A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(74)

Elspeth smiled and closed her hand around the penny. “All right then.”

As she scampered off, he cupped a hand around his mouth and called after her, “A sweet, remember. Don’t go making me a charlatan. Be sure not to spend it on anything else.”

He turned to find Minerva staring up at him.

“It is true,” she asked, “what you told her just now?”

“What did I tell her just now?”

“That you fear the future.”

His chin ducked, as if he were instinctively dodging a blow. His brain rang, as though he’d failed to evade it. “I didn’t say that.”

“You said something quite like it.”

Had he? Perhaps he had.

“It’s not that I fear the future. I just find it’s best not to form expectations. Expectations lead to disappointments. If you expect nothing, you’re always surprised.”

“But you’re never really satisfied. You never experience the joy of working toward a goal and achieving it.”

He sighed heavily. Must she always be so damned perceptive?

Doesn’t it grow tiresome? she’d asked him last night, referring to his live-for-the-day, Devil-may-care, insert-blithe-motto-here lifestyle.

Yes, it did rather grow tiresome. Colin envied men like his cousin, who had their sense of duty and purpose whittled so sharp, it could balance on a rapier’s edge. Men like Bram woke up each morning knowing exactly what they meant to accomplish, and why, and how. Hell, Colin envied the men he’d worked with this morning, thatching a cottage roof.

And he envied Minerva her scholarly dedication and discoveries. More than she could ever suppose.

“If you’re asking me, don’t I want to do something useful with my life . . . ? Of course I do. But I’m a viscount, pet. There’s a responsibility inherent in that. Or there will be, once I finally gain control of my accounts. Mostly, my task is to stay alive and not c**k things up. I can’t risk my life purchasing an officer’s commission, or sign on with a pirate crew for larks.”

“Aren’t lords supposed to manage their lands?”

“Who says I don’t?” He threw her a look. “Believe it or not, I go through pots of ink every month, ensuring that my estate is well managed. And I do my part to keep it in excellent condition by staying far away, myself.” He shrugged. “I know some gentlemen develop intellectual interests or political pursuits to occupy their time. But what can I say? I’m not a specialist. I’m passably good at a thousand things, but I don’t particularly excel at any of them.”

“Jack of all trades,” she said thoughtfully.

“Well, something like that. If I could engage in trade, which I can’t.”

They were silent for a few moments.

“You do have talents, Colin.”

He gave her a lascivious wink. “Oh, I know I do.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Let’s see. I’m good at lying, drinking, pleasuring women, and inciting tavern brawls.” Pulling up short, he stopped before a booth with a toss game. “And this. I’m good at things like this.”

He picked up one of the round wooden balls, tossing it into the air and catching it in his hand. Testing its weight as he rolled it from palm to fingertips and back.

“How do I play?” he asked the woman behind the table.

“Three pence for a try, sir. You throw the ball in the baskets.” She waved to a large basket right up front. Behind it, a series of similar baskets were lined up—in gradually diminishing sizes. “A pitch in the first basket earns you an apple. Next basket, an orange. Then peaches, cherries, grapes.” She swept to the end of the row and pointed out a tiny woven basket, probably smaller than the ball itself. “Hit the last, you’ve won yourself a pineapple, direct from the Sandwich Islands.”

Right. Colin smirked. The stumpy, shriveled pineapple on display looked to have come from a fruitier’s glasshouse, via several weeks’ travel around the English countryside.

Easy enough to see how the game worked. In essence, players traded three pence for an apple. If they had a bit of skill, they took away an orange, as well.

Clearly, no one ever won the pineapple.

He laid three pennies on the table. “I’ll have a go.”

The apple came easily, as it was supposed to do. He handed the shiny round fruit to Minerva, who’d taken a seat on the trunk. “Go ahead,” he urged. “Life’s uncertain. Eat it now.”

By the time he’d won her the orange and a trio of fine, ripe peaches, Colin had amassed a small crowd of children. As he sized up his toss for the cherries, he slid a glance to the side and instantly gathered where they’d come from. Little Elspeth had joined Minerva on the trunk. Peach juice dribbled down her chin as she bit into the fruit from one side, carefully avoiding her loose tooth. Apparently, the penny sweet hadn’t been enough for her. She’d come back for more, and she’d brought all her friends.

When he’d tossed and won, Colin passed the net of cherries to Minerva for distribution. “One apiece,” he called to the gathered boys and girls. “No spitting the stones.”

From the cheer that rose up, one would think he’d passed around gold coins.

Minerva was pressed and jostled from all sides, but she flashed him a wide smile as she opened the net. “Don’t you want one?”