Lord Foxbridge Butts In (26 page)

“You have a point,” he conceded, “But you can rely on me to provide for that side of things.  If you find another body, or uncover any kind of crime, you can come directly to me for advice and assistance.”

“That’s awfully good of you,” I was touched by the offer, then had a sobering thought, “What about Brigham? Won’t he be suspicious?”

“Brigham knows about me, now,” Twister looked into the bottom of his glass, frowning with discomfort, “I’m afraid I gave myself away when I was hunting for you these last four days. Anyone with eyes could see I was more emotionally involved than I should have been.  And my reaction when we found you was pretty obvious.”

“Does he seem to mind?”

“No, which rather surprised me.  But he has cautioned me to maintain discretion. If it got around the Yard, he’d have to take official notice.”

“Going back to a previous point, though,” the very interesting admission of his emotional involvement reasserted itself over my concern for his career, “Does Brigham think you’re in love with me?”

“Didn’t I say so?” he smiled warmly, but his eyes were sad.

“
Are
you in love with me?” I needled him with a coy smirk.

“Oh, Foxy, don’t ask questions like that.  It’s impossible.”

“But I’m in love with you, too,” this moment was not going at all how I’d thought it would — I always assumed a profession of love on both sides would either precede, or coincide with, us being in bed together, not sitting tense and strained in opposite chairs, “Why is it impossible?”

“Count Gryzynsky, Professor Beran, and Gabriel, for a start.  And I have a feeling there are more I don’t know about.”

“Oh,” I answered shortly, dumbfounded at my own foolishness: trying to spark his possessiveness, I just made him think me a trollop, “I didn’t think that mattered among men.”

“It usually doesn’t, among men.  And maybe it shouldn’t for me,” he shrugged and resumed examining the bottom of his now-empty glass, “But it
does
matter to me.  I can’t be one in a series.  And besides that, it’s a question of discretion.  I can’t spend nights away from home, nor have someone spending nights in my rooms.  I can’t be seen in the company of the same friend all the time.  These things get around, and I can’t risk my career.  It’s just not possible for us, Foxy.”

“We could
find
a way,” I insisted, “We could take rooms in the same house.  Hell, I could
buy
a house, and you could be my lodger.  I’ll buy
two
houses back to back and build a secret passage in a wardrobe.  I’ll give up my amorous adventures.  I’ll join the Metropolitan Police, if you want.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” he seemed touched by my outburst but was still just as stolid in his denial, “Or, you
would
, but it would make you unhappy.  We’re just too different, Foxy.  I love you, but I can’t see us living together.  It wouldn’t work.”

“Well, I’ll have to change your mind about that,” I could be just as stubborn as he, if I wanted, “What do we do in the meantime?”

“Just what we’re doing now,” he shook his head in mock exasperation, “You poke your nose in where it doesn’t belong, and I come to the rescue when your nose gets smacked with a rolled newspaper.  And we can have tea sometimes, if business brings me to St. James’s or you find yourself at a loose end near the Embankment.”

“I shall take to haunting my father in Parliament, then,” I grinned happily: he was still going to let me see him; and the more I saw him, the more opportunities I’d have to change his mind, “And then come to you for a soothing cup to balm my shattered feelings.”

“Not too often, though, if you don’t mind.  Your appearance is too remarkable, I don’t want my colleagues noticing a pretty red-headed viscount as a fixture in my office.”

“I’ll limit myself to Wednesdays and alternate Fridays, with exceptions for any appearance of dead bodies,” I went to my desk to make a show of writing that in my calendar, then noticed that summer was almost over, “The Season is ending in a few weeks.  I’m planning to have some parties at Foxbridge in the autumn.  Would you come if I invited you?”

“If my work allows the time,” he said, getting up to refill his drink and passing close behind me at the desk, “I seldom even get up to Holmesham any more.  I’m thinking I ought to let it, instead of leaving it to sit empty most of the year.  We don’t keep banker’s hours at the Yard.  Now, before I go, I need to get your statement.  If I come back empty-handed after spending this much time with you, Brigham will draw untoward conclusions.”

“We could always make his conclusions...
toward
,” I flirted, nodding toward the bedroom door.

“But we won’t,” he took up his pad and pencil, and gave me a thoroughly quelling stare, “Start from when you left my office and relate everything that happened since then.”

With a heavy sigh of defeat, I dropped down onto the sofa and told him everything — omitting only the precise manner of my farewell to Stan — which didn’t take very long.  He scribbled it all down, then went over to my desk to write it out longhand, which he asked me to sign.  I even put my seal on it in red wax, though Twister insisted it wasn’t necessary, just to annoy Brigham.

And then I kissed Twister.  I didn’t flirt, I didn’t ask, I just slid right up to him and wrapped my arms around his chest, attaching myself to his face like a barnacle.  He stiffened at first, but then relaxed into it and kissed me back.  But he is made of sterner stuff than I, and though I could feel his body responding to me, he broke off after a few blissful moments, firmly pushing me away with his hand over my mouth.

“Damn it, Foxy,” he gasped out, “You’re not making this easy for me.”

“I don’t mean to,” I said with a little bit of an edge to my manner as I stepped away from him and turned to face the wall so he couldn’t see how excited I’d become, “You’re not making it easy for me, either.”

“We can’t be friends if you keep on like this,” he warned, taking up his hat and coat.

“I think I’ll go to Foxbridge Castle tomorrow,” I said, making it up on the spot but seeing the wisdom of it as soon as I said it, “I think I need to get away from the city before I find any more corpses.  And before I forget I’m a gentleman and do something unforgivable.”

“I’ll always forgive you,” he surprised me by stepping up behind me and taking me in his arms, kissing the back of my head, “But maybe we
should
spend some time apart to cool off.  Goodnight, sweet Foxy.”

He was gone before I could come up with a tart reply, so I sat down and had a good cry instead.  I should have been thrilled that I finally had something I wanted, a declaration of Twister’s love; but I wanted more.  I wanted him in my bed, and in my life; and yet, I didn’t want
only
him.  He was right about me in that respect: I didn’t really see a future with him as my only playmate for the rest of my life; I wanted to go on adventuring, I wanted to experience all there was to be experienced.

So in essence, I wanted two mutually exclusive solutions for the same problem.  I’m not so silly as to believe I can really have it both ways, so I would have to make a choice.

But I didn’t have to make the choice right away, we’d left a door open just a crack between us.  And if Twister came down some weekend in the autumn, without Brigham or the Yard watching his every move, maybe we could negotiate a mutually amenable arrangement.

A trip to Foxbridge Castle was just the thing: I could get out of London and away from Twister, see what needed doing to the house, and beef up the the staff, in preparation for a series of house-parties.  That would certainly keep me occupied for a bit.

*****
 

“I am freighted with foreboding, Pond,” I remarked, taking my coffee-cup from his tray.

“My lord?” he busied himself with my discarded clothes from the previous evening.

“I’m invited to lunch with Lady Caroline Chatroy today at Buckland House,” I explained, “The first time she asked me to lunch, I couldn’t go because I found a body across the courtyard; the next time she invited me, I ended up cooling my heels in a cellar in Soho. I fear that Fate is about to slip me another Mickey any minute.”

“Third time lucky, my lord?” he suggested encouragingly.

“Well, I’m not taking
any
chances,” I pronounced, pulling the coverlet up under my chin for emphasis, “I’m staying right here until it’s time to dress. I will not read the newspapers and I am not at home to visitors or telephone calls.”

“Very good, my lord,” Pond retreated with my clothes and his tray, “I’ll bring breakfast here, and save the
Times
for your lordship’s tea.”

“Thanks, Pond,” I snuggled down under the coverlet with my coffee, settling myself in for a good long laze.

I don’t think I’d ever
tried
to stay in bed for a whole morning before, certainly not alone at any rate; it was fun at first, eating my breakfast and then reading a book while sipping my coffee, but I got bored after a while. I got up and had my bath, making an unusually thorough job of it, and spent a good deal of time brushing my hair in different styles; I was quite taken with a looser arrangement that made use of the curl instead of fighting it. A
little
effeminate, perhaps, but very flattering.

To kill a little more time, I made an attempt to dress myself by tip-toeing back into the bedroom and opening the wardrobe as quietly as I could; it was harder than I’d thought it would be, as I had no idea where Pond had put anything in the drawers, and opening each one as silently as a cat-burglar was rather time-consuming. I only got as far as putting on my own trousers before Pond caught me.

Once he’d finished dressing me in my tennis whites and a blue blazer, it was late enough that I could set off without arriving too early; the weather was glorious, and I turned my steps to Knightsbridge with a jaunty step, my straw boater tilted to a rakish angle and my malacca stick twirling loosely at my side.

When Buckland House was built, in the middle of the eighteenth century, Knightsbridge was all open space with a line of stately villas on six-acre plots facing Hyde Park; but when Society moved east to Mayfair in the early days of Victoria’s reign, and Knightsbridge was developed into blocks of flats and huge department stores, the eighth Duke of Buckland rather eccentrically stayed put.

The eighth, ninth, and tenth Duchesses chafed at the unfashionable locale; but by the end of the nineteenth century, when all of London was covered in the smoke and soot of Industry, the value of a large and airy London mansion in six acres of private lawns and gardens rose quite a bit. Invitations to Buckland House in the summer, especially on hot days, became a luxury for which all Society competed: the eleventh Duchess was one of the most popular women in Town, despite being a frightful termagant, and the current (much more attractive and charming) twelfth Duchess was practically applauded when she entered a drawing-room.

I turned in at the gatehouse when I reached the place, surprising the porter a little — the forecourt was cluttered with jaunty motorcars, I must have been the only one to arrive on foot. I was admitted at the front door and escorted through to the terrace by a very good-looking footman; when I emerged from the house into the light, Lady Caroline came bounding over to me, throwing her arms around my neck and crying out loudly in delight.

“Foxy! You actually
made
it!” she exclaimed.

“Third time lucky,” I stole Pond’s line as I kissed her cheek formally, “I have a little gift for you.”

“Oh! How sweet of you!” she took the gaily wrapped box, held it to her ear to shake it, and passed it on to the lingering footman, “I’ll open it later when there’s less of a mob. What will you have to drink? Cecie makes a delicious martini.”

“Some champagne would be lovely,” I opted for the least potent beverage on the trays that were circulating on the shoulders of waiters, “Bit early in the day for gin.”

“Don’t be a stick, Foxy. How do you like my frock?” she stepped back and modeled it for me, striking a dramatic pose. It was made up of gossamer ribbons that swirled around her like a pink-and-white mist, caught at the hips with a flower-embroidered sash.  She also wore sheer white gloves and a vast sunhat fluttering with silk sweet-peas.

“I like you better in tails,” I said very quietly.

“Pervert,” she winked and slid up against me, taking possession of my arm, “Come out and meet the gang.”

The ‘gang’ was almost all known to me, though I’d only actually
met
a few of them. Lady Caroline had been flirting around the edges of the Bright Young Things, and many of her guests that afternoon I’d seen in the illustrated papers over the last couple of years. The ‘Cecie’ she mentioned was Cecil Beaton, and the Jungman sisters were also there, but the rest of the crew were the smaller fry of that set, none of whose names I remembered when I got home that night to record the party in my diary. Then there was a smaller, quieter cadre of the young nobility and gentry with whom I was already acquainted, enjoying the show put on by the exhibitionists without becoming fully involved with their antics.

But it was a very entertaining afternoon, sitting down to a delicious luncheon served in a classical temple that stood guard in the center of a rose-garden, followed by dancing on the terrace with a gramophone, playing lawn-tennis and croquet, and milling about in between. The conversation was fun but not memorable, and I was set upon by some very attractive young men who flirted outrageously in front of everyone as if we were all at the Green Parrot or some similar venue. I had a very good time, but when people started gathering themselves together to leave, Lady Caroline pulled me back and told me to wait for her in the library.

“I thought they’d
never
go,” she gasped dramatically when she came in and pushed the door closed behind her, “I feel the need to bathe in salt water after spending three hours with those people.”

“Why do you have them, if you don’t like them?” I wondered.

“They’re part of my Lady Caroline image,” she shrugged, coming farther into the room and taking a cigarette from the box on the table, waiting for me to light it for her, “They’re most of them all right when you get them alone, but in a bunch they’re exhausting. All that high-pitched chatter and trying so hard to shock people. Half those boys who were flirting with you aren’t even queer, it’s just a silly game they play.”

“Oh! That’s rather disappointing,” I frowned. I hoped the one I had made a date with for later in the week
was
queer, “But why do you bother? The frilly socialite image, I mean?”

“I find it
deeply
satisfying,” she admitted, draping herself elegantly into an armchair, “to be the ultra-feminine  débutante sometimes and then to be the rakish Charley other times.”

“When are you just
you
?” I asked, settling into the opposite chair.

“I don’t know,” she answered after a thoughtful pause, “I don’t know who
just me
is. I enjoy my roles so much, it never occurs to me that I should have an identity aside from them. When are
you
just you?”

“I’m pretty much always myself,” I smiled, “I tried playing a role once, and it didn’t suit me.”

“What role did you play?” she asked.

“Miranda, in
The Tempest
,” I felt my face redden just a bit, “at Eton.”

“I’ll bet you looked gorgeous,” she leaned forward, “I can see you being very convincing.”

“A little
too
convincing,” I frowned, remembering how embarrassing it had been, having the other boys make so much of me when I was in costume and teasing me relentlessly when I wasn’t. And more than one boy asked me to wear my costume
for
him, in private, so he could pretend I was a girl and have his way with me. I’m afraid it resulted in a number of fistfights, but I’m glad to say I won most of them.

“I’d like to see it,” she said, getting up suddenly and pulling me to my feet, “Come with me.”

“You’d like to see
what
?” I tried to free myself, but she just went on tugging my arm so painfully I had to follow her, across the hall and up two flights of stairs to her bedroom. With a surprising amount of strength, she tossed me into an armchair and rang for her maid, then went over to her dressing-table to start assembling her pots and brushes, “What are you up to?”

“You’ve seen
me
in drag,” she said very reasonably, “I want to see
you
.”

“But that’s different,” I protested, “You
like
being in drag. I hated every minute of it.”

“Oh, but that was at Eton, when you were a kid,” she dismissed my protest with a cavalier wave, “Unsure of your sexuality and surrounded by filthy boys? Of
course
you hated it. But this will be fun. Trust me. Oh, Partridge, would you go get out my blue beaded gown? The Worth? And I’ll need your help with his hair.”

“Yes, my lady,” the elegantly slim but remarkably pug-faced young woman curtseyed and scurried into the dressing-room next door.

“Wait a minute!” I was scandalized — it was bad enough that I was going to be made to wear a dress, but to have a strange woman witnessing my shame?

“Stop fighting me,” she came over and sat in my lap, draping her arms around my shoulders and kissing me on the nose, “I want to see how pretty you can be. Do this
one
little thing for me.”

“Oh, all right,” I relented, unsettled by how erotic her closeness was.

“Good boy!” she pinched my cheek and got up, just as her maid returned with the blue beaded Worth gown. It was an exquisite confection, glittering scalloped panels of soft Prussian blue chiffon that I knew at a glance would flatter my coloring perfectly. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, “Now get out of your clothes, I don’t want to get powder on them.”

“You expect me to sit around in my skivvies in front of your maid?” it was my afternoon for being shocked.

“Partridge won’t mind, will you, Partridge?”

“No, my lady,” Partridge looked at me as if I were an inanimate object; this woman could give Pond lessons on deadpan.

“What if
I
mind?”

“Stop being such a baby, Foxy,” Lady Caroline stamped her foot impatiently, then yanked me out of my chair and started pulling at my clothes. No stranger to getting in and out of a gentleman’s garb, she had me down to my socks and shorts before I could get away from her, “There, now. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, you’ve a lovely physique.”

“So I’ve been told,” I gave up the struggle and settled down on the little stool in front of the dressing table, presenting my hair to Partridge’s care and my face to Lady Caroline’s, “I never thought I’d meet a girl as pushy and impatient as I am.”

“That’s
the
sweetest thing a boy has
ever
said to me,” she kissed me again, then started wiping my face with a silk handkerchief, preparatory to applying some sort of creamy substance and then fluffing powder all over me until I sneezed. It was very different from the stage-makeup I’d worn during my Shakespearean turn, much lighter and very nice-smelling.

She didn’t speak at all as she concentrated on my face, and Partridge was completely silent as she pulled out my curls and arranged them in a poodle-like pile on top of my head. So of course I felt the need to fill the silence, and kept up a steady stream of chatter about my experience as Miranda, what the costume was like and how terrible an actor I turned out to be. Lady Caroline laughed politely, but wasn’t really paying attention, as apparently making up someone’s face required the concentration of a surgeon.

“Oh, but you’re lovely!” she finally exclaimed when she’d finished, stepping back to examine her handiwork, “But don’t look yet, you need some jewelry. Partridge, get my garnets, and the diamond aigrette. Come on, Foxy, lets get you into some stockings and a slip.”

The stockings felt lovely going on, cool and soft and smooth, as did the silk slip; ladies’ underclothing is so much more sensuous than men’s. Lady Caroline helped me into the gown, holding it open so I could step into it, then sliding the straps up over my shoulders. The thing fit me rather tighter than it was meant to do, especially around the chest; for though I was quite lissome for a young man, I wasn’t
quite
as slim as Lady Caroline.

Partridge returned with the jewels, and Lady Caroline put them on me, screwing the earrings into my lobes while the maid fastened the necklace; the earrings were shockingly uncomfortable, pinching the lobes cruelly, I don’t know how ladies wear them all night long. But then I was introduced to the agony of high-heeled shoes, which were a bit too small for me; though it seemed that they would have hurt even if they did fit, forcing the foot into an unnatural arch. I guess the discomfort of earrings and shoes balanced out the pleasure of the silken underthings.