A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(75)

He shook his head. Her smile—genuine, adoring—was the best reward he could imagine.

“Grapes next!” called one boy. “Cor, I’ve never even tasted a grape. Not in all my life.”

The stout woman behind the table crossed her arms. “Greedy little beggars. Go on with you. He won’t win the grapes.”

“We’ll see.” Colin rolled the wooden ball in his hand, assessing. The basket he needed to hit was some ten paces back, and approximately the size of a saucer. If he lobbed it too directly, the ball would glance off the basket’s edge. His best shot was a high arc, to send the ball sailing up and then directly down.

He lofted the ball high in the air. The children held their breath.

And a few moments later, Colin was handing round clusters of red grapes. They were seedy and a bit shriveled. Half on their way to becoming raisins, in some cases. But a boy who’d never tasted a grape before wouldn’t know to complain. The children popped them into their mouths and made a contest of outdoing one another’s sounds of delight.

“The pineapple!” they all called next, jumping up and down. “Win us the pineapple!”

Colin’s mouth tugged sideways. The pineapple basket looked about the size of a teacup. He wasn’t sure it was even possible to fit the wooden ball inside it, let alone do so from a distance. “Don’t get your hopes raised, children.”

“Oh, but I’ve dreamed of pineapples.”

“My mum’s a housemaid. She’s tasted ’em. Says they’re like ambrosia.”

“You can do it, sir!” Elspeth cried.

Colin tossed the wooden ball to the plucky girl. “Rub it for luck, pet.”

Smiling, she did so and handed it back.

He gave Minerva a wink and a shrug. “Here goes nothing.”

Then he eyed the basket, sized up his shot . . . and threw the ball.

Chapter Twenty-two

As the wooden ball sailed through the air, all the hopeful children clutched their hands together and held their breath. Minerva held her breath along with them. And she didn’t even care for pineapples.

Go in, she willed. Go in.

It didn’t go in.

When the ball bounced off the basket’s rim and thudded to the ground, she couldn’t resist joining the collective groan of disappointment.

Colin shrugged and pushed a hand through his air. “Sorry, lads and lasses. Did my best.” He was good-natured in defeat. A gracious loser, as always. But she could tell he was disappointed, too. Not over his bruised pride, but on account of the children. He wanted to give them a treat to remember, and who could blame him?

Thrusting caution and frugality aside, Minerva pushed her way to the table and addressed the booth’s mistress. “How much for the pineapple? Will you take three shillings?”

The woman’s eyes flared with greed, but her mouth was firm. “It’s not for sale.”

“I’ll have a go, then.” A well-dressed young gentleman stepped to the fore. He looked to be the local version of a dandy—probably the son of some country squire, unleashed on the fair with a generous allowance of pocket money and an inflated sense of self-importance. He was flanked by a couple of friends, both of whom looked eager to be amused.

“Sorry, gents.” The stout woman crossed her arms. “This booth is closed.”

“Pity,” said the suave-looking young gentleman, casting a superior glance at Colin. “I’d rather looked forward to showing this fellow up.”

His friends laughed. Meanwhile, the children gathered around Colin, as if they’d claimed him for their own and must come to his defense. It was terribly sweet.

“Well,” said Colin amiably, “you’re still welcome to have a go. If it’s a contest of marksmanship you’re after, one can be arranged. With targets and pistols, perhaps?”

Excitement whispered through the assembled children. Apparently, the promise of a shooting match was an effective balm to their disappointed pineapple hopes.

The young man looked Colin up and down, smirking. “I warn you, I’m the best shot in the county. But if you insist, I should be glad to trounce you.”

“Then you should be glad to take my money, too. Let’s place a wager on it.”

“Absolutely. Name your bet.”

Colin rummaged through his pockets, and Minerva grew alarmed. He might well be an excellent shot, but surely he wouldn’t risk all their money.

“Five pounds,” Colin said.

Five pounds?

“Five pounds?” the young gentleman echoed.

Minerva couldn’t help herself. She went to his side, whispering, “Five pounds? Are you mad? Where do you mean to come up with five pounds?”

“Here.” From his innermost pocket, Colin drew a small, folded square of paper. “Just found it in my coat pocket. Must have been there for months. I’d forgotten it.”

She unfolded the paper and adjusted her spectacles. It was indeed a bank note for five pounds.

Five pounds. All this time she’d been fretting over how to stretch their shillings and pence, and he’d been carrying five pounds in his pocket. The impossible knave.

“You can’t risk this,” she whispered. “It’s—”

“It’s a wager.” The dandy pulled out a coin purse and shook loose five sovereign pieces. He dumped them into Minerva’s hand. “Five pounds.”