Joe brushed his dress coat, removing every speck of lint from the gleaming black lapels, a task Jackson had given up trying to do for him. He stroked the soft fabric of the jacket, then looked around at the beautiful décor of “his” room: the snug bed, the Persian carpet, the satin drapes. He no longer felt like a stranger. This place seemed like home. He had to remind himself daily that his new life was a charade. He didn’t truly belong in Arthur Lawton’s world and never would. But that was difficult to believe when he was with a man who filled his arms and his body like a perfect counterpart. Scones and jam they were—perfect together.
Joe turned his attention to giving his shoes a final polish and thought about other ways they suited each other. They shared the same sense of humor, and both of them liked oysters but despised fish. Arthur had broadened Joe’s horizons, introducing him to all sorts of new things. But sometimes Joe wasn’t quite sure what he offered Arthur in return. Was he more to him than a fleeting entertainment? What could Arthur see in a man of inferior class other than that he was good in bed? Except, when they shared their thoughts and dreams, Joe didn’t feel unequal. Arthur had admitted to his disappointment in himself for never following through on his intention to travel. Surely he wouldn’t confide in Joe if he didn’t care for him.
A rap on the door interrupted Joe’s woolgathering. He laced his shoe as he called, “Come in.” The sight of Arthur in his doorway filled him with a rush of pure happiness that was rather alarming.
“Nearly ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” Joe went to the bureau for the pair of mother-of-pearl cufflinks Arthur had given him and attempted to fasten his cuff.
“Here, let me help you.” Arthur took the links from him, the scent of his aftershave awakening a flutter low in Joe’s groin. As Arthur fastened each cuff, his fingers brushed Joe’s wrists. Sparkles shot up his arms, and the flutter turned into yearning. Joe curled a hand around the back of Arthur’s neck and pulled him close. He sampled the whisky on Arthur’s lips and tongue, potent even secondhand. One kiss led to several deeper ones until at last Joe broke away.
He rested his forehead against Arthur’s and caught his breath. “Much more of that and we’ll miss the start of the show.”
“We could put on our own right here.” Arthur’s teasing growl made him shiver. He’d like nothing better than to chuck the theater and stay at home. But this was meant to be his first official introduction to society. Theatergoers mingled prior to the show and at intermission.
Joe reluctantly stepped away and straightened his bow tie. “We ought to leave.” He picked up his jacket and slipped it on. Like Arthur’s, the evening coat did not have traditional swallow tails and was more like a loose-fitting dinner jacket. Joe hoped such casual attire wouldn’t be out of place at the theater, where people dressed to impress each other, but the tailor had assured him the style was becoming all the rage.
“So handsome,” Arthur complimented him. “The ladies will be clamoring for your attention.” He slicked a strand of Joe’s hair into place. “It will be our delightful secret that you have no interest in any of them and your affections are all mine. I shall silently gloat.”
His smile sent Joe’s heart thumping so it hard, it might burst through his crisply starched shirtfront. “And I shall think of little besides the end of the evening and being alone again with you—that and not putting my foot in my mouth.”
“You’ll do fine tonight. I have faith in you. If you’re not certain what to say in response to something, answer vaguely. Your aura of mystery and dashing looks will ensure everyone will be chattering about the handsome stranger come tomorrow.”
“Dashing?” Joe cocked an eyebrow. “That’s rather a stretch, isn’t it?”
“See for yourself.”
Arthur turned him to face the full-length looking glass in one corner of the bedroom. He remained behind Joe, hands resting on his shoulders. The two men reflected were equally tall, equally well dressed and groomed, and equally handsome in different ways; Arthur with fine features and smooth brown hair over a high forehead, and Joe with coal-black locks and dramatic brows over deep-set eyes. He’d left his spectacles off for the night, deciding it might be better to view things slightly blurry. Too sharp a focus would make this all seem too real.
“I guess I’ll do,” Joe admitted.
Arthur offered his arm. “Well then. Off we go.” Joe took it, and Arthur escorted him from the room. As if I were a lady courted by her beau.
Though they had to part once they reached the head of the stairs lest a servant spy them, Joe felt Arthur beside him all the way downstairs and on the ride to the theater. Nerves made his stomach jumpy, but Arthur’s presence held him steady and calm.
The grand lobby of the newly built Gaiety Theater, relocated after the demolition of the original Gaiety in 1903, was so sumptuous that Joe had to pause a moment and simply gawk. An enormous crystal chandelier was the breathtaking centerpiece of a golden room like a sultan’s palace. A crowd of men, most wearing coats with tails, Joe noted, and women in a peacock array of gowns were gathered in the lobby. Staircases arched to the left and right leading up to the boxes, while double doors opened onto orchestra level. Those seats would be cheaper than private boxes, but Joe was certain the tickets still cost more than his entire family could earn in a month.
Arthur pointed out various important people in the throng. He indicated a couple with arses so wide, Joe wondered how they’d fit into their seats. “Lord Albert Merriweather and his wife, Lady Christine. He’s an important member of Parliament. She’s a lynchpin of the social scene. That tall man over there with the prodigious moustache is Sir Michael Weathers, recently returned from a trip to the Amazon jungle, where it’s said he contracted malarial fever. The elderly woman with the white-powdered face is the Dowager Duchess Eustacia Frampton. The young man by her side is not her grandson but her escort du jour. Wealthy, titled widows are allowed to flaunt their less-than-pedigreed lovers. Society turns a blind eye.”
Joe took silent notes: plump lord and lady, walrus-mustached traveler, horny old bird. He studied the duchess’s handsome lover, an apparently average bloke who’d attached himself to nobility. He wondered if the blond man draping a shawl around his mistress’s shoulders felt as out of place in this crowd as Joe did or if he’d grown use to this rarer atmosphere.
If he can pull it off, so can I. Joe smiled as Arthur introduced him to a group of men. “Mr. Joseph Newman, a friend visiting from the country.”
Arthur named the trio of men, and Joe tried desperately to connect names with faces. Mr. Timothy Stilton, pale as the cheese. Sir Cary Fordham, pock-faced and plain. Mr. Richard Starkwell, dashing and devilishly handsome.
“How do you do. Pleased to meet you.” Joe enunciated perhaps too slowly and carefully. Stilton regarded him as if he were a simpleton.
His new acquaintances asked a few polite questions. Joe mentioned he was from Wiltshire, said he was enjoying his visit, then changed the subject. “I overheard you discussing your stable. Do you hunt, Sir Cary?”
“Do I hunt, he asks!” The pockmarked man gave a loud neigh of laughter before launching into a detailed account of the past hunting season and how his newest horse was performing. Joe supplied nods and murmurs of interest as the genealogy of sires and dams went on for several minutes.
Finally, Stilton, pale as cheese, interrupted his friend’s monologue. “Oh, there’s someone I simply must speak with.” He drifted away, quickly followed by Starkwell, devilishly handsome, who offered even less of an excuse.
At last, Arthur managed to extricate himself and Joe. “I must introduce Mr. Newman to some other friends. Please excuse us.”
“Branch and Fielding are actually good friends of mine,” Arthur explained before they joined a tall man with thinning hair and his stocky mate. The young men were flirting with two ladies Joe recognized from the park. Rose and Daisy, he easily recalled their flowery names.
“Mr. Newman!” Daisy gushed. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Indeed,” Joe replied, unable to greet her properly since he’d forgotten her surname. To cover his lapse of memory, he asked, “Are you excited to view tonight’s musical?”
“Oh yes. I’ve attended Our Miss Gibbs twice already. It’s amusing and very romantic. I simply adore the modern musicals, don’t you? My parents won’t attend anything but opera or the symphony. Everything else is too lowbrow, Mother says. But I don’t suppose you have any such entertainments in…where did you say you were from, Mr. Newman? I’m such a flibbertigibbet, I’ve completely forgotten.”
For the first time since arriving, Joe’s smile was real. Daisy was charming and likeable. “Wiltshire. And I believe I’m a flibbertigibbet too, for I must admit your surname escapes me, Miss Daisy.”
She regarded him from under lowered lashes. “Cavendish. But you may address me as Daisy. I think we shall become fast friends.”
Arthur introduced Joe to Horace Fielding and Oliver Branch.
“Yes, Oliver is truly my name,” the balding man said. “Mother’s such a card. She thought it a witty play on olive branch, and Father didn’t stop her. Fielding and I are going for a late supper after the show. You two should join us.”
Rose intercepted the invitation meant for Arthur and Joe. “Oh, I don’t know if my mother will allow. She’s steaming over here now to make certain Daisy and I aren’t doing anything improper. Speaking unchaperoned with a quartet of handsome bachelors. The horror!”
Mrs. Breckenridge cut through the throng toward them like a battleship. Blue-tipped ostrich feathers quivered in her hair, and the jet beads trimming her gown clattered in indignation. “Good evening, gentlemen. It is time for my daughter and Miss Cavendish to rejoin our party as we’re about to take our seats.”
“Just a few minutes longer, Mother. Mr. Lawton and his friend Mr. Newman have only just arrived. Besides, the bell hasn’t even sounded yet.”
“It will soon. Come, Rose.” Mrs. Breckenridge offered a stiff smile to Arthur’s friends, a warmer one to Arthur, and took a firm hold of her daughter’s elbow.
Joe was bewildered at her steering the young ladies away. Weren’t Fielding and Branch considered suitable bachelors? Potential husbands were what the two debutantes were seeking. Apparently, Mrs. Breckenridge had a better candidate in mind for her daughter. The precise equation of wealth, social standing, and reputation that equaled a perfect match was beyond Joe’s understanding. His own world was much simpler.
Fielding’s gaze lingered on Rose’s hourglass figure swathed in satin that matched her name. “The crop of debutantes this year is choice. Makes me feel nearly ready to take that final walk.”
“As if you’d even be considered for one of those two,” Branch said. “You’re outclassed, my boy, so you’ll settle for Lydia Grant and her twenty pounds a year.” He sipped from a silver flask he’d withdrawn from his jacket pocket, then passed it to Fielding. “Where have you been these days, Lawton? Haven’t seen you around much.”
Arthur clapped a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “I’ve been showing Newman the sights.”
“I bet he’d rather indulge at the Raleigh Club than view the Tower of London.” Fielding capped the flask. “Do you gamble, Newman?”
“Er, not often.”
“Lawton, you must bring the country mouse for a night of cards at the Raleigh before sending him home. We should skip the play and go there now.”
“Easy, Fielding.” Branch took the flask and pocketed it. “You just ate a cake last night.”
“A…cake?” Joe asked tentatively.
Branch rubbed his fingers against his thumb, indicating money, and grinned. “More than a slice. More than is good for him.”
Arthur clapped his hands, ending the talk of gambling. “And now the bell actually has sounded. We should go in.”
So far, so good, Joe thought. He’d made it through several conversations without disgracing himself. Now there was only intermission to worry about. Until then, he could relax and enjoy attending his very first play at a fancy theater. He’d been to the local music hall before, but that was hardly the same thing.
Arthur steered them through the lobby. “I told you this wouldn’t be difficult. You’re doing perfectly.”
“Lawton!” A familiar nasal voice blatted from behind them. It was Lord Granville beckoning them over to where he stood with several people.
“Blast! Should’ve known he’d be here tonight,” Arthur muttered. “He’s not going to make this easy, but I suppose we can’t ignore him.”
They joined the group and good evenings were exchanged as Granville introduced Joe to the members of his party.
“This is my mother, Lady Catherine Granville.”
A very pale woman wearing a cream-colored gown that added to her washed-out appearance held her gloved hand toward Joe. Diamonds encircled her wrist and throat, and a studded diadem topped her coronet of silver-shot and blond hair. She seemed overdressed for the night’s entertainment, as if ready to be meet royalty rather than attend a musical. The elegant woman couldn’t look less like her large-boned, pig-eyed son. Joe decided Freddie Granville must take after his deceased father.
Joe bowed over her hand and kissed several inches above it, as was proper. “A pleasure to meet you, your ladyship.”
She regarded him keenly. “So, you’re Mr. Lawton’s friend who will be accompanying him to my party.”
Joe weighed every word before pushing it through his lips. “I’m honored at the invitation, your ladyship.”
“Any guest of dear Arthur’s is welcome in my home.”
Granville introduced in quick succession a big-jawed earl who looked like a basset hound and his horse-faced wife, and a white-haired countess who hunched over a cane. She nodded at Joe and peered at him more closely through a pince-nez.
“Dear Elizabeth is suffering another of her migraines, so my new friend is here in her stead,” Granville concluded as he turned to a man with huge eyes and a tiny moustache and goatee. “Professor Holley is a doctor of linguistics, very distinguished in his field.”
Joe nodded politely. “Professor Holley. Good to meet you.”
“The professor has studied languages ranging from the grunts of jungle savages to the romance languages of civilized Europeans. His current project is… Well, I’ll let him tell about it.”
The moustache twitched and those protruding eyes blinked as Holley began. “My current study concerns the dialects of our own city. There is an astonishing range of accents within a very few square miles of urban sprawl. For example, I can tell the difference between a person from Tailor’s Court and one from Baker’s Row. Only a few streets apart, but the accent is quite detectable to my keen ear.”
Joe understood why Granville’s eyes sparkled. He was ensuring Arthur wouldn’t win their bet short of telling people outright that Joe was a sham. Joe’s stomach churned, and he shrank into himself, praying the professor wouldn’t talk directly to him.
Lady Granville gave a sniff, possibly at Holley’s arrogance and self-promotion. “We are late. We’ll miss the opening curtain.”
“Yes, yes, Mother,” Granville replied impatiently. He gazed at Arthur and threw down his challenge. “We’ve a pair of empty seats in our box. You two positively must join us. I insist. I know you generally buy main-floor tickets. Don’t sit with the hoi polloi and tourists. Give Mr. Newman the best theater experience while he’s in town.”
Joe shot an arrow of thought to Arthur—No!—but it apparently didn’t stick.
“That would be lovely. Thank you for the invitation,” Arthur answered smoothly.
They headed up one arched staircase to the balcony tier, then down a corridor lined with doors to the private boxes. They parted ways from the earl and his wife at one of them.
Lady Granville and the countess entered the Granville family box, followed by Holley and Lord Granville. Joe and Arthur trailed behind. Arthur leaned close to Joe and whispered, “Don’t worry. You’ll carry it off. I know you can do it.”