Lord Foxbridge Butts In (36 page)

“Mr.
 Woolgar would be pleased to let you have this model immediately, Lord Foxbridge,” Cyprian  glided up soundlessly beside the car.  Over his shoulder, I could see the aforementioned Mr. Woolgar watching me intently behind the window in his office, his eyes wide in a wizened old face, like a funny little troll under a bridge.

“Super!” I enthused, reaching into my pocket for the cheque-book, “How much?”

“We can send a bill, my lord,” Cyprian blinked at me in shock.  I hadn’t realized that paying right away might be considered vulgar, but I suppose it
would
be the same as proffering cash at my tailor’s or clubs: it simply isn’t
done
.

“Quite,” I blushed a bit, chastened, “I’m afraid I got carried away.”

“It is a pleasure to serve so enthusiastic a motorist,” the salesman said smoothly with a little bow, then handed me a bit of card, “This is the price Mr. Woolgar sets on the motorcar.”

It was
quite
a price, too: nearly seven thousand guineas.  Seven unwilling virgin slave-boys, in other terms, or complete sets of Georgian silver for ten English gentlemen’s bachelor abodes. One hundred and fifty suits from Anderson & Sheppard, or a full year of luxury living at the Hyacinth.  I burst out laughing with joy that I could afford to buy myself such an extravagant thing.

“Is the figure not acceptable, my lord?” Cyprian misinterpreted my laughter.

“Yes, yes, it’s fine.  But it’s a heady experience, buying one’s first motorcar.”

“Oh, this is your lordship’s
first
motorcar?” he looked a little worried.

“I suppose I’ll need to get a license, won’t I?”

“A simple matter of a few shillings will cover it and the registration for the car.  We can effect the transaction for you with the borough council.  Your lordship does
live
in Westminster?

“Yes, in St.
 James’s Street. Will this delay my having the car?”

“Your lordship may drive the car out of the showroom immediately, if you wish,” he smiled at me with amusement, “Though if you’re stopped by a constable, you’ll be liable to a fine.”

“Oh!  I’m not entirely sure I know
how
to drive,” I admitted, annoyed with myself for not thinking of that beforehand.  It would be just
like
me to spend seven thousand guineas on a motorcar and then smash it into a public monument on my first try, “Would you show me?  I’m told there is usually a test-drive before I’m expected to choose; perhaps since I’ve already chosen, you could take that time to show me how the thing is operated?”

“Of course, my lord,” he grinned at me with genuine pleasure, “I’ll get my hat and the keys.  We can motor up to Hendon and practice at the aerodrome.” 

*****

Driving a motorcar turned out to be terribly easy, and I picked it up in no time at all.  What
wasn’t
easy, however, was resisting Cyprian Coe’s advances.

He became quite familiar as soon as I asked him to dispense with the lordships and call me Sebastian, his suave professional voice reverting to the camp tone one would use in private, graced with an adorable Surrey accent. He flirted outrageously all the way to Hendon, sneaking in suggestive comments while explaining the various rules of the road, pointing out the car’s features, and telling me what all the mysterious dials and gauges meant.  And when we arrived at the aerodrome and switched places, he had his paws all over me as he guided me through the workings of the pedals and the gearshifts, holding my hands as I steered, breathing in my ear as he spoke and generally getting me very hotted up.

Though we hadn’t discussed the future of our relationship, nor any mutual expectations of behaviour, I had a feeling that Twister didn’t want me dallying with other men.  But Cyprian was so alluring, and
so
very sleek and shiny, that I was somewhat at war with myself.  Dare I risk Twister’s regard for a roll in the hay with a relative stranger, however entertaining and satisfying it may be?

But then I heard Lady Bea’s voice in my head:
Don’t say ‘No’ now, while you’re young and beautiful, and wish you’d said ‘Yes’ when you’re old and ugly.
  Or was it Oscar Wilde put it that way?  Whichever, the sentiment was compelling.  I soon discovered that, parked in a close copse of trees with the top up, my lovely new motorcar was a very comfortable little love-nest, and that Cyprian Coe was a
very
talented young man.

*****

On returning to the Hyacinth, I handed the Rolls over to a delighted Pond, who took it around to the garage off Ryder Street, then got in a nice hot bath.  He hadn’t returned by the time I got out, though (had he succeeded so quickly with his garage mechanic?) and so with a whoop of glee I went in and dressed myself for the evening in my smoking jacket — though I must admit, the collar and tie gave me a bit of trouble, I’d quite forgotten how difficult bowties can be.

Whistling a peppy little tune, I practically tapdanced all the way down to the lounge.  I was just
incredibly
happy: I’d had a weekend with Twister, I bought an expensive motorcar, and I dressed myself for the first time in three months.  How could life get any better?

I was so happy that I wanted to have someone to share it with, and was a little let-down that there was no one else in the lounge.  But I ordered champagne anyway, and a tray of Russian caviar, in hopes of snaring a guest or two before dinner.

“May I join you, Lord Foxbridge?” my first comer was an elderly gentleman, medium-sized and extraordinarily nondescript, with a misty sort of face under round steel-rimmed spectacles, whom I’d seen before but never really noticed.

“Delighted,” I responded, gesturing to the next chair and pouring him a glass of Mumm’s.

“Arthur Silenus,” he introduced himself, taking the glass and toasting me with it, “What are we celebrating?”

“Nothing special,” I replied, spooning up some caviar, “I’m just feeling very happy.”

“Happiness is always cause for celebration,” he said with a merry twinkle in his bland gray eyes, putting up a hand to refuse my offer of caviar, “What has become of your wonderful valet?”

“
Become
of?” I was startled by the choice of words, “What do you mean, sir?”

“I merely observe that your tie is somewhat...
slovenly
, if you’ll pardon me.”

“Yes, well, I did my best,” I laughed with relief.  Something about the man put me on alert, like he knew something terrible that I didn’t know.

“I particularly wished to talk to you this evening, Lord Foxbridge” the man’s eyes changed with the subject, becoming quite steely, “I’ve heard from Delagardie that you may begin inquiring into my identity, and I must forestall you.”

“Oh!
You
own Hyacinth House?”

“I am sorry to have stolen the hunt from you,” he smiled, though the steely look didn’t leave his eyes, “But I find your methods a little sloppy.  I suspect that you planned to start airing your question of ownership with the other guests, gauging their reactions until you sensed someone who lied to you. That simply won’t do.”

“How in the world...?” I went from alert to alarm in seconds: he’d anticipated my plan exactly.

“You remind me very much of myself at your age, Sebastian.  May I call you Sebastian?”

“Of course,” I replied, too shocked to refuse.

“Do call me Silenus,” he smiled again, and this time his eyes smiled, too, “It’s not my real name, of course.  But I’m sure you’ve noticed that a title can be as much a burden as a blessing in our line of work.  I’m the son of a duke, you see.  I’m sure you’ll figure out which duke on your own.”

“
Our
line of work?” I was so confused that I was falling behind in the conversation.

“Amateur detection,” he replied, “Though I became a professional later in my career, for His Majesty’s Government.  I started out much like yourself, beautiful and charming with too much money and time on my hands, an obsessive curiosity and a clever mind — but sadly lacking in finesse and foresight, and absolutely no comprehension of human nature.”

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” I breathed out when the import of this sunk in.

“I appear to have shocked you, Sebastian,” he went so far as to grin.

“You must tell me
everything
,” I finally choked out, moving up to the edge of my seat.  If there was something I was
really
missing in my life, it was a mentor.  I’d never had an older, experienced man of the world take any interest in me beyond my body, my father had pointedly ignored me most of my life, and I had no uncles or even a godfather growing up.  Mr. Silenus could teach me what he knew, could mould me into the great detective I dreamed of being.

“All in good time, dear boy,” he stood up and smoothed the front of his old velvet smoking jacket.  I didn’t even notice it until he touched the lapels, it was the same muddy gray as his eyes and hair.  He was the colour of a city pigeon, really: if you weren’t speaking to him, it would be very easy to not see him.

“If not
every
thing, at least tell me
some
thing?” I stood up with him, unwilling to let him get away from me.

“Of course, but why don’t you come dine with me?  Such tales are better accompanied by claret than champagne.”

We went down to the dining room and were shown to a table in the corner; the staff didn’t treat him any differently than anyone else, no special deference was paid to him, so I supposed Delagardie was the only one who knew that Mr. Silenus owned the hotel.  Or, conversely, they
knew
, but treated everyone with the same deference due their employer.  After all, the service at Hyacinth House really
was
as good as, or better than, the Ritz or Claridge’s.

“So tell me,” I opened the conversation when the oysters came on, “What inspired you to buy Hyacinth House?”

“I already owned the house,” he said while sprinkling the lemon juice, “It was built by one of my ancestors, and has since come down through the family as part of the younger sons’ portion.  When the club that operated here went belly-up during the War, I decided to not lease it out again, and take it for my own home.”

“Do you have a family?” I wondered. I couldn’t imagine anyone living alone in a mansion of that size.

“No.  Barring the occasional guest, I’ve always been a solitary creature.  I simply had a fancy for living in august grandeur like my ancestors, waited on hand and foot by a platoon of male servants.  This house was
built
as a bachelor’s residence, if you can believe it.  Things were very different under the early Georges.”  

“Indeed,” I agreed, “My ancestors lived rather large in those days, too.”

“It was very pleasant, I must say.  But I retired from Government after we settled all the little messes that attended on the end of the War,” he smiled a secret sort of smile over some private memory, “And then I got very bored very quickly.  So I decided to take in lodgers, after a fashion.  All of the residents and visitors here are hand-picked, you know.”

“Even me?” I wondered, “I made the reservation myself.”

“Even you,” he smirked a little, “How did you hear about Hyacinth House, do you remember?”

“Chap at the Lionheart outside Oxford told me about it.”

“A big athletic sort of chap?  Wavy red-gold hair, green eyes, beautiful in that inimitable Irish way but just about to go to seed?  Calls himself Barry?”

“Your agent?” I marveled at the cleverness of it.  I
had
wondered how something as outrageous as a queer luxury hotel in the middle of Clubland could have gone unnoticed by society or the police for so long, and yet enough people knew about the Hyacinth to keep it tenanted.

“One of several. In my days at Whitehall, I found it very useful to gather very personal and private information about people in high life, such as yourself, and many of the other gentlemen who live here.  Homosexuality, as the Germans so indelicately call our persuasion, makes a man vulnerable; and it has been my business to know the weaknesses of everyone of any importance.  A habit of a lifetime, I’m afraid: I no longer need the information for my work, but I do like having it.”

“Was that why you let the Marquis live here?  Despite his abuses of the staff, and the awful things he was doing to innocent kids like Melinda Cumming?” I felt myself becoming angry, “Just because he gave you other people’s secrets?” 

“I
should
be very cross with you, or rather your man Pond, for that police raid.  The Marquis was indeed
very
useful to me.” 

“But poor Melinda,” I hadn’t felt a moment’s pity for Claude once I saw how he was enjoying himself, but Melinda Cumming was so horribly shy and timid, the experience must have utterly shattered her.  I expected to hear any day that she’d been sent to a nursing home in the country.

“It was certainly unpleasant for her, but I think you’ll find it brings her out of her shell somewhat.  Being auctioned naked in front of strangers might make it much less frightening to stand up to her bully of a father.  And having Hector Cumming in my pocket will be
very
useful in the future.  Not to mention all the auction guests I got out of chokey before their names hit the presses, they have
substantially
increased my fund of favors owed.”