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“Titcombe Hall. That’s Deighton’s place. Don’t you remember? He barked it at us.”

She was staring blankly. Her memories from that encounter on the path centered on Griffith. The way he stood. The angle of his jaw. The curve of his mouth. The rough grain of his voice.

She gave herself a shake. “It’s not possible. Lady Chiswick—she was talking about Griffith. She said…”

What had Lady Chiswick said, exactly?

Muriel moistened her lips. “She called him handsome.”

“Oh, in that case, she must have meant Griffith. No other handsome men in St. Ives.” James had begun to smirk. “Now who’s lacerating? You once told me I’d aged well. Which I’m just realizing isn’t very flattering, even on its merits.”

“She was referring particularly to a cyclist.”

“If she said Titcombe Hall, she was referring particularly to Deighton. He’s not my cup of tea, but I can see how he’d have his adherents. Those calves. They’re like young coconuts. And I believe his family runs Empire Tobacco, which is bound to put a shine on things.”

The tickle in the back of Muriel’s throat made her cough.

“She said—” Muriel coughed again. “She said she could tell I fancied him.”

“Then Lady Chiswick seems to have made an incorrect assumption.” James raised his brows.

He didn’t need to say the rest.

So had she.

Another conversation might have undeceived them both. But since that morning over breakfast, she’d only glimpsed the unpleasant woman in passing. The hotel wasn’t large, but she and the Chiswicks kept different hours. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Sir Reggie, or Clarinda, to the best of her knowledge.

Clarinda.

Lady Chiswick wanted her daughter matched with Colin Deighton.

“Bother,” said Muriel. “Griffith didn’t do any bodily injury to cats?”

“I didn’t what?”

She jumped.

Griffith had wheeled his Rover silently over the grass. He stood gripping the handlebars, glancing between her and James. He was windblown, just back from a ride, and he looked utterly appalled.

“You thought I’d harmed a cat? Deliberately?” His eyes were slits.

Her ticklish throat tightened uncomfortably. She emitted one more strangled cough. But her face was all the confirmation he needed.

“Good God,” he muttered. “And you were willing to engage in civil conversation and share a small boulder?”

“I wasn’t that civil.” Muriel frowned. “And I didn’t invite you onto the boulder.” She studied him with increasing incredulity. He seemed to be taking her part. She narrowed her own eyes. “Are you mocking me? Or pandering?”

“Neither. I’m a lifelong friend of cats.”

“The captain of the Mutton Wheelers isn’t,” interjected James. “Possibly. It’s not confirmed. What I should say is a certain Sir Reggie has alleged malfeasance involving Colin Deighton and a cat. Muriel mistakenly assumed he meant you.”

“Why?” Griffith hadn’t taken his eyes from her.

“I misheard. It was hearsay. Hearsay I misheard.” Muriel wanted to duck behind James, to hide her face, before she could expose herself further.

Gone in an instant. Her trumped-up impetus to eternal dislike. The flimsy bulwark it had erected between her mind and body.

She felt off-balance, hopelessly uncalibrated, and the longer she held his gaze, the worse it got. Her heart began to leap, tender and undefended.