Chapter Four
Percival surveyed thedrawing room. It was set up as it always was for an SSLE salon.
The far end wall was lined with sideboards of meats, cheeses, rolls, biscuits, cakes, nuts, and both fresh and dried fruits, alongside wine, punch, lemonade, coffee, and tea. He left the selections up to Makepeace and his butler knew what he was about.
The evening might be cerebral, but Percival had learned long ago that even a learned man preferred to be watered and fed. Wine, in particular, seemed to grease the wheels of intellectual debate.
Tables and chairs were set up in groupings of four and six, where people might settle to thoroughly discuss a point and posit their own theories and opinions.
The night would begin with a review by Makepeace of Theobald’s claim, made in 1727, of having in his possession the lost Shakespeare manuscriptCardenio.
Did Theobald in fact base his playDouble Falsehoodon the originalCardenio, which was itself based on an adventure inDon Quixote? Then, Percival would posit his own opinion. That should spark various discussions on the matter.
He looked forward to anything new he would hear. A list of topics for the season’s salons were always sent out over the summer so that there would be ample time to prepare.
If he understood his members sufficiently, research had been conducted, trips to various sites made, more than one study of linguistics concluded, and perhaps letters of inquiry sent to descendants of Theobald.
In the distance, he heard the door knocker. Who on earth could be knocking? His members were not due for another hour and they all made an effort to be precisely on time. This was not the sort of evening where one might stroll in late. Andnoevening was the sort of evening where one could stroll in early.
Well, Makepeace would handle it, whatever it was. Probably a tradesman who could not locate the servants’ entrance.
Makepeace himself hurried in, practically at a run. “I have delayed them with the footmen, who are taking their coats.”
“Who?” Percival asked.
His butler looked very pale to be asked. “Lady Rawley’s friends,” he whispered, “Mrs. Robinson and Lady Agatha.”
What? Why?
Percival thought these things, but he did not say them aloud, as he well knew Makepeace would have as little idea as he did himself.
A footman led the two ladies into the drawing room.
“Lord Harveston,” Lady Agatha said, coming forward. “How charmed we are to join your little society.”
“So charmed,” Mrs. Robinson said, hurrying to catch up to her friend.
Percival bowed. “Ladies,” he said, declining to comment on yet more people referring to his society as “little.”
He cleared his throat and said, “I am afraid you have been misinformed regarding the time. The salon is scheduled for eight and…it is seven.”
“Oh yes, we know all about it,” Lady Agatha said. “Our dear Lady Rawley commissioned us to turn up early to help you.”
“Help me?”
“One understands how a bachelor host does require assistance,” Mrs. Robinson said. “There is no shame in it, Lord Harveston! You will find your bride soon enough and she will take over these duties and elevate them sufficiently. For now, you may rely onus.”
“Goodness, where are the flowers?” Lady Agatha said. “There is not a vase in sight.”
“Precisely the sort of thing we feared,” Mrs. Robinson said, shaking her head sadly.
“The room is rather austere,” Lady Agatha said.
“It needs a woman’s touch,” Mrs. Robinson said, examining papers from the Royal Society stacked on a side table.
Lady Agatha turned to Makepeace and said, “Well, let us at least have a look at the sideboard and see how far you’ve got on your own. We’ll prop it up somehow.”
Makepeace looked positively affronted. “Howfar? Prop it up?” he asked incredulously.
