His mother, Turnip thought darkly, had neglected to mention the tiddlywinks.

“Mr. Fitzhugh?” A harried-looking young lady lightly touched his arm. From her age and the fact that she was tiddlywink-free, Turnip cunningly surmised that she must be a junior mistress rather than a pupil. On the other hand, one could never be too sure. Deuced devious, some of those young girls. After years of Sally, he should know. “You are Mr. Fitzhugh, are you not?”

“The last time I checked!” said Turnip cheerfully. “Not that names tend to change about on one that much, but one can never be too careful. Chap I knew went to bed one name last week and woke up another.”

Poor Ruddy Carstairs. He had gone about in a daze all day, completely unable to comprehend why everyone kept calling him Smooton. It had taken him all day to figure out it was because his uncle had stuck in his spoon and left him the title. It made Turnip very glad he didn’t have any uncles, or at least not ones with titles. He’d got rather used to being Mr. Fitzhugh. It suited him, like a well-tailored suit of clothes. He’d hate to have to get used to another.

“Ah, bon,” said the young lady, looking decidedly relieved, as well as more than a little bit French. Odd thing, nationality. She looked just like everyone else, but when she opened her mouth, the French just came out. “I would have recognized the resemblance anywhere. I am Mademoiselle de Fayette. I teach the French to your sister. Will you come with me?”

Turnip hefted the Christmas hamper. “Lead on!”

“Miss Fitzhugh waits for you in the blue parlor,” said the French mistress, leading him down a long corridor dotted with doors, through which various odd sounds could be heard. Someone appeared to be reciting poetry. Through another, rhythmic thumps could be heard.

“Dancing lessons,” the teacher explained.

It sounded more like something being pounded to death with a large club. Turnip feared for his feet when this new crop of debutantes was let loose on the ballrooms of London and Bath.