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“I can only say that, by the time we became real friends that night at the Macraes’ ball, I had already begun my journey toward the sort of man I wish to be.

I cannot undo the past. But I do not live in the past. Will you not consider my very real regrets as punishment enough?

It would be a far greater penalty to lose your friendship.

It was your example that inspired my wish to improve to begin with.

Who else has seen me as I am and accepted me despite my errors?

You have trusted once before that I have left my loutish attitudes behind.

Can you bring yourself to trust me still? ”

To William’s horror, the eyes that now lifted to him were brimming with tears.

“I want to trust you, Mr. Cole,” Miss Lockhart said, her lower lip quivering.

“It distresses me profoundly that I have any cause to doubt you. You will, agree, however, that my discovery of your past actions must drive me to far greater caution. I do not wish to be made a fool of. If you were to display any such tendencies again…”

“What sort of gentleman could cause these tears and not despise himself?” William asked bitterly. “I assure you, every choice I make henceforth will depend on your approval. My motivation is to make you proud of me. But how can I do that if you cast me off?”

Miss Lockhart stared at him through wet eyes. “You impose upon me the role of your conscience. I would not have that responsibility. You should do right for right’s sake, Mr. Cole. If that pleases me, it is an added benefit.”

“You see how you chastise me freely.” William threw his palms forward in exasperation.

“No one else does that. My father scolds too much and my sister too little. But you speak to me plainly. And I listen because I respect and admire you. You are not my conscience, Miss Lockhart. You are my inspiration.”

She pressed her lips together. “Mr. Cole, I wish to be nothing but your friend.” She looked away suddenly, as if to hold back new tears at these words.

“If you are to take on a more inspiring role, you must find the motivation for it within yourself. Else any stumbling on my part will be an excuse for you to do the same.”

William grew quiet. Miss Lockhart was right, of course. Even now, he floundered hopelessly in scouting the path forward. He did need her. Without her wisdom, he would make little progress. But the will to forge ahead must come from him.

He was about to acknowledge this when, from amid the multitude of ramblers that milled about on the lawns, an exclamation rang out toward them.

“Well, now! Miss Lockhart and Mr. Cole. Old friends together once more.” These words, so innocent on the surface, carried a corrupted meaning, having been uttered by the disagreeable Miss Irene Sangford.

As proof of William’s suspicions, she raised a conspiratorial eyebrow.

“It is well Miss Penrose is not here. She would surely assume there was more going on between you when your faces are so serious.”

William and Miss Lockhart both attempted to regulate their expressions, to the obvious amusement of Irene Sangford.

“Miss Penrose,” she continued, “is quite the jealous sort, from what I have seen. Sadly, however, her mother would not want her daughter’s envy spent on a military gentleman.” She shrugged. “I suppose Miss Lockhart’s mother does not have the same qualms.”

William looked desperately about him for a savior who might spare them from this woman. There was only one other person he knew nearby, and William grabbed the opportunity to call him over.

“Dr. Westbridge!” called William, finding himself gratefully encouraging his rival’s presence. “Do come and join us. Tell me all about the insects you discovered on your outing to Munro House last week. Was Lord Howell in attendance?”

Whether it was the mention of the viscount, whom William knew Miss Sangford particularly despised, or the imminent and possibly detailed discussion of crawling things, William did not know.

Nor did he care. All that mattered was that Miss Sangford abruptly found herself no longer interested in lingering.

“Oh. Ah. I think I heard Mama calling. If you’ll excuse me…”

The most rewarding part of seeing the back of Miss Sangford was the first hint of a smile on Miss Lockhart’s face. William felt the tiniest reconnection between them.

Or was she smiling shyly at the approach of Dr. Westbridge?

“Good afternoon, Mr. Cole, Miss Lockhart,” greeted the doctor.

“I am pleased to find your new fascination with entomology has not waned, sir. I don’t know what I shall say that Miss Lockhart would not already have shared with you, other than it was a very pleasant afternoon, although the ladies no doubt missed your more charming company. ”

“You do yourself a disservice, Doctor,” replied William, obliged to return the compliment. “If the afternoon was pleasant, your own company was surely more than adequate.”

“One can only hope,” Dr. Westbridge said solemnly, casting a glance at Miss Lockhart. She, in turn, lowered her gaze to the ground.

So , thought William, there is something there. Perhaps I have missed my chance, after all.

Should he bow out graciously and leave them to further their acquaintance? Or was there still a chance to win Miss Lockhart’s favor?

She did not offer him any encouragement to stay. Her eyes avoided him. Her lips were thin with tension. No, he should not stay.

She needed time to process all that had been said. It was the least he could do. And if, in that period of grace, she grew closer to the doctor, then that was how the fates had willed it. At least Arthur Westbridge would not, on some battlefield far from home, make her a widow.

William stood slowly and offered his vacated spot to the doctor. “I have taken up enough of Miss Lockhart’s time. Perhaps you would keep her company? Or, better yet, the two of you might want to join the Sinclairs by the stream. I noticed a flurry of tadpoles there earlier.”

Miss Lockhart stood at once, her hands busily straightening her hem.

“That is an excellent suggestion, Mr. Cole,” she remarked, her eyes swiveling from her dress directly to him.

With her usual warmth, as if the terrible conversation about Lady Howell had not occurred minutes earlier, she said, “Thank you.” And then, “It is kind of you to think of others in this way.”

William’s heart skipped several beats. On any other day, he would have appreciated her sentiment. But today, his soul burdened with regret and grief, her words meant so much more. Indeed, what he truly heard Miss Lockhart say was, “I forgive you.”

He swallowed down the lump in his throat. They may yet be friends. Was there… Might they… Dare he hope for more?

No, not right now. Above all, he must be patient. He had come within an inch of losing her completely. One step at a time.

“It is my pleasure,” he replied. “Perhaps I shall see you at the games later?”

There was the small smile again. “I am sure you shall.”

Then she was gone. In the company of Dr. Westbridge. Who was as dependable as a rock. Well, good for him. As for William, he was not ready to be counted out just yet.

He felt the hard presence of the flask at his hip.

There was something else he had to do while he waited to see Miss Lockhart again.

He had spotted Richard Foyle earlier, much to his surprise.

A picnic was not the sort of party the man usually attended, such an event being far too domestic for his usual taste.

It did mean, however, that Lieutenant Foyle was remarkably sober and likely in the company of his father, all of which made it the perfect opportunity to return his silver flask. And get the apology the fiend owed him.

It didn’t take long to find him. Baron Foyle, his father, had brought two footmen with him.

Between them, they had laid out chairs and a table with a spread of food that would never have fit into a humble basket.

Baroness Foyle was being spared the bright sun by her lady’s maid, who endured the heat to hold a parasol over her mistress’s head.

William thought they had rather missed the point of a community picnic.

They seemed to have gone out of their way to segregate themselves from the rest of the citizens of Munro, while insisting on being among them.

People like the Penroses, who thought themselves too fine for such homely festivities, had not bothered to come.

Others, who valued their privacy, like the viscount and viscountess, held their picnics with select friends on their own estate.

But the Foyles, it seemed, needed to establish their superiority through vulgar display.

No wonder the young lieutenant had so little good sense.

Lieutenant Foyle was the youngest of three sons.

There were no sisters whose presence might remind Richard how one should behave around a lady.

Each of the Foyle siblings had inherited a decreasing sense of what it was to be a gentleman, with Richard seeming to have mere dregs in supply.

While the Foyle heir maintained a measure of honor, the youngest son had been spoiled and allowed to act on every impulse.

His parents had protected him from all harm, including that which he created himself.

Too late, they had seen the error of their ways, doting on the baby of the family.

A military career had been seen as the only recourse to teach him discipline. As such, it had been an abject failure.

None of this was going to stop William from demanding what was due him. Especially when it concerned Miss Lockhart.

Still, he did not want to create a scene. So, William walked quietly up to Richard Foyle and said in a muted voice, “I would speak with you privately, sir.”