Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (29 page)

“Where lies the truth? Has man in wisdom's creed a pitiable doom?” Milton replied, sighing deeply.

“I could not have put it better myself, Mr. Isaacs.”

“Nor Wordsworth.” Rowland wondered fleetingly why the poet had not yet quoted Milton, before his thoughts returned to the elaborate fabrication of Ethel Bruce.

“There is just one other thing,” Ethel added quite guiltily now. “I may have intimated that, though Australian, the woman now calling herself Edna Higgins was the wife of a very senior member of the Nazi government… though I refused to disclose his name.”

For a moment nobody said anything, unsure what to make of Ethel Bruce's extraordinary tale. The wife of the former Australian Prime Minister extracted an exquisitely illuminated card from her handbag and presented it to Rowland.

He cast his eyes over the florid script: an invitation from Lady Winslow-Scott to Rowland Sinclair and his guest to a private soirée that evening, with an apology for the lack of notice. Apparently Lady Winslow-Scott had only just been informed that he was in London and, being a great admirer of his work, she would be delighted if he'd attend. He handed it to Edna.

“Where exactly does Lady Winslow-Scott believe she's seen my work?”

“Oh, the Louvre. I told her everybody who knows anything about art will remember your revolutionary exhibition at the Louvre.”

Edna took a deep breath. “Ethel, you are simply wonderful!” she said. She paused as an obstacle occurred to her. “Does Mr. Bruce know we'll be coming too?”

“Stanley? My hat, no! Stanley doesn't approve of Vera or her set. He could not, and would not, be seen at one of Vera's parties—they can be quite wild affairs.” She looked sternly at Rowland. “You will need to guard Edna quite jealously, Mr. Sinclair. If not for the fact that this woman, Simpson, will be in attendance, I would never suggest you go.”

Edna laughed. “You mustn't be concerned, Ethel—we've all been to the odd wild affair. We've thrown one or two.”

Ethel glowed happily. “I thought as much, dear.”

T
he Winslow-Scotts resided in one of the great houses on the northern side of Piccadilly: immense, elegant and overtly fashionable. It had been built with an assumption that its inhabitants would entertain in a style and on a scale that was grand. With its street façade set right against the pavement, there was no driveway to speak of and the street was congested with the vehicles of arriving
guests. Rowland stepped out of the Bruces' Rolls Royce and offered Edna his hand.

Once again, the sculptress wore her black velvet gown, with diamonds borrowed from Ethel Bruce, and a wrap of Chinese brocade. Her hair had been crimped and twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck.

She swung her legs out of the cabin first, unfurling and emerging like some beautiful exotic butterfly. Rowland smiled. Edna was already playing her part—the mysterious adulteress who had run away with her lover. His role would be easy, natural—a man bewitched.

He wore white tie and tails. The shirt was Milton's, as his own had acquired a smear of vermilion at some point. It was not something that would have normally bothered Rowland, but Ethel Bruce had impressed upon them the exacting style that would be expected at the Winslow-Scotts' soirée.

“Ready?” Rowland whispered.

Edna nodded. “Of course.” She brushed down his lapel. “Shall we turn some heads then?”

They were admitted into the house by a footman who announced their arrival, and ushered them to a receiving line at the anteroom adjoining the lavish ballroom. Footmen bearing silver trays laden with flutes of champagne wove among those who had already arrived and a string and brass ensemble played from one of the internal balconies at least thirty feet above the parquetry floors. They were greeted by Lord Winslow-Scott, a tall broad man with a waxed moustache, who informed Rowland that most people called him “Great Scott” and invited the Australian to do likewise. Lady Winslow-Scott fussed over Rowland like he was a dear friend of long-standing. She dragged him off to ask his opinion of a painting
she had just acquired for the dining room while her husband introduced Edna to other guests.

Rowland looked back to the sculptress, remembering Ethel Bruce's warning. Edna blew him a kiss.

The painting was a piece by Sickert—an urban landscape as opposed to the confronting nudes through which Rowland had come to know and love the artist's work. Still, the masterly handling of light and mood, the sense of moment was very much Sickert.

Rowland was careful to appear unimpressed—polite but underwhelmed. His lack of enthusiasm only strengthened Lady Winslow-Scott's conviction that he was an artistic genius.

“I must say that I am delighted to have you here, Mr. Sinclair. Some people can be very high-handed about artists, but, as a patron of the arts, I like to consider myself rather more modern than that. I tell you I am determined to have one of your more recent pieces for my drawing room… but I suppose you're not painting a great deal at the moment.” She put her hand gently on the sling. “How tremendously frustrating it must be for a man of your talent.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It can be a dangerous exercise—rescuing a woman from a jealous brute.” She rubbed his arm, setting the stage for a confidence.

A brief moment of awkwardness. Then Rowland realised that Vera Winslow-Scott had assumed he'd been injured in some kind of duel with Edna's fictional Nazi husband. As she was obviously enamoured of the romantic image, Rowland did not disillusion her. The party was not an intimate affair, and he would have to rely on his hostess to introduce him to Pierrepont's alleged mistress.

“In the end, madam, it was a question of which of us wanted her more. He was less than understanding, which was a pity. The subsequent unpleasantness was unnecessary.”

“Oh, Mr. Sinclair,” Lady Winslow-Scott gasped. “I couldn't agree more. In a modern world these differences can be dealt with politely, without recourse to incivility, let alone violence.”

Lady Winslow-Scott engaged him then in a series of introductions, mostly to and of women—gay, practised socialites who were intrigued by artists if not art itself. In an attempt to avoid having to canvass too many untruths, Rowland maintained a courteous reserve which a few found arrogant, some appealing and others both. It seemed he was making a reasonable impression, one way or another. Between conversations Lady Winslow-Scott would whisper some scandalous titbit about the woman to whom he'd just been introduced.

When Rowland caught sight of Edna again, she was surrounded. He recognised the eager countenances of hopeful men. It was not an unusual sight where the sculptress was concerned. One man seemed particularly confident with his attentions, leaning in and whispering often in her ear.

Rowland excused himself from a conversation with the Baroness Von Flyte and joined them.

“Rowly, darling.” Edna entwined her arm with his. “I thought you'd abandoned me.”

Rowland smiled. “Never.”

Edna introduced the gentlemen who had been keeping her company: a collection of young peers, wealthy industrialists and His Majesty, Prince George. The King's fourth son laughed as she fumbled with protocol, trying to recall who was a lord, who was honourable and who was simply mister.

Rowland was a little surprised to encounter a prince of the realm mingling so informally, but perhaps Vera Winslow-Scott's parties were more exclusive than he had realised.

“It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Royal Highness.” Rowland said, smiling briefly at Edna who, he guessed, had no clue how to address a prince.

“Likewise, Mr. Sinclair. I wondered about the gentleman fortunate enough to claim the affections of this divine creature.”

Edna glanced at Rowland and grimaced.

Prince George seemed in excellent humour, charming and conversational. Curious about Australia, he expressed a desire to explore the far reaches of the Empire. “What has brought you to London, Mr. Sinclair?”

“We were in Germany actually, and found we had to leave rather suddenly.”

“I see,” the prince replied, studying Edna in a way that led Rowland to suspect he had already heard of Ethel Bruce's fictional scandal. “How exceptionally lucky for London.”

His Majesty did not show any signs of moving to another conversation and all but ignored the other gentlemen gathered while he monopolised the Australians over the course of several drinks. He talked to Rowland about his art, of which their hostess had apparently waxed lyrical. Rowland accepted the accolades modestly, knowing Vera Winslow-Scott had never laid eyes on his work. For a time they discussed the burgeoning popularity of the surrealist movement in a conversation that Rowland found surprisingly comfortable and engaging. The prince had a certain dignified flamboyance about him, as if he assumed they were being watched—which of course they were.

Rowland suspected that George, being a man as well as a prince, was as drawn to Edna as any sentient male would be. That in itself he did not mind—it was inevitable. What did irritate him, however, was the brazen manner in which the prince flirted. While Rowland
did not consider himself prudish, there was, he believed, an accepted courtesy between gentlemen. He wondered if it was expected that he would simply step aside for the son of his King. Admittedly, the affair between him and Edna had been fabricated, but Rowland could not help feeling affronted by any man who would blatantly attempt to seduce the sculptress in his presence.

Initially, Edna accepted Prince George's attentions warmly and with good grace, although she occasionally seemed bewildered and at other times amused. She deflected his invitations and laughed off the more forward suggestions.

When finally he proposed a drive in the moonlight, Edna apparently decided enough was enough. “You do realise, sir, that Mr. Sinclair and I are very much in love! Your attentions are unwelcome!”

Rowland, unprepared for so direct a declaration, choked on his champagne.

The prince smiled and once again whispered in Edna's ear.

Rowland's face darkened. “Just a blasted minute…”

Edna reacted even more angrily and in a manner quite unanticipated. She shook off the forward prince, and pressing herself against Rowland, she reached up and kissed him, passionately and without reserve.

He responded unequivocally despite wondering if the world had suddenly gone mad, and not much caring if it had. The sculptress' kiss was searing…in that moment she possessed him completely.

Edna paused the demonstration of her affections only to take the champagne glass from his hand and give it to one of the hapless gaping lords who lingered still. Then she kissed Rowland once more—slowly, sensuously and he forgot he was standing before a Prince of England in a ballroom full of people. Part of him knew there was some reason for her sudden ardour, but God, he wanted it to be real.

Too soon, she pulled away and turned back to Prince George. “I do trust that settles the matter to your satisfaction, sir,” she said hotly. “Rowly, we should dance, don't you agree?”

If Rowland were ever able to refuse the sculptress anything, it was not now.

They joined the couples already on the dance floor. He held her unconventionally to get around the limitation imposed by the plaster cast, but they had always moved well together.

“Oh, Rowly,” she whispered. “I'm so sorry I attacked you like that.”

“Attacked me?”

“I couldn't think of any other way to show him we were together… and he just made me so furious!”

Rowland's jaw tensed—anger, sharpened by a vague, though not unexpected, disappointment. “What did he say to you Ed? I should have punched him in the nose.”

Edna smiled. “His Royal Highness? I suspect they would shoot you for that… and if they didn't, Wilfred might.” She rested her cheek against his lapel as he led her into the turn. “He didn't say anything so terribly awful. Just that he didn't think you had any interest in me whatsoever.”

“Did he, indeed? The man's obviously a flaming idiot.”