Catching Percival’s eye, Lady Theodora said quietly, “A regatta is not so bad, you can bring a book with you and read it under a tree—nobody will notice.”
“What’s that?” the duke said. “Do not imagine our Harveston shall be stuck on the sidelines, Theo. No, he will be in it with the rest of us. Hamill has already taken him down to the lake to show him what’s what.”
“A very brief introduction, I’m afraid,” Percival said. “I could not claim the skill to participate in a race.”
“No, of course not yet,” the duke said jovially. “Hamill will take you down again on the morrow. You’ll pick it up in no time at all and you’ve got a full three days. You’ll be a regular Francis Drake by the end of it.”
“And you’ll have the advantage of the other gentlemen,” Hamill said. “They will not have been sailing in ages and will not be familiar with our lake or our boats.”
Three days. Three days to turn himself into Sir Francis Drake. And sailing was not even all. There would be all sorts of sports played.
The only thing that would not be done was the only thing he was actually good at—sword play. There was a logical elegance to swords that had always interested him, and since he was interested he’d worked at it. Short of a duel, though, there was not much opportunity to show it off.
A sudden and awful thought came upon him. “There will not be boxing, will there?”
He prayed the answer was no. Each time he’d got into the ring in London, he’d been pounded out of his wits. Jackson, who really was a kind and thoughtful fellow, encouraged him no end. He was convinced that Percival should have a breakthrough any moment and really get the hang of it.
The duke had laughed heartily. “Boxing? Indeed, no,” he said. “That’s hardly a country sport. In any case, I do not imagine the ladies would like it.”
“Absolutely not,” the duchess confirmed.
That was something, anyway. He would at least not be walking round with a black eye anytime soon.
“Mama,” Lady Theodora said, “who is this paragon of a young lady it will behoove me to know?”
“The Earl of Westmont’s daughter—Lady Cordelia Bennington.”
Percival’s spoon clattered into his empty soup bowl. Hamill winked and nodded.
Lady Cordelia! She was coming here!
Of course, Hamill had arranged the thing. Good old Hamill!
“Is she likely to share my interests?” Lady Theodora asked, glancing at Percival’s spoon come to rest in his bowl. “Please do not tell me she is some silly creature who hasn’t looked at a piece of literature lest it beThe Lady’s Magazine.”
“I adore that magazine,” the duchess said.
“She is a great admirer of Shakespeare,” Percival said. “Othello, in particular.”
“That is something, at least,” Lady Theodora said.
“Lady Cordelia has attended my literary salons,” he continued, “and has made her mark there.”
Lady Theodora laid down her spoon. “Now that isreallysomething,” she said. “Well done, Mama.”
The duchess nodded graciously, if not a little confusedly.
Lady Cordelia was coming. She was coming to a house party where there would be no end of opportunities to display sportsmanlike skills.
Percival was bone-tired, but this was not the moment to slow down. In three days, he must appear the Corinthian. ThesailingCorinthian, no less.
“Hamill, we should go down to the lake first thing,” he said, “and carry on with our lessons.”
“The wind won’t be up until the afternoon,” Hamill said.
“Then we will do something else in the morning. The point is, we ought to be doing something.”
Hamill smiled. “Right you are.”
