by Kate Archer
Richard silently read on as Kingston pretended to straighten his things and Charlie pretended to dust his boots.
He laid the letter down and Charlie said, “Well?”
Charlie jumped out of the way before Kingston’s shoe connected with his head, the boy having become skilled at avoiding the valet’s admonishments.
Richard sighed. “He is not encouraging, though he claims he has at least outlined the basics.”
“If only there were a way to practice without everybody seeing that you are a novice,” Kingston said.
“Quite impossible, I am afraid,” Richard said. “Lord Blanding keeps a close watch on me, ever ready to think up a new wager. If he sees me head toward the lake, he would be on my heels in a thrice.”
“Doing it for real would be the best thing,” Charlie said, “but it ain’t the only way to go about it. Pretend you’re on a boat in here, so you get the feel of it.”
Kingston stared down at Charlie. “Nobody in the history of the world ever learned how to sail in a bedchamber.”
“I only say,” Charlie said, “lots of things get practiced, well away from where they might occur. I know some fellas who never dared go out on the street to practice slipping a watch out of a coat. They practiced on each other, out of sight, until they got it pat.”
“That is charming,” Kingston said. “You have just advised a gentleman who is destined to be a duke that he ought to take up the habits of a pickpocket.”
Charlie shrugged, as if he did not feel the same level of outrage in considering it that Kingston most certainly did.
“It cannot hurt, though,” Richard said. “After all, just now I am about as desperate as a pickpocket.”
The next hours were spent learning the ins and outs of sailing. Quinn had provided a drawing of a usually equipped dinghy, he’d written of wind direction, the sheet, sailing close to the wind with the sail winched in and sailing downwind with the sail let out, various cautions about the boom, how to properly anchor and a few other things Richard could not determine the importance of. One thing Quinn did explain the importance of—Richard was to be sure to bring rags of various sizes to manage anything that had gone slippery or, God forbid, to stop up a leak in the bottom of the boat. Even the smallest leak would eventually sink a boat and it would most certainly slow it down in the meantime, so he’d been advised to bring a bucket too.
Quinn explained how the tiller was to be operated, which struck everybody as a confounded notion—one must push one way when one meant to go the other way. Richard was advised to keep the centerboard down except he should pull it up while going downwind, though there was not the slightest explanation as to why he should do so. He was advised to duck when coming about, though nobody was certain what coming about actually was.
Charlie very helpfully played the wind, moving here and there so Richard could adjust his pretend sails to it. Kingston, much to his embarrassment, was stationed as a buoy.
Richard had gauged the wind direction, otherwise known to be Charlie, and rounded the buoy, otherwise known as his valet.
Charlie cried, “I know why you’re to duck! I know what coming about is!”
Richard stopped rounding his valet and said, “What is it?”
“You see, when you come round the buoy you’re changing direction in relation to me, the wind. That’ll push the sail to the other side. You duck so the boom don’t knock you over the side.”
“Yes,” Richard said. “That makes sense. I think I am beginning to catch on to this.”
“Not a minute too soon,” Charlie said. “I heard from one of the footmen that old Lord Blanding’s got some book about wind and he’s been porin’ over it like his life depends on it. He asked for extra candles last night on account of it.”
“What, on God’s green earth,” Kingston said, “are you doing fraternizing with the footmen?”
Charlie winked and said, “A fella’s got to keep his ear to the ground, them footmen are everywhere and nobody takes the least notice of ’em. Nothin’ goes on they don’t know about.”
“Well, I hardly think—”
“Never mind, Kingston,” Richard said, laughing. “It might serve me to know what Lord Blanding is up to via interesting tales from the footmen.”
Charlie patted Kingston’s hand. “Don’t worry, mate, I’ll be like the wallpaper, all subtle-like.”
Kingston snatched his hand away and muttered, “As subtle as a crack of thunder, more like.”
*
At dinner that evening, Sybil watched Poppy and Sir John with some curiosity. It seemed that since Sir John had set himself up to escort Poppy to her father’s house, he had taken it upon himself to devise various plans for the journey.
“If Lady Hugh agrees,” Sir John said to the company, “I would suggest that Miss Mapleton have within reach a bottle of lemonade in the carriage. A journey such as that can grow hot. Of course, her lady’s maid might see to it, but I mention it as a matter of some importance. I should not like that sort of detail to be overlooked.”
Lady Hugh smiled kindly. “Have no fear, Sir John, we will ensure that you are both provided with every comfort.”
“I think nothing of my own comfort,” Sir John said. “I only wish to be certain the lady is not inconvenienced.”
Sybil glanced at Lord Lockwood during this remarkable exchange, but the lord appeared oblivious to what went on in front of his eyes. Sir John was expressing a deal of interest in Poppy’s comfort.
“I do hope, Sir John,” Poppy said, laughing, “that you take me for being made of sterner stuff than that. I shall hardly collapse in the heat.”
“I have every confidence in your fortitude,” Sir John said, “but even a lady with fortitude should not be unnecessarily inconvenienced.”
It was quite extraordinary. Though Poppy had told Sybil that she and Sir John had known each other all their lives, he had initially appeared shy in her presence. Sybil had supposed it was to do with their separation during the war. She assumed every man who’d gone to war had come home in some way changed and that must impart a certain shyness or distance at first. But now! Now, he was gallantly petitioning their hostess to see to Poppy’s every want. What had happened to transform the man?
Further, this new animation had done something pleasant to his looks. He was by no means the handsomest man she had ever seen, but his new-found confidence seemed to improve his appearance by leaps and bounds.
Sybil glanced once more at Lord Lockwood to see how he reacted to Sir John putting himself forward in such a manner. Certainly, he must feel it—his beauty of the north was being petitioned right under his nose.
Lord Lockwood’s attention was trained on her father, as it seemed so often to be.
“Lord Blanding,” Lord Lockwood said, “I understand the fishing is very good in Cornwall.”
Sybil’s father looked rather astounded at the statement, which Sybil could not blame him for. Of course the fishing was good in Cornwall. Lord Lockwood’s comment was as nonsensical as noting that Scotland was to the north.
“I suppose every schoolboy would know the fishing is good in Cornwall,” Lord Blanding said darkly.
Unfazed, Lord Lockwood said, “I expect you’ll know all about rods and reels and lines, the best spots, and that sort of thing.”
Lord Blanding laid down his fork. “Whatever I know about such things can be no concern of yours.”
“You may all fish in the lake if you like,” Lady Hugh said, rushing into the conversation before it went over a cliff, “it is well-stocked and we have all the equipment to kit you out.”
“Perhaps the carriage might also carry tea,” Sir John said, as if nobody had spoken of fishing. “If one were to become too cooled down by lemonade, it might be rectified by hot tea.”
“I’ll wager Lockwood does not dare meet me on the lake for a fishing tournament,” Lord Blanding said to the air. “His father should not like to hear of him being trounced. Again.”
�
��I would be delighted to meet you on the lake,” Lord Lockwood said. “Though I would propose another arrangement—I should like to increase my knowledge of the sport by observing how a Cornwall man does it.”
Lord Blanding threw his napkin on the table and said, “I’ll not be observed!”
“Nobody needs to be observed, if they do not wish it,” Lady Hugh said hurriedly.
“Dashed strange idea,” Lord Hugh said, “observing a man.”
“Ah, I see your point,” Lord Lockwood said to Lord Blanding. “Why should a man who has perfected the sport to its highest level wish to give all his secrets away? Quite right.”
Sybil could see her father did not know which way to turn. He could not deny that he had perfected the sport to its highest level. Lord Blanding was a rather keen fisherman. Once again, Lord Lockwood seemed determined to throw compliments at her father as fast as her father threw insults back at him. She knew it was all part of the lord’s game to win over Lord Blanding, but she suspected that her mother would have to privately remind Lord Blanding of that fact.
Lord Blanding took up his napkin and said, “Work on perfecting your sport alone.”
“Or perhaps cakes,” Sir John said. “They can be settling to the stomach during a journey.”
And so the dinner went on, Lord Blanding and Lord Lockwood circling round one another—her father irritated and Lord Lockwood appearing delighted. All the while, Sir John made endless speculations about what vital items from the kitchens should travel in the carriage with Poppy Mapleton.
Chapter Ten
After dinner, the ladies were not long in the drawing room before Lord Hugh came in and announced there was to be a billiards match. Sybil need hardly hear who the two combatants were to be: of course it was her father and Lord Lockwood.
They were led to the billiards room, a long rectangular space with a large billiards table centered and six oil lamps hanging from the ceiling overhead to provide light to the play. Velvet-cushioned chairs and round tables inlaid with marble were lined up against walls of polished mahogany. The butler finished ironing the baize with a flourish.
Lord Hugh carefully took a box off a shelf and opened it to reveal three ivory balls—two white and one red.
What happened next made Sybil glad that small glasses of Madeira had been served. Lord Lockwood said he was agreeable to the rules Lord Blanding chose to set. Lord Blanding, having been given free rein to think up anything he liked, created a set of rules that only a person with an extraordinary memory could keep track of.
This was to be no simple game of cannons and hazards. Rather, there were points given if one’s ball went to the right of the red or the other player’s ball, and points taken away if it went to the left. If a player’s ball hit two sides of the table, it was extra points, if it hit three sides, points were taken away. If a player shot from the right side of the table, points were doubled, and most daringly, if a player shot their own ball into a pocket, the game was lost. The wager was twenty pounds and the winning points were to twenty, though in the low light of evening it would have been more regular that they should have been to six.
As the rules were laid out, Sybil could not help but notice that Lord Lockwood’s strong arms flexed as he held the billiards stick. Both gentlemen had removed their coats and Lord Lockwood’s arms strained against his linen sleeves. She was inclined to scold herself for it; it could never be right to admire the enemy. But then, she reasoned that any interesting thing might be admired from a distance. One could admire French wine without admiring a French person and this was not much different. The lord had pleasant-looking arms, and that was all.
She had always noted it, so she supposed she was not to consider it strange that she noted it once more.
Lord Blanding had finally come to the end of his directives. Lord Lockwood smiled and complimented her father on his original thoughts on rulemaking. The lord then promptly aimed at his own ball and knocked it in a pocket, thereby ending the game in Lord Blanding’s favor.
Sybil stared at him. Surely, Lord Lockwood had thrown the game. No gentleman could be that bad at billiards. She supposed it was another gambit to woo her father into thinking well of him. Though really, how much money was the gentleman willing to lose on the project? Sybil began to speculate that whatever wager he’d made with the gentlemen of the pact, it must have been large indeed. So large, that Lord Lockwood did not blink at the one hundred pounds he had lost on the bowling green and the further twenty pounds he had lost this moment.
For his part, Lord Blanding was dumbstruck. He had no doubt girded himself for a pitched battle, and the idiotic young buck had lost the game on the first shot.
“My God, man,” Lord Blanding said, “never allow yourself near a billiards table again.”
*
“I do not understand, my lord,” Kingston said, removing his master’s coat. “You never lose at billiards.”
“Nor would I have this time, but the old fellow was in such earnest with an endless array of rules, I thought I better have done with it. In any case, it was only twenty pounds. I cannot win all of his wagers or he will be put out, and he has bet another hundred pounds on the regatta. If I win that from him, it will cancel out the hundred he’s taken from me at lawn bowling.”
“Only twenty pounds!” Charlie cried, taking his master’s coat and brushing it with a vengeance. “A fella could take a cozy garret in Clerkenwell for years on that kind of riches and have enough to spare for chops every night.”
Richard laughed. “That is good to know, as my father threatens to cut me off if I do not marry and I may well have need of cheap accommodation.”
Charlie appeared entirely confused by the notion. Kingston shook a finger at his young charge and said, “Do not inquire. It is not your business to hear of your master’s difficulties, if there are any, with his father.”
Charlie shrugged. “I ain’t seeing the difficulties. Your pa wants you to marry and there’s two pleasant ladies in the house. Pick one and be done with it.”
“A gentleman high in society does not, as you say, ‘Pick one and be done with it,’” Kingston said, offended down to his shoes.
“I’ll not marry just yet,” Richard said, “whatever my father may do about it. I deserve my freedom after the war.”
Kingston nodded gravely.
Charlie said, “Freedom to do what? From what I can see, you’re only free to lose vast amounts of money to that old Lord Blanding, in between having tea and sitting through long dinners and then listening to one of them ladies bang on the pianoforte. I’d rather be picking pockets on the streets.”
Though Charlie had become adept at dodging a cuffing from Kingston, the speech he had just given was perceived to be so outrageous by the valet that he chased him round the room until he caught him.
Kingston shook Charlie and said, “That will be quite enough of your low speculations for one evening.”
Charlie peeked around Kingston to Richard and whispered, “I only say.”
“Lady Sybil does not bang on the pianoforte,” Richard said sternly. “She is quite accomplished. I believe you must refer to Miss Mapleton, as she is slightly less talented.”
“There you have it, then,” Charlie said, wriggling from Kingston’s grasp. “Do you want the pretty redhead or the short one who makes nice music?”
After Kingston had dragged Charlie from the room, Richard considered what the little urchin had said. What was he free to do exactly? Of course, he might spend his nights in any gaming hell or the theater or carousing in taverns, but that was not what he was doing just now. In any case, he did not have the funds necessary to carry on forever with those activities.
And what did the boy mean, the pretty redhead or the short one who makes nice music? Did the rascal imply that somehow Miss Mapleton’s looks were superior to Lady Sybil’s? The idea was outrageous.
It was true that the ladies did have very different countenances and he supposed Miss Mapleton would hav
e a deal of a fuss made of her in London. But who could fail to admire the diminutive Cornwall lady? Was she not rather wonderful, with her pert little features belying a will of iron? Was a man to be distracted by red hair when a spitfire such as Lady Sybil was about? The notion was absurd.
Richard sat back. What was he thinking? Dash it, Ashworth might be right. He might have become too fixed on Lady Sybil.
How had it happened? He could not say, exactly. It seemed to have crept up on him like a stealthy French spy.
Had he fooled himself on the purpose of this errand? It might be so. Ashworth had pointed out the ludicrousness of inviting himself into Lord Hugh’s house to convince Lord Blanding that he might dance with his daughter.
Good Lord, he’d broken out of Dalton’s house and ridden the mail coach to get here. Now that he was looking at it, it did seem on the extreme side of things, even for him. There were dozens and dozens of ladies he might dance with. There had been no cause at all to insist that Lord Blanding rescind his directive to his daughter.
Richard’s mind drifted to the past season. The dances with Lady Sybil, her face upturned to his. His disappointment when some idiot took the dance before supper. In truth, his wish to pound that idiot into the ground, though he could not do so. His pleasure when he got there first, and her lively conversation at table. Her adorable scoldings in defense of Miss Knightsbridge and her charming resistance to his apologies for the same.
It had all gone along splendidly until Lord Blanding had put his foot down.
“Damn,” Richard muttered. “What is wrong with me?”
Despite his habit of not examining anything too closely, Richard very suddenly saw what was wrong with him—he was in love with the lady. It seemed he’d been in that condition for quite some time. His rational mind, and his friends, had railed against marriage.
The rest of him had made a desperate run for Yorkshire.
It was the worst possible thing that could have happened to him. He had no wish to marry. Marriage, as he had seen with his own parents, was one tense negotiation after the next. Oh, he knew it was the man who was meant to be in charge, but it seemed never to be the case!