Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (9 page)

“T
hat girl's set her cap for you, Rowly,” Clyde said after Allie Dawe finally left.

“One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,” Milton added.

“Keats.” Rowland didn't bother to deny it. Allie had made the fact amply clear.

“Are you sure you want to encourage her?” Clyde asked sternly.

Rowland grimaced. “For God's sake, Clyde, she's barely more than a schoolgirl!” He shook his head. “I just don't like the sound of this Lord Erroll and his private club. I fear Miss Dawe may be walking into trouble.”

Clyde groaned.

“Rowly's right.” Edna balanced on the arm of the settee. “We can't just let her wander in unchaperoned. The poor girl doesn't understand what she's getting into.”

“But she's going to assume, Rowly—”

“Being disappointed by Rowland Sinclair is not the worst thing that could happen to her, Clyde,” Edna said firmly.

Clyde sighed. “Yes, I know. We should go. I just have a bad feeling about all this.”

Rowland said nothing. Clyde had always been a bit of an old woman, but Rowland couldn't help but feel he was, in this case, right.

“What do you suppose we wear to this private club?” Milton asked, checking the flyer Allie had left behind for a stipulated dress code. There was none mentioned.

“I find there are very few occasions for which a dinner suit is not acceptable,” Rowland murmured, lying back with his arm behind his head.

Clyde chuckled. “Clearly you are invited to a better calibre of occasion than am I, old mate.”

They called for Allie Dawe in a motor taxi. Her mother, it seemed, was indisposed, still convalescing following the shock of Lord Pierrepont's death.

Allie wore a deep teal evening gown and an ermine stole. Several feathers had been twisted into her hair so that they fanned out around her face. Rowland thought she looked rather like a frightened peacock, but he told her she looked lovely. Allie blushed and held her knuckles up to his face. It was a couple of moments before he realised she wished him to kiss her hand. As Mrs. Dawe would not leave her bed, he promised the housekeeper that he would see Allie, or Sarah Dabinett—as she now insisted he call her—home safely.

The address on the flyer took them to a large house in Soho. Cars and taxis congested the narrow street outside. Rowland offered Allie his arm. “Are you ready, Miss Dabinett?”

She nodded though she seemed mute with terror.

“You don't have to go through with this,” Rowland whispered. “I'll explain to Lord Erroll if you like.”

Allie shook her head. She swallowed. “Tonight, Sarah Dabinett is born!”

“Right then.”

The entrance into the house had been made more imposing by a red carpet which led into the ballroom. Footmen and a line of maids flanked the doors. A man met them on the threshold. He held out his hands to Allie. “My star has arrived!”

Allie took his hands and introduced Josslyn Hay, the twenty-second Earl of Erroll.

Rowland was a little surprised. He had been expecting a man of Pierrepont's age, but Erroll was not a great deal older than he, slim and fair with feminine lips and a weak chin.

“Lord Erroll, how do you do?”

“Not bad at all, Sinclair.” He paused to shake the hands of Clyde and Milton, and to place a lingering kiss on Edna's. “I say, you're colonials,” he said as Rowland's faint inflection was confirmed by
the broader accents of his friends. “Just returned from Kenya myself. Rather looking forward to getting back, in fact. I'd forgotten how repressed it was over here in general. I daresay you know of what I'm speaking.” He tapped the side of his nose.

Rowland had no idea what Erroll was talking about and he chose not to enquire further.

Erroll turned back to Allie. “I'd better show you to your dressing room, Miss Dabinett.” He smiled. “I'm afraid you'll have to leave your charming colonial gentlemen here—We can all get together afterwards to celebrate your success properly.” He grinned and winked at Rowland.

Allie looked panicked.

“Perhaps I'd better—” Rowland began.

“Oh, may I come along with you?” Edna directed the question at Allie. “I've never been backstage before. Nobody will mind will they, Lord Erroll?” The sculptress blinked innocently at the peer.

Erroll seemed less than happy, but Allie consented immediately. “Yes, of course, if you'd like. You can help me get ready. That's not inappropriate, is it, Lord Erroll?”

“No… no… I suppose it isn't.”

Gratefully, Rowland glanced at Edna. She met his eyes with such a smile that for a moment he forgot everything else. He didn't see Allie frown.

“You keep looking at Ed like that and little Miss Dawe might just claw her eyes out, mate,” Milton muttered as Erroll led the ladies into the house.

“So what do we do now?” Clyde asked.

“We go in and wait for Sarah Dabinett to make her debut I suppose.”

They walked in past the footmen and the lines of maids who curtsied deeply.

“Is that normal?” Milton said under his breath.

“If you're the king,” Rowland murmured, genuinely perplexed by the pantomime. There was something odd about the maids—even without the curtseying… many of them were unusually tall.

The ballroom had been set out like one of London's better nightclubs with linen-draped, candlelit tables arranged around a dance floor and a spotlit stage. The band played a sultry swing number and a haze of cigarette smoke further softened the lighting.

Other dance patrons had begun to arrive and the venue was filling fast with elaborately attired women and men in dinner suits of various styles.

“Rowly, have you noticed—” Milton began.

“Yes, I have.”

Clyde stared. “Holy mother of God.”

“Why hello, you're new!” The man removed his top hat as he sat down at their table. He tapped Rowland's arm with the carved silver handle of his walking stick. “What have you done to yourself, my lovely?”

“A misadventure.” Rowland regarded the man curiously. He introduced himself and his companions.

“Cecil F. Buchan, at your service, my dear. I host these intimate soirées for a few hundred close friends and like-minded souls.” Buchan handed each of the Australians a gilt-edged calling card. “But you boys can call me Countess.” He raised a plucked brow. “Now I know you're not the Old Bill, or else you'd be in frocks… so what are you gentlemen doing here?”

“We have come to see Miss Dabinett perform,” Rowland said uneasily. Couples had taken to the dance floor and, though some wore gowns, he could see now that there were no women in the ballroom. Clyde looked terrified and Milton amused.

Buchan gasped and clutched his hands to his breast. “Oh dear heart, you didn't know what kind of party this was, did you?”

Rowland shook his head. “No. We most certainly didn't.”

Now Buchan giggled. “And the three of you are such pretty lads… a crying shame.” He looked about him at the increasingly crowded room. “I may have to stay with you tonight…” He flourished his walking stick like a sword. “Beat off the others. You see, no one actually comes here for the show—well, not the one on the stage.”

Milton started to laugh. Clyde's lips were pressed tightly together but Rowland could see the Lord's Prayer in his eyes. “That's very kind of you, Mr. Buchan, but we wouldn't want to keep you from your own enjoyment.”

Buchan pulled a lacy white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the thick line of kohl around his eyes. “Alas, alas, there will be no enjoyment for me. Do you see that magnificent creature over there?” He pointed his stick at what at first glance appeared to be a six-foot woman in a green chiffon gown. She danced with a young man in a mess jacket whose face was buried in the broad hard expanse of her chest. “I had an affair with that beautiful boy last week. I've adored him ever since—been unable to eat or drink, except for the odd meal and bottle of wine. Oh, how I've lain in bed obsessed with the thought of seeing him again. But passion, my dears, is a fickle friend and tonight the object of my ardour has eyes only for that inappropriately dressed fool. I understand that nautical dress is very fashionable right now, but a mess jacket… really!”

“I'm sorry to hear of your… disappointment, Mr. Buchan.”

“Are you, Mr. Sinclair?” Buchan leaned in and gazed into his eyes. “Are you truly? It's good of you to say, even if you aren't truly sorry. It's well-mannered—a testament to gentle breeding. I think I might pass the time with you and your charming friends.”

Clyde tensed, panicked.

Buchan reached across and patted his hand. “Relax, poppet. I know… I do. I'm not in the mood for love tonight and if you do intend to stay to see this girl, Dabinett, sing, you will need the Countess to keep less understanding suitors back.”

“In that case,” Milton said, standing, clearly unfazed, “I'd better fetch us some drinks.” Rowland fumbled in his jacket and handed the poet his pocketbook, guessing that the cost of refreshments would be extortionate.

“A splendid notion,” Buchan chirped. “I'd best accompany you, though. The
maids
at the bar can be forward.” He turned back to Rowland and Clyde. “If anyone bothers you, my darlings, you say you're with the Countess.”

“Clyde, old boy, are you all right?” Rowland whispered as Buchan sauntered off with Milton. “You look a trifle unwell.”

“Of course I do.” Clyde shook his head. “Why don't you?”

“I was at Oxford,” Rowland replied, shrugging. “Englishmen, you know. I'm sorry, mate, I should have realised this was not an ordinary dance.”

“Rowly,” Clyde said, convinced his friend was taking the situation far too lightly. “We are surrounded… surrounded by men in evening gowns and make-up. We have to get the hell out of here!”

Rowland grinned. “We'll leave as soon as Miss Dawe has finished her act.” He nudged Clyde encouragingly. “Don't panic, mate… just don't ask anyone to dance.”

Clyde glowered at him and Rowland laughed.

Milton and Buchan returned with a tray of colourful cocktails.

“What in God's name are these?” Clyde demanded, staring at the selection of frothy concoctions, garnished with chunks of fruit and sprigs of mint. He was justifiably suspicious of everything now.

“Funny you should mention the good Lord, poppet,” Buchan said as he considered the selection with theatrical poise. “For this divine creation is called an Angel's Wing!” He handed Clyde a carefully constructed drink of layered brandy topped with cream. “Mr. Isaacs quite excellently chose the Black Velvet, and for Mr. Sinclair, an Americano. And this,” he said raising a glass himself, “is for me.” He took a sip and a puckered approving. “Ahhh, Between the Sheets.”

The first act took to the stage—a male crooner in petticoats and bows who sang favourites from the twenties. Some sang along, others danced.