Lord Foxbridge Butts In (3 page)

“Will you allow me to
get
to know you better?” I asked, turning up the seductive tone a notch or two.

“Instinct tells me you’re going to get me into a lot of trouble,” he sighed, shaking his head.

“But you’re not saying ‘No,’” I grinned at him as the cab crept up to the kerb outside and stopped, “I’ll invite you to dinner, with Bunny as chaperon, perhaps another like-minded friend or two for company.  I’ll wear you down, just you wait.”

“I’m in the book,” he said over his shoulder, “Ring me up and we’ll see.  Cheerio!”

“Toodle-pip,” I replied, adopting a thoughtful stance as I watched the black taxicab carry him away to parts unknown.  I wanted him more than anyone I’d ever wanted before, and I was much accustomed to getting what I wanted.  But a police detective with a reputation to guard was a tricky proposition, and I’d have to proceed with great care.

Returning to the Hyacinth, I stopped into the library on the ground floor to consult
Debrett’s Baronetage
and see what I could learn about Twister.  But his entry contained little I didn’t already know, only adding the nugget that he was the fifteenth baronet of his line (indicating that either the title was very old or that it ran through incumbents at an alarming rate) and giving his addresses as Holmesham Manor in Cheshire and 12B Craven Street, SW1.  It did not list his profession, and he belonged to no clubs.

He of course was referring to the
other
‘book’ when he told me to ring him, so I looked him out in the telephone directory, jotting the number on the back of the card he’d given me. 

With a great deal to think about, I wandered into the bar upstairs, which occupied an alcove at the inside end of the lounge — the effect of Bunny’s newfangled cocktails was wearing off too fast, and I needed to let myself down a little more gently, so ordered a large brandy and soda, settling into an armchair for a good long think.

As I sat lost in thought, the room started to fill up with guests, and a waiter emerged to make his rounds; I ordered another b.ands. when he came my way, and put off the rest of my thinking for another time.  With a start, I realized that someone was sitting right next to me — I hadn’t heard him nor seen him until I’d ordered my drink.

“Hullo!” I greeted the man with delighted surprise.

“Hello, yourself,” he replied, smirking at me in a way that I felt from my eyes to my toes, and all points between.  He was a very handsome gentleman, American by his accent and dress, about forty and quite distinguished with salt-and-pepper hair and a bronzed skin.

“Viscount Foxbridge,” I introduced myself, sticking my hand out over the arms of our separate chairs.

“Morris Pollitt,” he shook my hand in a manly grip that went soft and caressing halfway through, “And what’s your
real
name, Viscount?”

“You want the whole thing, or the pocket version?”

“Surprise me,” he purred.  Actually
purred
, like a jungle cat. 

“Sebastian Albert Savarell Saint-Clair, Viscount Foxbridge by courtesy.  But you can call me Foxy.”

“Quite a mouthful,” he remarked, quirking an eyebrow at me.  The man was absolutely
seductive
. 

“So I’ve been told,” I quirked an eyebrow right back.

“How come I haven’t met you before, Foxy?  I’ve been here over a month.”

“I just arrived this morning.  Are you making a long stay?”

“I leave first thing tomorrow,” he said wistfully, looking at my mouth rather than my eyes, “Ships that pass in the night, as they say.”

“It’s not night
yet
,” I reached out and laid my hand on his wrist, caressing the back of his hand with my thumb.  I’d nearly forgotten that I wasn’t
at
Brooks’s, I was at Hyacinth House, and nobody would bat an eye at a little display of the courting dance among men.

“Would you join me for dinner?” he smiled a smile of victory, knowing then that he had me.

“Dinner’s not for hours and hours,” I stood up and nodded at the door, “Why don’t I join you now?”

“Say, you’re not one of those
fast
boys, are you?” he laughed, standing up so close to me that I could feel his breath on my face with the last word.

“Only at first,” I assured him, “I slow down after the first lap.  I’d love to see your room.”

But this isn’t going to be
that
kind of story, so I shall leave you here in the lounge while I privately remember the very festive afternoon, evening, and night that followed.  I’ll just say that a good time was had by all, and move along to the next chapter.

*****

I woke up rather disoriented, my groggy brain scrambling to remember where I was; though I’m not
entirely
unaccustomed to waking up in strange beds, that first moment of opening one’s eyes on an unfamiliar vista is always a bit of a jar.

But once I realized that I was in my own bed, in my own room, in my own
very
grown-up hotel suite, I was filled with a smug kind of joy. It was my first whole night in this new room, having spent the one night with the American chap and not returning to my own rooms until he’d departed for the boat train, when I dashed down some breakfast and took a nap on the sofa before setting out to explore the town; the next night was spent at a hotel in Prince Albert Road with another new friend, whom I met in the Zoological Gardens at Regent’s Park.

It was barely two minutes after I opened my eyes that Pond drifted into the room with a cup and saucer on a silver tray. His frantic behavior of two days before was gone now that we were settled in, and his demeanor was so serene and quiet, like a carp floating about in an ornamental pool, that I found it restful just to have him in the room with me.

“Will you be breakfasting in bed, my lord?” he asked as he handed me a cup of hot black coffee.

I’d become addicted to the stuff some years back, and could no longer bear tea in the morning — it was just too mild, and I needed the jolt that shakes off the cobwebs of sleep one only gets from strong coffee. It made me a little unpopular with hostesses, creating more work for their servants when I stayed with them, and my scout at Oxford flatly refused to have anything to do with the stuff; so I bought myself a wonderful German electric coffee-pot and brewed my own coffee in my room. Pond had not been thrilled when I showed him how the machine worked, but he’d accepted this quirk in my habits with good grace and had mastered the precise ratio of ground beans to fresh water without difficulty.

“No, I think I’ll get up,” I wriggled backward to lean against the pillows before taking the cup, “But I won’t get dressed yet. I’ll have my breakfast in the sitting-room.”

“Very good, my lord,” he replied, floating back out of the room after laying my dressing gown across the foot of my bed.

I didn’t generally sleep in pajamas, especially in the summer, and had kicked off most of the covers in the night; I had little reserve about being unclothed around other men, but was mostly accustomed to the
other
men being unclothed as well — being the only exposed person in a given situation makes one feel rather an ass. But in just three days I’d become so accustomed to Pond’s presence that I didn’t really notice the difference in our states of dress: it was wonderfully like being alone, but with the things I needed magically appearing whenever I needed them.

Nevertheless, I did put on my dressing-gown before venturing forth into the sitting-room. Being nude in a bedroom or a bathroom is one thing, no different than being nude in a Turkish bath or a secluded lake; but being nude in a sitting-room is simply uncivilized. Besides, my dressing gown was a thing of sumptuous beauty, lilac watered silk on the outside and mulberry
peau de soie
on the inside, with silver cord piping and my family crest embroidered in silver thread over the left breast — it would be a
crime
to not wear it.

I was a little taken aback that my lovely chromium coffee-pot was not on the table; Pond considered it too utilitarian an article for a gentleman’s sitting-room, I suppose, and had decanted the needful brew into a silver pot with a candle underneath to keep it hot. It was a much nicer piece of silver than one usually sees in hotels and restaurants, elegantly unembellished and of impressive quality, as was the silver box which Pond had filled with my cigarettes. The ivory porcelain cup and saucer, now that I came to notice them, were awfully pretty, too: eggshell-thin and rimmed in gold.

“Pond?” I asked when he returned a few minutes later with my breakfast tray, “Is this the hotel’s silver? It’s awfully nice.”

“This is your lordship’s silver,” Pond set the tray down on a sideboard and began transferring the plates and glasses onto the table, where a charger, flatware, and napery were already laid out, “The hotel’s servingware was not up to an appropriate standard.”

“I have my own
silver
? Since when?”

“I took the liberty of purchasing the necessary items yesterday afternoon, when I discovered that the hotel had nothing better than what was sent up with yesterday’s breakfast.”

“But where did it come from?” I pursued, lifting my cup and saucer over my head so I could read the Royal Worcester mark on the bottom.

“I purchased everything at Asprey in Bond Street, my lord,” Pond made miniscule adjustments to the placement of plates and forks until everything was arranged to his satisfaction, “I opened an account on your lordship’s behalf with the letter of credit you provided me for household expenses. If you wish, I can exchange the pieces.”

“Asprey!” I goggled at the riches laid before me, bought from His Majesty’s own jewelers and silversmiths, “We
are
grand, aren’t we?”

“Is your lordship displeased with the purchase?” Pond asked me with a note of asperity in his voice.

“No, not at all,” I hastened to correct the misapprehension, “I’m deeply impressed. We don’t even have this nice of silver at Foxbridge. Aunt Emily would be pea-green with envy!”

“I am glad your lordship is pleased,” Pond allowed himself the tiniest glimmer of a smile as he bowed his way out of the Presence.

“Thrilled, more like,” I said to myself, then lifted the opulent silver cover off of my opulent gilt-edged plate to reveal a brace of poached eggs on toast with a rasher of bacon, “I really
am
a millionaire, aren’t I? This is going to be
such
fun.”

I demolished my breakfast in short order, then poured myself a third cup of coffee and lit a cigarette, putting my feet up on the other chair and reveling in my new surroundings. I read the morning paper, or rather glanced over its columns until some-thing might catch my eye; but nothing did, so I got up and went over to the window, opening it wide and leaning out to see what my little square of sky was looking like.

“Good morning,” came a richly accented voice from across the courtyard. I looked over in some surprise, as one does not expect to be addressed through a window in Town; perhaps they do things differently in Poland. It was Count Gryzynsky who’d called out, standing in his window opposite, quite nude. I had thought myself brazen for sleeping without pajamas; but the Count, whose nakedness was completely visible to anyone in the back part of the building, even in the winter-garden below, was so brazen that the word ‘brazen’ just wasn’t strong enough.

“Good morning,” I replied after a long moment, having to recover from the combined shock of being spoken to across a courtyard like an Italian
and
getting a good look at a rather spectacular physical feature the Count possessed which would have been hidden by trousers.

“You are a late riser, I see.”

“I suppose so,” I admitted, “I don’t even know what time it is. It’s
heaven
not having to be anywhere at any particular time.”

“I find it very depressing,” he said with a great deal of seriousness, which was rather undermined by his accent: the way he said ‘
werry deprressink
’ made me smile, “It means I have no work.”

“I’ve been told you’re touring,” I leaned against my windowsill.

“Touring, yes; working, not so much,” he shrugged his magnificent shoulders. His torso was beautifully muscled, rather bulkier than other dancers I’d seen; but then I’d never seen a ballet dancer any closer up than the dress circle before, “A dancer without a troupe is a difficult act to put on a bill. Your English music halls have little appreciation for the solo
artiste
.”

“Perhaps you could find another troupe?” I suggested, admiring the way his dark hair curled up at the ends, giving him a lovely Grecian look. It was very like talking to an animated statue of Antinoüs, with his undraped form and his curly mane and his lush handsomeness.

“I am too old, they say,” he shrugged again, a tragic acceptance, “I have too much experience, they say. I cannot be integrated into a troupe, they say.”