Fortunately, Lottie had long ago discovered that every fortress had a weakness. In this instance, it was Georgie—or more precisely, the key Georgie had promised her the previous Season, when Lottie had been bribed into lending assistance to one of her sister’s matrimonial campaigns.
Ten minutes later, she stood in her father’s office, easing open the cabinet like a thief robbing an altar. There, upon its velvet lining, lay Papa’s cherished ancestral sabre, its polished hilt catching the thin morning light.
“Good morning, old friend,” Lottie whispered.
At precisely half past eleven, she crept downstairs with the stealth of a scandal-bound shadow, the ancestral sabre wrapped in an old cloak and held close against her side. The hired carriage waited discreetly two streets away, its driver instructed to keep the horses standing and his mouth shut.
However, as she passed the morning room, a rustle of paper announced one obstacle Lottie had not anticipated. She paused mid-step. Drat.
“Ah,” said a voice from behindThe Times. A page turned. “Sabres. Much better than pistols. Far less noise, and one is not obliged to explain a corpse before luncheon. Carry on, my dear.”
Her father sat ensconced in his usual armchair, dressed in a velvet dressing gown of violent purple, one stockinged foot propped upon an ottoman, spectacles perched precariously halfway down his nose. He did not glance up from his newspaper.
“I… yes. Thank you, Papa.”
“Do not thank me until after the engagement.” He sniffed and adjusted his spectacles. “Have you warmed your wrist?”
“My wrist?”
“Essential. A stiff wrist is the enemy of all good sabre work. That, and excessive confidence, though in this family the latter is beyond remedy.”
“I… I shall try not to be too excessive.”
“Excellent.” He turned a page. “Mind your footwork. And do try not to stab anything irreplaceable. Windows, yes. Potted plants, certainly. But not vital organs. That tends to cause such bother.”
“I shall do my best, Papa.”
“Very good. A young lady cannot be too considerate in these matters.” He peered over the top ofThe Timesand regarded her with a thoughtful squint. “What are you wearing?”
“Benedict’s old breeches. My riding jacket. Boots.”
“Excellent. Sensible. A trifle piratical, perhaps, but one must make allowances for sport.” He took a sip of tea. “Do not forget to make the lad cry.”
Lottie smiled. “Only if absolutely necessary.”
“No point wasting the effort if he proves easily humbled.” Papa returned to his paper, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Tell Mr Deverell I expect him for dinner. Assuming he retains sufficient use of his limbs.”
Lottie bit back a smile, before hesitating at the doorway. “You are not… surprised, Papa? Or angry?”
He lowered the paper by an inch and looked at her properly. “My dear girl, if I wished for daughters who embroidered quietly and sighed over poetry, I should not have married your mother. You are a Tolliver. You were fencing with fire irons by six, threatening Benedict with a paper knife by nine, and scaling the garden trellis by moonlight at—what was it? Four-and-ten?”
“Three-and-ten,” she said, smiling.
“Precisely. I see no cause for alarm now.” He waved a hand vaguely. “So long as you do not scandalise the household staff. We lost a perfectly decent parlourmaid last spring when Georgiana attempted to smuggle a hedgehog into the drawing room.”
“That was Nell.”
“So it was,” he murmured, not the least bit concerned. “No matter. The maid was prone to fainting. Never a useful quality in domestic service.” He paused to sip his tea, then squinted at her over the rim of the cup. “Does your mother know?”
Lottie hesitated. “Not precisely.”
“Splendid.” He nodded in evident approval. “The dear woman’s nerves are still recovering. From what, I do not know. Existence, I suspect.”
With a sigh, Lord Tolliver folded his newspaper and rested it neatly upon his knee, regarding his daughter with sudden solemnity. “I have no doubt you shall do wonderfully. But should some terrible injustice occur, and you find yourself forced to surrender, remember this.”
Lottie tilted her head. “Yes?”
He leant forward. “Lose gracefully. Then cheat.”
