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I took off down the pavement at a fast trot, the only speed my pumps would allow. Ignoring Helena, I rounded the Rolls to find Musgrave flat on his back, a trickle of blood seeping from his forehead. Good gosh! He’d been killed!
Then Musgrave stirred and moaned, jarring me from my overactive imaginings. I clattered to his side and helped him to his feet. He was a sturdy fellow, so it wasn’t easy. “Are you all right?” I blathered, possibly somewhat in shock. I’d never seen a person mowed down before, though with the way people drove around London, it was a surprise it didn’t happen more often. I glanced around for help, but other than Helena, the street was nearly empty. The doorman was nowhere to be seen. “We should call the police. That nitwit nearly killed you.” My heart rate was still somewhere in the rafters, but my training had begun to kick in. Once a war nurse, always a war nurse, I suppose. I reminded myself I’d seen much worse than a man toppled by a car during the Great War.
“No police,” he said firmly as I guided him to the pavement. He fished a cheap cotton handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his bleeding forehead. “I’m fine. A bit battered. Nothing to worry about.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Musgrave?” I asked. “It looked dreadful.”
By now, the doorman had returned to his station and was trying to calm Helena to no avail. Two women walked by, trying not to stare, but failing miserably.
“Just an accident.” Musgrave patted my hand. His was a bit sweaty and reeked of musk and hair oil. “No need to worry, my dear. Helena, would you stop that infernal screeching?”
Helena’s screams turned to hiccupping whimpers. It surprised me that such a stalwart businesswoman would fall to pieces over the misfortunes of a loathsome business partner. But what did I know? We all have our weaknesses, I suppose.
“If you’re sure,” I said, untangling my arm from Musgrave’s and stepping back. “But I do think you should see a doctor. And she,” I nodded to Helena, “should probably take something for the shock.” Like a good shot of whiskey. Which didn’t sound bad, come to think of it.
“Kind of you, my dear, but don’t worry your pretty head.” That last was said with a sly and rather lascivious wink.
I grimaced, suddenly feeling less charitable and a lot more sympathetic toward the driver who’d nearly missed him. “If you’re sure.”
“I will be fine,” he assured me.
I wasn’t so sure, but he clambered into the car and motored off, Helena still looking shell-shocked beside him. With a mental shake of the head, I went about my business, trying to forget the image of the car plowing over Musgrave. And that dashed odd hat. A fedora in some ghastly tweed of green and yellow. Wouldn’t soon be forgetting that monstrosity.
It took two flutes of champagne at the dressmaker’s, but I managed a semblance of amnesia, emerging some time later laden with shopping bags and feeling somewhat giddy despite seeing Musgrave almost flattened in front of my eyes. I promised myself it was the joy of shopping, not the copious amounts of alcohol.
The moment I got home I rang up Chaz. Felix had been of the firm belief that all the best homes had telephones, which was why mine was prominently displayed in the hall. Chaz liked his modern toys and had no less than three in his flat. Excessive, but that was Chaz.
“Hello, darling,” I chirped as soon as he answered. I wanted to ask how he was, but was suddenly afraid to do so. Instead I said, “Put on your dancing togs and pick me up tonight. I’ll be at Aunt Butty’s.”
“Dash it, Ophelia, I meant to go to my club tonight,” he pouted. Like any man of his class, Chaz belonged to a stuffy gentleman’s club. The same one, no doubt, as his father and grandfather before him.
“What a yawn, darling. You know you’ll have more fun with me. Besides, I’ve got such juicy gossip for you.”
“See you at eleven.” He rang off. Chaz never could resist a good chin wag.
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AUNT BUTTY LIVED IN a large flat on the edge of Soho. In truth, she owned the entire building and rented out the other flats to artists, musicians, and writers. Quite shocking for a woman of her status, but Aunt Butty enjoyed the Bohemian life and her flat suited her just fine. She much preferred it to her country house, or the Mayfair townhouse.
I was met at the door by a dusty-skinned butler dressed in a cream-silk sherwani embroidered in gold over matching silk pyjama. On his head, he wore an intricately wrapped dastar in a rich pavo blue and his face was graced with a luxurious black beard. His thick eyebrows made him look rather fierce, but I knew him to be a gentle soul.
“Good evening, My Lady,” he intoned in his carefully modulated voice. I’d no idea where my aunt had picked up the Sikh gentleman and convinced him to play butler, but he was a cherished member of her rather unusual household.
“Good evening, Mr. Singh,” I said as he took my coat. I’d wanted to wear the purple velvet, but as it was drizzling, I’d settled for the black wool with the rabbit fur collar. “How are you?”
“Very good, My Lady.”
Mr. Singh still carried the lilting accent of his homeland, India. He was very mysterious, even to Aunt Butty. None of us knew his first name. He’d simply been “Mr. Singh” since the day he arrived at her house. She claimed to like the look of him and didn’t care if he was cagey about his past. Very Aunt Butty behavior. She could be cagey herself.
“Cocktails are being served in the sitting room, My Lady.”
“Very good. Thank you, Mr. Singh.” I made my way into Aunt Butty’s sitting room. On a good day, it tended to be overcrowded with items she’d collected on her travels: Egyptian goddesses, wooden masks from Africa, perfume bottles from Marrakesh. Currently, it was packed with guests in evening togs, trying not to jostle each other’s drinks.
A gentleman in a plum velvet smoking jacket sat at Aunt Butty’s grand piano tinkling out some absurd and slightly dirty ditty. A woman I recognized as a popular stage actress entertained several men in the corner. Aunt Butty held court from her chaise longue, smiling benevolently at all from beneath a rose-pink turban festooned with diamonds and feathers.
I wanted to ask my aunt about Helena’s possible drug use, but now was not the time. Instead, I have her a little finger wave and looked about me for a drink.
Someone handed me a tumbler filled with amber liquid. “I believe you favor the highball.”
For one heart stopping moment, I forgot where I was and simply stared like an idiot. Lord Peter Varant had the enviable position of looking rather like the divine American actor, Gary Cooper. What the man did to a tuxedo should be illegal.
“You remembered. Thank you.” I took the drink from him, proud that I managed to get out a full sentence without sounding moronic.
“Of course I remember.” His voice was a low rumble. “I remember everything.”
I swallowed. “Well, isn’t that something.” Lord, could I be any more inane?
I’d met Lord Varant shortly after I married Felix. It had been one of those numerous, boring parties we’d seemed forced to attend. Felix had wandered off with some Lord Whatsis or other for cigars and whiskey. I was left to my own devices. Technically, I suppose I was meant to mingle with the other ladies, but being new to this particular social stratum and having no friends among them, I was more or less an outcast. After all, the new Lady Rample was a mere vicar’s daughter with no money of her own. I’d yet to find my way among them and so keenly felt my otherness.
And so, I’d been feeling rather out of sorts and uncertain of myself until Lord Varant made it his business to keep me entertained and introduced me around at the party. I will never forget his kindness.
While Lord Varant had never been anything but a gentleman, his interest had been clear from the get-go. After Felix died, I’d expected Lord Varant to pursue me, but other than flowers for the funeral and the occasional solicitous note to ensure I was well, he’d made no advances. Aunt Butty had assured me that after the appropriate year of mourning, he’d be on my doorstep. Well, the year was up and he’d yet to arrive. It baffled me no end. Still, it was clear in his manner that he found me as attractive as ever. Men. I swear I shall never understand them if I live to be a hundred.
“I hadn’t realized Aunt Butty had invited you to her little soiree.”
“She doesn’t usually,” he admitted. “But we happened to run into each other recently, and she insisted.”
“Did she now?” How convenient of her. I gave my aunt a hard stare. She must have felt my gaze for she looked up, grinned wickedly, and gave me a little finger wave.
“How have you been holding up, My Lady?” Lord Varant asked.
“Well enough, thank you. Life goes on.” It was the British way. Stiff upper lip and all that.
“I must apologize for not calling sooner. I’ve been away in the country. Some matters on my estate needed tending to, but I’m back in town for the season and hope to see more of you.”
I smiled, pleased by the attention. “I’m certain that can be arranged.”
I couldn’t help but compare Lord Peter Varant to Hale Davis. Both men were ridiculously handsome, but where Lord Varant was smooth sophistication and quiet smolder, Hale was raw, blatant sexuality. Lord Varant clearly belonged in my world. Hale just as clearly did not. And yet I found them both quite intriguing.
A gong sounded from the hallway.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Aunt Butty clapped her hands. “Dinner is served. Gentlemen, please escort your assigned lady.”
Lord Varant held out his arm gallantly. “My Lady.”
“You were assigned to me, were you, My Lord?” Aunt Butty no doubt interfering again.
Lord Varant smiled a bit coyly, I thought, and escorted me into the dining room.
The room, despite being in a mere flat, was large enough to contain a table that seated sixteen. Aunt Butty had her entire Royal Doulton Berkshire set out with its green and gold trim, plus enough crystal to blind a person. Once everyone was seated, Mr. Singh made the rounds with a bottle of wine.
Lord Varant was seated at my left. On my right was a gentleman I’d met only briefly before. He was fiftyish and handsome in a dissipated way, as if he’d spent too much of his youth overindulging in booze and food. He immediately monopolized me.
“My Lady, perhaps you remember. Wilburton Huxton. We met at the Winter Ball held by the Duchess of Kent.”
“Ah, yes.” I vaguely remembered. It had been shortly before I met and married Felix. If memory served, at the time Huxton had been drunk and completely uninterested in a penniless girl from a small village in the Cotswolds. That he now found me fascinating was unlikely due to the elegance of my evening gown and the rumors of just how much Lord Rample had left in my bank account.
“I was so sorry to hear about your terrible loss.” His voice oozed with faux sympathy.
“Thank you.” I tried to turn back to Lord Varant, but I suddenly felt a hand on my thigh. Very high on my thigh.
In shock, I turned to stare at Huxton. He gave me an oily smile. So, I did what any decent woman would do. I smiled back with cloying sweetness. Then I took my fish fork, slipped it beneath the table, and stabbed the blighter in the hand.
Huxton let out a yelp. The entire table turned to stare at him.
“Is everything all right?” Aunt Butty asked.
Huxton gave her a pained smile. “Oh, yes, quite. I, er, have a sore tooth,” he said lamely.
“Oh, dear, do you need to go home? Perhaps Mr. Singh can call the doctor?”
“No, no. Thank you. I shall soldier on.”
And soldier on he did, but he didn’t say a word to me the rest of the evening.