Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (11 page)

“Bloody hell, Wil, just help me find a solicitor!”

Even with Edna out of the room, Wilfred did not swear at his brother, though it was clear he wanted to. “What exactly has Mr. Isaacs done to get himself arrested?”

“He was at a dance in Soho.”

“And…?”

“And nothing, he was arrested for being at the dance.”

“What… why?”

“It was a dance for gentlemen… only gentlemen.”

Wilfred stopped. “I knew it! Bloody cravats and poetry,” he muttered furiously. “I knew your so-called friends would—”

“None of us knew what kind of dance it was,” Rowland said tightly.

“None of you?” Wilfred's eyes narrowed. “My God, Rowly, are you telling me that you were there too? Are you out of your mind? Do you have no concept of respectability?”

“Miss Dawe invited us to come hear her sing. We didn't know that it was anything other than a dance.”

“I would have thought it'd be bleeding obvious!” Wilfred stepped closer, suspiciously, accusingly. “Had you been drinking?”

“For pity's sake, Wil!”

“If your drinking has deteriorated to such a sorry state that you can't tell—”

“I promise you, Wil, I have never been that intoxicated that I can't tell the difference between a man and a woman! Besides, I was cold sober when I walked into that dance.”

“Tremendous!” Wilfred rubbed his face wearily. “Inebriation would have at least been a reason! You're just an idiot!”

Now Rowland really wanted a drink. “Look, Wil, just help me find a half-decent solicitor… please.”

“Rowly, you cannot afford to be associated with—”

“It was my idea to attend in the first place,” Rowland said angrily. “Milt stayed with Miss Dawe so that I could get out and protect my flaming reputation.”

Wilfred sat down and removed his glasses. “And why was Miss Dawe performing at this so-called dance?”

“She quite desperately wants to be a singer. Some chap who calls himself the Earl of Erroll arranged it.”

Wilfred looked up sharply. “Josslyn Hay?”

Rowland nodded. “He was a chum of Pierrepont's, apparently.”

Wilfred seemed about to say something but decided against it. “I presume this need to rescue your long-haired hanger-on cannot wait till morning.”

“No, it can't.”

Wilfred stood, shaking his head. “I'd better make some calls.” He regarded Rowland sternly. “But once this is sorted, you and your idle Bolshie friends are on the first ship to Sydney!”

Rowland flared. “I am not a child, Wil. The days when you could pack me off out of the country are long gone.”

Wilfred smiled coldly. “Don't count on it, Rowly.”

The Sinclairs had used Allen and Overy to manage their affairs in Britain and France for the past two years. And though the learned gentlemen were not often called to act on criminal matters, they performed admirably to secure the release of Mr. Elias Isaacs and Miss Allison Dawe from the Brixton court.

The task had been made arguably more difficult by the fact that Mr. Isaacs—outraged at having his cheeks rubbed with blotting paper to test for rouge—had taken the opportunity to speak out against capitalist oppression and nearly incited a riot among his fellow detainees. As such the constabulary was not inclined to be lenient.

George Allen gave the matter his personal attention, impressing all and sundry with his extraordinary command of legal maxims in their original Latin. He made representations to a variety of people and eventually the poet was released. As a special favour to the younger Mr. Sinclair, Allen also secured the release of a certain Cecil F. Buchan. Resigned to the follies and indiscretions of young men, and financially invested in retaining the business of both Sinclair brothers, the wily lawyer mentioned nothing of Buchan to Wilfred.

Having been formally charged, Milton was required to present before the courts the following month. Rowland would not hear of
returning to Sydney without him no matter what Wilfred directed or threatened. And so the Sinclair brothers were at odds, but that was not unusual.

The sun had risen by the time Rowland finally escorted Allie Dawe to her Belgravia residence. On the doorstep she'd started to cry. “It's all ruined,” she wept. “My career is in tatters and you'll never speak to me again for inviting you to such a place. First Uncle Alfred and now this… Whatever must you think of me, Mr. Sinclair? Do you hate me for inviting you to that den of inequity and vice?”

“To be honest, Miss Dawe, I was having rather a good time until the constabulary arrived,” Rowland said kindly and quite sincerely. “But I do think that chap Erroll might have warned you.”

“You've been so understanding, Mr. Sinclair.” Allie took the handkerchief he offered her and wiped her eyes. “I've been quite frightened since Uncle Alfred died. I'm not sure what to do. I thought if I could sing, I'd be able to look after mother and myself even without Uncle Alfred's help.” She broke down again. “I'm not sure how things could be any worse.”

Rowland wasn't entirely sure what to do himself. He'd run out of handkerchiefs.

Allie clutched his arm. “Will I ever see you again, Mr. Sinclair? I could not blame you for wanting to leave me and my troubles to whatever cruel fate has in store!”

Rowland smiled. Despite what he sensed was a genuine panic, Allie Dawe had quite a flair for the melodramatic. “I'd better come in and explain to your mother, don't you think?”

The housekeeper opened the door and, overjoyed to see Allie, shouted for the lady of the house. Mrs. Dawe came slowly down the stairs wearing a sky blue matinee jacket of chiffon and feathers over a matching floor-length nightgown. Briefly, Rowland wondered if
Lord Pierrepont had ever tried on this particular ensemble—it was at least, as far as nightgowns went, more appropriate for a man of his age than the revealing negligee in which he'd been killed.

Mrs. Dawe paused mid-stair, throwing back her head and placing her hand limply against her forehead. She held the pose for several seconds before she resumed her descent.

“Allie darling,” she said, allowing the girl to kiss her offered cheek. “I haven't slept a wink worrying about you—I have the most dreadful headache. Oh, where have you been? I expected you home hours ago.”

Rowland waited as Allie explained. Quite predictably, Mrs. Dawe gasped, stumbled towards a convenient chaise lounge and fainted.

“Drink this.” Edna handed him a steaming cup from the tray that Beresford had placed on the sideboard.

Rowland was less than enthusiastic. He wasn't sure he liked malted milk. Still, he drank it obediently.

Edna curled up on the settee beside him.

Milton was already stretched out asleep on the other couch, and Clyde snored softly in an armchair. Their dinner jackets had been tossed carelessly over the back of a chair, their ties removed and the collar studs undone, but that was as much preparation for sleep as they could manage. Rowland had dozed off for a few minutes but had woken soon after into a sharp and familiar terror.

“What are your dreams about, Rowly?” Edna asked gently as she rested her head drowsily against his shoulder. She'd been awake to notice the manner in which he'd jolted back to consciousness.

“It's all a bit muddled,” he said. “Mostly Germany. I can't seem to get away from that moment when my arm snapped or when that
boy fired.” He smiled ruefully. “You'd think that since I know how it turns out…” Rowland dragged at his hair, irritated. The clarity of his mind's eye had always served him as an artist by casting memory to vibrant detail, but now it forced him to relive those moments of agony and panic night after night.

“I used to have nightmares after my mother died,” Edna said quietly. “I found her you see.”

Rowland placed his uninjured arm around the sculptress. Marguerite Higgins had taken her own life when her daughter was just a child. He'd known the fact for only a short while, and so it staggered him still.

“She used a shotgun, you know.”

Rowland shook his head and held Edna close to him, sickened by the thought of what she would have found after the shotgun had done its grisly work.

Edna's voice was quiet and sad. “There was so much blood, Rowly, more than seemed possible. Papa had the walls papered because the blood would show through no matter how many times we painted… but we couldn't paper the ceiling.” She shuddered.

“My God, Ed, I'm sorry… I wish I could…”

She looked up at him. “I'm all right, Rowly. It was a long time ago. Dear Papa… he stayed by my bed, holding my hand every night for a year. It kept away the nightmares.” She pulled Rowland's arm gently off her shoulder and took his hand. “Why don't you try to sleep now, Rowly?”

“I'm a grown man, Ed.”

“You look so tired, darling,” she said, frowning. “Just try.”

Rowland couldn't deny he was tired. A kind of agitated exhaustion.

Smiling suddenly, Edna stood and fetched the book which lay facedown and open on Milton's chest. She wriggled back into a comfortable position beside Rowland.

“What are you doing?” Rowland asked, aware of the familiar rose scent of Edna's closeness.

“This will help you sleep,” she promised opening the volume of John Milton's
Paradise Lost
. “I remember studying it at school; it'd knock me out in seconds.” She laughed, leaning her head back on his shoulder as she did so. “And you may as well brush up—I suspect that Milt will be stealing from his namesake very soon.”

Rowland smiled. He'd always kept note of what Milton was reading. It helped him decipher who exactly the poet was plagiarising. Clearly the connection had not escaped Edna either.

She read then, her voice languid and drowsy. Perhaps it was that, or the malted milk, or the fact that the sculptress was curled into his side, but Rowland did sleep, and for a time, a short time, it was undisturbed.

B
eresford presented the letter on a silver tray. Rowland opened it quickly with scant regard for the gold leaf embossing and wax seal on the envelope. Scanning the meticulous copperplate on the scallop-edged sheet within, he frowned.

“Problem, Rowly?” Clyde asked.

“A familial summons,” he said.

“From Wilfred?”

“No… one of the local Sinclairs—my cousin.”

“There are local Sinclairs?” Edna asked moving to perch on the arm of his chair.