Lord Foxbridge Butts In (35 page)

“He’s a naughty puppy that needs training,” she answered, “But I never leave scars.”

“Pay no attention to Foxy, Lady Bea. Knock some sense into the lad,” Caro directed, “I daresay he
needs
a good thrashing.”

“I know what to do,” she smiled beatifically at the both of us, closing the door.

“I’m a little surprised at you,” I said to Caro when we were in the car and heading toward St. James’s, “Letting Lady Bea have him like that.”

“I actually
do
think it will be good for him, Foxy,” she busied herself rummaging around in her handbag, “He needs discipline, and God knows he doesn’t get any at home.  If Lady Bea can give him some, he’ll be a better man for it.  I don’t think you could have done that for him, hence the heavy-handedness about making Claude a gift.  I hope you didn’t mind.”

“Not at all,” I lit her cigarette for her, and pulled out one of my own, “I wouldn’t have known what to do with him, aside from the obvious.  I don’t know him very well, but knowing he’s never been to school, I’m pretty sure a caning or two would not go amiss.  They did
me
a world of good.”

“Imagine getting thrashed by Lady Bea instead of an Eton prefect,” she giggled.

“I much prefer the latter, if it’s all the same to you,” I giggled along with her, then I thought of something else: “Do girls get caned at school?”

“No, they’re much more cruel.  A ruler across the palm was standard, though my schoolmistress’s favorite punishment was to make us kneel on the floor, holding two Bibles out at arm’s length.  It was absolute
torture
and made one’s shoulder-caps very bulky.”

“Golly,” I commiserated, “Sounds ghastly.”

“So you got off pretty easy with the caning,” she tossed her cigarette out the window as the car pulled up in front of Hyacinth House, then she changed the subject suddenly, “We’re going down to Castoris this week, the whole lot of us.  Mamà has decided the Season is officially dead and done.  Will you come visit sometimes?  I get awfully bored being cooped up with my sisters, and my brother’s ghastly City friends.”

“Of course,” I got out of the car but leaned back in to continue talking, “I’ll be having some parties at Foxbridge, as well; I hope you’ll come.”

“We can practice being a couple in public, what?” she grinned in the darkness.

“I think we’re going to be pretty formidable as a pair,” I grinned right back.

“Good night, darling Foxy,” she leaned out and kissed me, a very romantic sort of kiss, the sort one sees in the pictures: elegant and pleasant, but without passion.

“Good night, dearest Caro,” I replied, shutting the door and knocking on the roof so the chauffeur could drive on.

*****

“I missed you last night,” Twister opened the conversation next day when he dropped by for tea.

“When I heard that Brigham was coming,” I lied outrageously, having practiced the statement in a mirror, “I thought I should make myself scarce as soon as I’d secured Claude.  He’d probably have arrested me along with the others.”

“Yes, he probably would have,” he smiled at my fib, knowing that it was Pond who’d effected my retreat, “However, Claude Chatroy’s testimony would have been very helpful in the kidnapping charge.  And Lady Beatrice Todmore’s.  And whoever the blond gentleman was, and the lady in the turban.”

“Evening cloche, actually,” I corrected, then blushed furiously, realizing I’d just given myself away.  Of
course
those arrested would have mentioned La Pantera actually buying the boy before he disappeared from the Hampton Hotel, as well as descriptions of her companions.

“I knew it!” he crowed, “That
was
you and Lady Caroline! You really went the extra mile for Claude, didn’t you?”

“Actually, it was a lot of fun,” I admitted — in for a penny, in for a pound, “Caro and I might make a hobby of it, going out in drag together.  She already does, of course; but since we’re going to be engaged next Season...”

“Wait a minute!” he put down his cup, “
You
were the lady?  Lady
Caroline
was the blond gent?”

Damn and
double
damn!  I gave myself away twice without even changing subjects.

“I thought you’d bleached out your hair for the occasion!” he gasped out when his gales of laughter subsided sufficiently to allow speech, “and dyed it back to red this morning.  But you were dressed as a
woman
!  And you
enjoyed
it?”

“Yes, rather,” I mumbled, mortified by his laughter.

“And you’re going to marry Lady Caroline Chatroy?” he stopped laughing suddenly, and there was a
something
in his voice that I couldn’t quite identify.

“Not for a bit, yet,” I looked at him, trying to figure out what that different tone was about.  He was looking at me very intently, speculatively, as if reevaluating me, “We’ll announce it next year, at the end of the Season, and probably marry at the end of the Season after that.”

“Have you made love to her?” he asked, his voice gone very low.

“We’ve kissed and cuddled a bit,” I admitted, “But only when I was dressed up.  It was very... interesting.”

“I bet,” he said, “And you think you’ll be able to do your marital duty with her?”

“Sure, why not?” I shrugged, “I
will
need heirs, after all, and that’s the only way to get them.”

“I mean, did you get excited when you were kissing her?”

“Yes, but why are you asking me this?” I wondered.  It seemed so unlike him to ask for such intimate details, he never had before.

Instead of answering me, he stood in front of me, showing me exactly how excited he’d become; grabbing me under the arms, he hauled me to my feet and into a fevered embrace.  I was so taken aback that I didn’t respond at first, but eventually it dawned on me that I was finally getting my heart’s desire.  Soon we were reduced to a hopeless tangle of heated limbs and torn clothes writhing on the hearthrug, and it was even better than I’d hoped and dreamed it would be.

All I had to do was kiss a girl.  Who’d have guessed?

*****

The Viscount Takes a Drive

The next Monday, after spending two whole blissful nights and a whole blissful day in my rooms with Twister, seeing nobody but Pond and giving the excuse to anyone who called that I’d gone back to Foxbridge for a few days (Twister had informed his landlady that he was going down to Holmesham Manor — having country houses
can
be awfully handy in such situations), I received a letter from my bank detailing all of the cheques I’d written and withdrawals I’d made over the last three months.

It was a sobering document, showing that I’d got through more than ten thousand pounds since coming to London in June; and considering that I’d just made arrangements to take over the housekeeping expenses at Foxbridge, so that Pater couldn’t kick when I hired twelve new servants and started throwing parties, as well as promising Pond I’d buy a motorcar, I was slated to be soaked for a few more thousands.

It was an incredible amount of money, and though my balance showed itself equal to the strain, it gave me some pause.  I spent much of that day observing all of my little luxuries and wondering if I should economize: I mean, do I really
need
to have good champagne and very old claret and crusted Napoleon with dinner
every
night?  Did I absolutely
have
to belong to seven clubs, some of which were practically adjacent to each other, just so I can have lunch in a different one each day?  Should I send a telegram to Coldicott, our butler at Foxbridge, indicating that perhaps four footmen and four chambermaids were excessive, when two of each would do?  Should I buy a sober little Morris instead of some flashy expensive roadster?

Fortunately for my peace of mind, another letter arrived next day from my solicitors, who harvest up my income for me from all its various sources and deposit it into my bank.  The quarterly profit-shares from my late grandfather’s patent-medicines firm (which manufactured quite a lot of other things, too, and was run by a board of directors in New York), the dividends from my late mother’s stocks and bonds, and the interest off my late uncle’s millions amounted to quite a tidy sum... I could have spent twice as much without getting anywhere near the bottom of the well, and the same again was coming
next
quarter.

It was therefore a happy coincidence that Mr.
 Delagardie chose to present my quarterly hotel bill on the Tuesday rather than the Monday.  If it had come on the heels of the statement of expenditures, I would have had an apoplexy on seeing the four-figure total at the bottom of the page; but since I received the bill
after
seeing my income statement, I was in a mood to scoff at what amounted, with Gabriel’s room and my food and wine bills thrown in, to a rate of thirteen guineas a day.

“To whom should I make out the cheque?” I asked the manager as I sat down at my desk and brought out the book from the top drawer.

“To Hyacinth House, my lord,” Delagardie responded smoothly, though obviously startled that I intended to pay my bill immediately upon receipt.  I supposed it
would
have been more suave to send it along to my solicitors and have them pay it; but I do
enjoy
writing cheques, and was itching to spend some money.

“I’ve often wondered,” I wrote down the amount and signed the cheque, then took a blotter to it and blew on it for good measure, “who owns Hyacinth House?  You?”

“No, my lord,” he frowned at the notion, “I am merely an employee.”

“I only asked because so many of the better hotels are overseen by the owners.  The Ritz, for example.  Is there a Mr.
 Hyacinth somewhere behind the scenes?”

“I am glad your lordship considers our service up the standards of the Ritz,” Delagardie bowed low.

“Oh, absolutely,” I turned to look at the man, wondering if he was purposefully ignoring the meat of the question, “So, who
does
own it?”

“The land is of course owned by the Crown,” he temporized.

“Of course,”
everyone
knows that anywhere in London you could see a palace, the Crown owned the ground you were standing on; and I could see St. James’s Palace at the end of the street every time I stepped outside, “But who has the
leasehold
? The house itself?  Who receives the cheques made out to Hyacinth House?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, my lord,” he finally admitted after a long internal struggle, “The gentleman who owns the hotel is also a resident and does not wish the other residents to know.”

“Ah,” my nose practically
twitched
at this information, “I smell a mystery.”

“I
beg
your lordship,” he wrung his hands in distress, “Please do not concern yourself to solve this mystery.  It would be more than my position is worth if the owner’s identity became known.”

“Don’t worry, Mr.
 Delagardie,” I stood up and gave him my hand, “I won’t endanger our host’s privacy.  I’m a dreadful nosy-parker, but I can be discreet when the occasion demands.”

“I thank your  lordship,” he bowed again when I handed him the cheque, and withdrew from the room in his usual backward scuttle.

I smirked a sneaky little smirk as I settled down in my chair and started making memoranda in my notebook; Twister would have seen through my phrasing in a moment, but Delagardie was not accustomed to legal niceties: I did not say I wouldn’t
try
to find out who the owner was, only that I wouldn’t
tell
anybody about it when I did.  It’s a difficult balance, sometimes, being both inquisitive and honest.

“What sort of motorcar should I get, Pond?” I asked when he came in a few minutes later.  After I’d finished making a list of avenues of inquiry to pursue into the identity of Hyacinth House’s owner, I started thinking about ways to fritter away some of the tens of thousands of pounds at my disposal.

“I would not presume to advise your lordship,” he intoned solemnly; but since he’d requested the purchase in the first place, I assumed this was merely an opening gambit.

“Stuff and nonsense,” I reached out a foot and kicked him lightly on the ankle, “You’re the one wanted me to buy it.  Plus, you’d end up driving the thing half the time, going to fetch it when I want to go somewhere, and taking it back if I get squiffy.  I value your judgment, so go ahead and presume to advise.”

“Rolls-Royce is widely considered the best maker, my lord.”

“A Rolls-Royce!” I gasped, “Rather opulent for my age, don’t you think?”

“Your lordship may be considered a very important personage, regardless of age.  Opulence would not be considered unsuitable to the future eleventh Earl of Vere.”

“Perhaps,” I picked up the latest
Tatler
from the table and leafed through it in search of advertisements, “though even Pater never splashed out as far as a Rolls.  He keeps an old Daimler down at Foxbridge and toots around Town in a Wolseley.  What I’d
really
like is a Benz, but I don’t suppose German motors are considered the thing.”

“Anti-German sentiment is still quite strong, my lord.”

“Pity, they’re really beautiful machines.  What about a Bugatti?  The Marquis’s was very stylish.”

“Perhaps a bit too French, my lord.”

We went back and forth like this for over an hour, discussing the reputations of different brands, searching out advertisements in magazines and newspapers, considering the social merits of a touring-car instead of a two-seater, and uncovering a deep streak of xenophobia in Pond’s psychology: he sniffed dismissively at the American models, and openly sneered at anything from the Continent.

“Well, we’ll never decide by talking about it,” I threw down the magazines and got up from my chair, “Put me into my armor, and I’ll pop over to the Royal Automobile Club and wait for someone I know to come in or out.  If all else fails, I could apply for membership.  Someone is bound to be able to advise me.”

“Your lordship might find it more expedient to simply visit a showroom.  There’s one in Park Lane that has an excellent reputation,” Pond smirked just a tiny bit.

“But won’t they gull me something awful, not knowing anything about motors?” I wondered.

“One need not purchase the motorcar immediately, my lord,” he sort-of-laughed; I was getting better at reading his tiny valet-y expressions, which were so much more subtle than his normal expressions, “But I have been told that a motorcar is much like a horse, in that it is better to see it in person before deciding on a purchase.  One is expected to take a test drive before deciding, and one might find a liking for a particular model once one is presented with it.”

“Oh, ah,” that made sense; but I’d never bought a horse, either, and wouldn’t even know where to start, “Where in Park Lane?”

“At Stanhope Gate, my lord,” Pond went into the bedroom to get out my suit, “Hard by the Dorchester.”

“Oh!  I’ve passed that corner dozens of times,” I followed him in, shedding my dressing-gown on the way, “Set back a bit, isn’t it?  I never really noticed it was a motorcar showroom.”

“One often does not see something until one is looking for it, my lord,” Pond said, handing me my undergarments; it had taken nearly three months, but I had finally broken him of the habit of trying to put them on me as if I was a helpless toddler.

“True.  I find if I’m waiting for someone, say a short young man with yellow hair, suddenly the world seems quite overpopulated with short young blonds.”

“Just so, my lord,” he held out my trousers to step into.

We performed the rest of the ritual in a thoughtful silence; once I was fully kitted out, I took my hat and stick, liberated a tiny yellow iris for my button-hole, and set out for Park Lane.  And Pond was right, as soon as I was looking for something, I couldn’t help noticing an abundance of it; I’d never really paid much attention to the motorcars I saw on the street before, but that day I was acutely aware of every make and model and colour passing by.  Such a profusion of previously unnoticed details!  I was quite overwhelmed by the time I turned off Piccadilly.

March Motors Ltd. was exactly where Pond said it would be, a discreet-looking building with plate-glass windows on the ground floor and a small marquee over the front door; it was half-hidden by the trees in the little triangle of garden in front of the Dorchester, which is why I’d never paid much attention to it before.  I stepped inside, glanced around me at the dozen or so motorcars on display, and immediately fell head over heels in love.

I flew on wingèd heels directly to my new beloved, a long and sweeping Rolls-Royce (Pond
always
knows best), its coachwork enameled in buttercream yellow and rich chocolate brown, with fawn leather upholstery and burl pearwood cabinetry on the inside, and shining chromium trim all around.  I didn’t care what it did or how much it cost, I
had
to have it.

“The new Phantom I drophead sports-touring model,” said a very sleek, tall, fair young man in a faintly shiny gray suit.  He had the glossiest hair I’ve ever seen, it actually reflected the overhead lights, “A forty-horsepower, six-cylinder engine with coachwork by Hooper.”

“I want it.  How much?” I returned my covetous gaze to the delicious-looking machine.

“That would depend on what modifications you wish, sir,” the young man smiled winningly and put out his hand, “My name is Cyprian Coe.”

“Viscount Foxbridge,” I answered absently and shook hands, startled out of my reverie by the outlandish name, “
Cyprian
Coe?”

“My mother has a fanciful nature, my lord,” he bowed his head slightly in a very pretty gesture.  He moved and spoke like an actor, and looked like a department-store mannequin; not at all what I expected to find in a motorcar showroom.  For some reason, I’d fancied it would be full of gruff coachmen in uncomfortable suits.

“Well,
my
front name is Sebastian, so I can’t really throw the first stone,” I grinned at him, letting the handshake linger a little longer than usual to see if he was ‘my sort.’  The slight pressure of his hand and a tiny flaring of eyes and nostrils told me he was, “What do you mean by ‘modifications’?”

“Your lordship can order any number of modifications to the model you wish to have built,” he answered, “the coachwork, the engine, and several other features can be tailored to your lordship’s specifications.”

“Built?  But I want to buy
this
one,” I sounded very childish, whining like I’d been denied jam for my tea, “I don’t want to order one made, I want this
particular
motorcar.”

“Oh, I see,” Cyprian looked a little doubtful, perhaps wondering if I was quite sane, “I’m not sure what the procedure would be for purchasing a floor model.  I will have to speak to the proprietor.”

“I don’t mind paying extra.  I
love
this motorcar.”

“Please enjoy it while I am gone, my lord,” he opened the driver’s side door and gestured me in, “I’ll return shortly.”

I slid in behind the wheel and bounced around gleefully, pretending to drive while making idiotic motor-noises, caressing the seats (they were kidskin, not cowhide, and soft as silk), peering into the mirrors, and waving at imaginary passersby.  Fortunately for my reputation, I was alone in the showroom.