Chapter Eleven
Percy watched thelight filter through the glass panes of the Crystal Palace and send rainbows of color scattering over the heads of hundreds of people in worn moleskin and wool—and elegant frock coats and laced bustles—waiting for the doors to open for this monumental event.
Percy stared at the mix of bright colors and common browns, the clashing of fabrics and class hurting his head. What the devil were all these laced-up dandies doing here?
“I did not realize football was so popular,” Danny said at his side, looking like a dream in a simple, rose-pink frock, not a laced ruffle in sight.
Denise and Mrs. Pebblestone—the lady’s perpetually frowning chaperone—followed a step behind.
Denise scrunched her nose. “Or smelly.”
“A workman’s sport,” Percy said, eyeing a better way into the building through the side garden than suffering the jostling crowd through the front doors. He tucked Danny’s hand into the crook of his elbow and led their party towards the grassy lawn. “Come.”
“Avoiding purchasing the tickets?” Danny asked, voice low and eyes dancing. “Be careful, Your Grace. Your criminal side is showing.”
“Tease me all you like,” he whispered back, tempering his desire to beg for more, “but these numbers are a perfect draw forpickpockets.” Plus, he’d bought his tickets ahead of time. Being a worthless duke did have some advantages.
As luck had it, the garden doors led into the lower level of the palace, where the stairs to the upper levels were guarded by a big man in a dark coat.
“Tickets, sir?”
Percy withdrew the slips from his inner pocket and waited for the man to wave them ahead. Inside, he offered the sisters each an arm up the stairs—leaving Mrs. Pebblestone and her frown to walk unescorted—and around the full-surround balcony until they found their designated terrace labeled with a simple red patch of fabric on the glass wall behind.
Denise circled the semi-private terrace and the deserted second story. With a glint in her eye, she raised a hand to her head dramatically and stated, “How unfortunate. I do feel a nasty headache coming on. I believe I’ll find the physician’s terrace and see if they have a tonic and place for me to rest a moment.”
Percy bit back a smile. “I shall escort—”
“I need to use the privy as well,” Denise said unabashedly, already heading in the direction of the labeled area. “No need to concern yourself, Your Grace. Mrs. Pebblestone and I will manage.”
Mrs. Pebblestone shot Danny a hard look before chasing after the youngest Deime.
Danny shook her head at her sister’s retreat. “She’s a terrible chaperone.”
Percy couldn’t disagree more. “I do hope she feels better.”
Danny shot him a glare that had him pinching his thigh to keep him from laughing.
“Come.” He beckoned her to the railing.
The two opposing teams were already afield—a sharp distinction where marble floor met trimmed grass—their jerseystripes a contrasting green versus blue, but with socks a myriad of colors, from nonsensical white to a distressing shade of chartreuse.
Hard to believe the field floor used to house some of the greatest treasures of the empire: cotton milling machinery, tapestries from India. Black-and-white photographs hung from the woven divider on either side, separating their private terrace from the next for some semblance of exclusivity. Percy glanced at the images, but his attention quickly shifted to the lady who watched the men stretch below with keen interest.
Noting his gaze, Danny asked, “What are the rules?”
Percy rested his elbows on the top of the railing, the seams of his coat pulling. “You don’t know? I thought all good English families played lawn games.”
“We do.” Danny’s grin was vicious. “But my siblings and I don’t like reading rule books or following etiquette. We’re a competitive lot.”
“Then how do you know who wins?”
Danny blinked, as if he were missing the obvious. “Whoever comes up with the best insults, of course.”
He chuckled and pointed to the sectioned-off areas at either end of the field, where a length of tape ran between two posts that would be measured exactly eight feet high.
“The ball must sail through that allotted goal for a point. Above the line or to either side doesn’t count,” he told her.
“And points are good?” she said.
