend had grown so sarcastic and bitter that Miles was used to hearing complaints. Perhaps the brandy had settled him.

Benedict took a seat on Ruben’s other side. “And where have they gone, the ladies?”

“Back to the ship,” Ruben said, motioning for a server. “Wet hair and all that.”

A man with an apron and a mop of blond hair brought two more glasses. Just as he set them down, a familiar voice called from the beach.

Chatsworth was walking over the sand and rocks toward them, waving his arm over his head.

The men waved back. “Un autre, s’il vous pla?t,” Ruben said to the server.

Chatsworth stepped up onto the paving stones, paused to wipe dirt from his shoes and trouser legs, then took a seat, picking up the bottle to study the label. “Brandy in the afternoon?”

Ruben shrugged. “It’s beneficial for digestion.” He patted his belly. “Especially after all the oysters. And I like the taste.”

Chatsworth nodded for the server to pour. He scooted his chair around to have a better view of the sea and sank back in it. “Marvelous place, wouldn’t you say? Just look at that view.” He swept his hand in front of him.

Miles leaned back in his own chair, cupping a brandy glass in his palm and gazing out over the sea in a moment of complete contentment. He looked at the others at the table, feeling a warmth that he hadn’t felt in a long while. He’d missed his friends. Since they were boys, this group of men had been inseparable. But the past year had changed everything. Through circumstances and words that should never have been said, their relationships had become strained. And with two of them married and one engaged, the time they used to spend together was now truncated—by necessity as well as preference.

“You know,” Ruben said. “I’ve thought about hosting a retreat at Gairloch this fall. Just the four of us, like the old days. What do you all think?”

Hearing the name of Ruben’s hunting lodge, Miles and Chatsworth looked at Benedict, bracing for his response. Ben strongly objected to hunting, believing it to be cruel to kill any creature, nor did he eat meat.

“I don’t—” Benedict began, but Ruben spoke again, cutting off his words.

“We wouldn’t hunt the entire time, naturally. Plenty of other targets to shoot.” He stared out at the water as he spoke, sounding surprisingly anxious, as if he worried his friends would turn down his invitation. “The horses will be glad to be ridden. There are birds to spot and a quiet forest perfect for... ah, meditation.”

The other three looked at one another. That Ruben had extended an invitation to his lodge was nothing new, but his willingness to accommodate each of them in their own particular way was a concession he’d never made before. Ruben was not known for compromise. When they had gone to his lodge in the past, it was with the understanding that he would dictate the schedule of activities. He was a hunting man and took for granted that the others would hunt when they were with him.

“That sounds very enjoyable,” Miles said carefully. Riding and shooting were two of his favorite pastimes. But he was not sure of Ruben’s intentions. It was all so unlike him.

“It does indeed,” Chatsworth said, shooting Miles a confused look.

Benedict nodded, also looking unsure. They were all waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Ruben to say something sarcastic or give an insult.

“It is settled, then.” Ruben drank the rest of his glassful in one gulp and reached for the bottle to refill it. “I’ll make the arrangements as soon as possible.”

Miles accepted a refill as well, as did the others. The last bit of the bottle was tipped out into Chatsworth’s glass. He raised it in a salute, and the others joined in, silently reaffirming their friendship.

The men drank their brandy quietly, enjoying the sea air and the sounds of the waves. Earlier tensions seemed to have eased. Could their friendship return to what it had been? Or was this all just an anomaly or a lull between storms?

Half an hour later, the four walked back to the ship. The companionable feeling remained, and Meredith was pleased. With all of his friends paired with a partner, he hated to admit how lonely he’d been of late.

When they boarded the SS Aurora , the sounds of cheering and grunts met their ears. The noise was familiar. Men yelling encouragement and applauding while others engaged in wrestling or pugilism or another type of event. Miles felt a rush of excitement at the thought of an athletic competition. They continued along the promenade deck, coming to the other side of the saloon and found a group of men and a few women standing in a wide circle around a spar that had been arranged horizontally between the deck and a support. It was fastened tightly on either side to keep it in place.

Two crewmen sat astride the rounded beam, facing one another. Each held the center of a staff with what appeared to be pillows roped to each end. At the boatswain’s signal, the combatants started swinging the staff at their opponent.

Meredith saw right away that the staffs were not intended to deliver heavy blows. Even without the softening pillows, the fighters were too close to get a good swing. The hits were intended to throw an opponent off-balance and knock him off the spar. The contest was all in good fun, with the two competitors calling insults and laughing.

Miles and his companions watched three bouts, each lasting only a matter of moments as the men struck and pushed one another with their padded poles while fighting to keep their seat.

Another man fell, and the winner raised his staff with both hands into the air. “Who’ll challenge me?” he called, with one end of the staff sweeping over the gathered crowd.

“Here,” Ruben called, slapping a hand on Miles’s shoulder. “I’ve a contender right here!”

“Bring him forth,” the man on the spar called back.

Meredith did not argue. He’d been itching to take a turn from the moment they’d arrived. He stripped off his coat and strode through the parted crowd, rolling up his sleeves as he went.

Crewmembers placed wagers as he passed and whispered words such as “dandy” and “fop,” which made him all the more eager to prove himself.

He climbed up, straddling the spar with legs hanging a foot off the deck, and shifted his weight until he was balanced on the rounded surface.

The boatswain acting as referee handed him a staff.

The champion smiled, showing gaps where his teeth were missing. He was a bald man with eyes that bulged slightly. He tipped his head to the side, cracking his neck. “Don’ ye worry, Beau Brummel. I’ll go easy on ye.”

Miles grinned, weighing the staff in his hands.

As soon as the referee gave the signal, Miles braced himself, taking the first hit on his ribs. It wasn’t hard, but he hadn’t wanted to risk losing his stability by blocking it. He returned a hit, testing out his balance as he did. Though he was tempted, a strong swing would push his center too far to the side, leaving him open to being shoved over.

“Ye call that a hit?” his opponent barked. “My niece hits harder, and she’s still wearin’ diapers.”

The other crewmen laughed, and Miles joined in, enjoying himself.

Looking extremely smug, his opponent pulled back his staff, ready to deliver a heavy blow. This time Miles parried, but instead of batting the blow away, he directed it, letting it pass and causing his opponent to overcorrect. Miles gave him one swift smack on the shoulder, and the man fell onto the deck.

The crew laughed at their fallen comrade. Miles’s friends cheered, and around them, money changed hands. Holding on to the spar, Miles reached down, offering to assist the fallen man.

The man grabbed on to his hand. “Well done, lad.” The man grinned. “Had ye pegged as a spoon-fed prat, but ye got one over on me.”

“What’s your name, sir?” Miles asked.

“Sir?” The man laughed. “Not a sir at all.” He gave a small bow. “Milton Barrow at your service, my lord.”

“Then, Milton Barrow, I propose a rematch. One where you do not underestimate me, nor I you.”

Milton Barrow happily climbed back onto the spar.

The match was much more difficult this time. Milton Barrow had the greater experience. His seat was steady, and his hits were hard. Even with the pillows, Miles thought he would have some bruises to his ribs and shoulders.

Miles nearly lost his balance multiple times but managed to readjust. He delivered a few good hits, but they hardly seemed to make a difference to the bald man facing him.

Twisting to the side, Miles blocked a particularly solid blow. From the side of his vision, something caught his eye. A flash of deep pink. He glanced in that direction, seeing that Dahlia had just joined the crowd.

She was watching with a bemused smile, her hair newly arranged and wearing a fresh gown—

Whack.

Before Miles had even registered the hit, he crashed down onto the deck.