MARGARET KNEW NEXT TO NOTHING about sailing. In her first disastrous London Season she had been invited to Cowes, but by August, when the regatta took place, she had already been exiled to Dalkeith. When Randolph informed her that he had an invitation to the New York Yacht Club on the morning of the Queen’s Cup challenge, she had been ambivalent about accompanying him. He had laughed when she queried his sudden interest in a pastime he had never before mentioned, telling her that it was likely to prove quite a spectacle and, besides, he hoped to seal an important bit of business which she might be able to assist him with.

And so this morning Margaret had donned one of her most elegant gowns in emerald silk trimmed with cream lace, and prepared to enjoy the experience. It was a beautiful summer’s day, bright and sunny, the heat tempered by a gentle breeze. To her astonishment, the harbour was alive with people competing to board the ferries and steamers from where they would watch the race.

“It looks like every single person in New York is trying to get out onto the water,” she said to Randolph. “My goodness, there are even people in rowing boats.”

“Luckily we have a reserved place on a steamer to take us to Staten Island, courtesy of our host. It’s this one, I think,” he answered, putting a protective arm around her. “We’ll get a view of the competitors if we’re lucky. They’ve been in the Narrows overnight, and won’t head up to the starting point at the yacht club until just before the race gets underway.”

The steamer on which they were settled was significantly less crowded. “Who is our host?” Margaret asked, looking around her at the well-dressed guests, some of whom she recognised as Randolph’s richer clients.

“James Gordon Bennett Junior.”

“You mean the editor of the Herald?”

“And a mad keen yachtsman. He won the first transatlantic race back in sixty-six on the Henrietta, and he’s commodore of the New York Yacht Club.”

“He’s not your usual type of client.”

“It’s his father I’ve been doing a bit of business with. Trust funds, the usual stuff. It’s him I want you to meet. No, don’t ask me any more questions; you’ll find out why in due course. For now, let’s just enjoy the spectacle.”

Spectacle was certainly the right word. Their steamer began to ease away from the dock and out into the bay, where it joined the flotilla, all crowded with people, women and children as well as men, dressed to the nines. Horns blared, sails flapped, and steam billowed into the clear blue sky. In the Narrows, the strait between Brooklyn and Staten Island, Margaret and Randolph stood at the rail to view the schooners that would take part in the race later that morning.