At the time, it had all been couched in the most sensible and flattering of terms. He was already planning to visit friends at Selwick Hall in early December; it would be only a short jaunt from there to Bath. It would give him an opportunity to test the mettle of his new matched bays, and besides, “Sally will be so delighted to see her favorite brother!”

Favorite brother, ha! He was her only brother. It didn’t take much school learning to count to one.

And where was Miss Sally? Some sign of sisterly devotion, that, thought Turnip darkly, leaving him stranded in a wilderness of young females armed with projectiles. If she wanted her ruddy Christmas hamper that badly, she could at least come to collect it.

He didn’t even see why she bally well needed a Christmas hamper. She would be home for Christmas. What was so devilish imperative that it couldn’t wait the three weeks until Sal hauled herself home for the holidays? She didn’t seem to be the only one, however. Among the bustle in the hallway were what appeared to be other siblings, parents, and guardians, bringing their guilt gifts of fruit, cake, and fripperies to their indulged offspring. The only one Turnip recognized was Lord Henry Innes, bruising rider to hounds, terror in the boxing ring, also lugging a large hamper.

According to his parents, there was a regular black market in Christmas hamper goods at Miss Climpson’s seminary and Sally didn’t like to be behind-hand in anything. It was, his mother explained, the female equivalent of debts of honor, and he wouldn’t want Sally to welsh on a debt of honor, would he now?