As he and Sammy ate, Harry kept an eye on the game. The three players were almost evenly matched in the early stages of the eleven-leg game. But Thompson’s out shots started to place distance between Elise and the other male competitor. The soldier appeared to be friendly with several other military men and a heavy drinker to boot.

Elise racked up points as the game progressed, her rowdy behavior and draft sipping between rounds a complete sham. The level of brew in her glass did not go down, nor had she ordered refills like the heavy-drinking Thompson and his pal.

Harry pushed his plate aside.

“You finished with that, Sammy?” Harry asked, looking at his son’s half-eaten platter of shepherd’s pie.

“I’m full.” Sammy played with the packets of jam on their table, stacking and restacking them.

Though the dart rounds moved quickly, Sammy wouldn’t last much longer, and Harry had no reason to delay their departure. He had gained the information he sought.

Elise had a clear lead, and Thompson now struggled to hit the target.

The outer door slammed, and a young newcomer entered the pub on a cool gust of air that momentarily sputtered the fire. The fatigue-clad youth beelined it for the competitors’ corner. The soldier didn’t look a day above sixteen and matched Private Hughes’s black-and-white photo.

Hughes shouldered his way through the crowd near the target. When he reached Thompson, he slapped a hand on his fellow soldier’s shoulder. Thompson returned the gesture in kind with a single thump to Hughes’s back. They stood talking while Elise and the other competitor took their shots.

Harry had seen enough for one night. Hughes and Thompson were mates.

“Come on, son. Let’s go home. It’s been a long day.” Harry pushed back from the table.

“But I want to see Lady Elise win.”

“Trust me; she’s won. You can ask her about it tomorrow.” Harry certainly intended to.

Harry marched into the castle’s breakfast room early the next morning after he’d sent Sammy downstairs with one of the maids. He found Elise eating a bowl of porridge, with no one but a footman in attendance.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Harry demanded, barely bottled temper biting through his words.

Elise motioned for the footman to leave. Without a backward glance, the young footman, one of two her father employed part-time on the estate, vacated the room.

“I hardly know what you mean,” she said airily.

“Don’t come over the aristocrat on me. What were you doing at the pub last night with Lance Corporal Thompson?”

“I was playing darts. You have heard of it, aye?” She picked up a floral teacup and looked at him over the rim before she took a sip.

Harry yanked back a chair and sat directly opposite her.

“How’s your father?” she asked.