Lord Foxbridge Butts In (28 page)

“Oh, Charley gets up to shenanigans in all parts of London, but Lady Caroline wouldn’t be caught dead east of Covent Garden.”

“Speaking of shenanigans,” I changed my tone along with the subject, “I want you to warn your cousin Claude off of that Marquis de Mazan. He’s a bad hat.”

“Louis? But he’s such a
pet
. Claude absolutely dotes on him.”

“Is Claude one of us?” I asked.

“Not so far as I know, but boys will be boys
when
they’re boys. Grecian romances are so fashionable these days.”

“Well, I don’t want him to get hurt, and the Marquis is a devotee of
another
Marquis of some infamy, if you take my meaning.”

“I don’t,” she laughed at me, “But I’ll tell Claude, and I certainly won’t invite him to dinner when you’re coming.”

“That’s fine,” I replied, noting that she didn’t actually say she wouldn’t
have
him to dinner, only that she wouldn’t if I was also invited, “While I have you on the line, I was wondering if you’d prefer the Saint-Clair ring when we announce our engagement, or should I start shopping for something new?”

“What’s the Saint-Clair ring look like?” she asked, practical and to the point.

“It’s an unfaceted ruby, about as big as a quail’s egg, been in the family since the Restoration. Remarkable stone, but ungainly; Mummy had to wear it on a chain, she was always banging it into things if she wore it on her finger.”

“Well, I do have rather large hands, I might be able to carry it off” she mused, “And big cabochons are becoming very popular since Cartier did all those maharajahs’ crown jewels. But if I see something I like better, I’ll let you know.”

“That’s fine. Ring me next time you’re going to the Green Parrot, I’d love to come along.”

“Right-o,” she said in her Charley voice, “Ta, ducky.”

“Ta!” I rang off and sat in thought. It struck me how I’d gone from not intending to get married until after Pater died, to being engaged to become engaged, in a matter of weeks. Life has a funny way of changing one’s mind about things.

After a quick shower, I let Pond put me into white tie and went out to Brooks’s for a drink and maybe supper before hunting up a show to see. It was still fairly early, and the club’s lofty chambers mostly empty, but I came across Bunny Vavasor looking forlorn and lonely in the drawing room, and collared him for company.

“I say, Foxy,” Bunny said after we’d ordered our suppers, “You wouldn’t want to go to the opera tonight, would you?”

“I’m
damned
!” I exclaimed at the coincidence, “I just told a whopper of a lie to get away from a chap, told him I was having an early supper with a friend and then on to the opera. And you’ve made it all come true!”

“You’ve always had the damnedest luck, Foxy,” Bunny wasn’t very surprised by this intelligence, “Too bad you can’t pick a horse for the Derby without it falling down in the straightaway.”

“I still say someone hobbled that nag,” I snorted at the memory of losing a whole quarter’s allowance on a supposed dead cert, two years back, “But that’s neither here nor there.  How do you come to need a companion for the opera? Get stood up?”

“Yes, damn the man. I asked Twister to come, and he accepted; but then some pal of his in the Equerry ragged him about it, so he called me here and begged off at the last minute. Him and his bally
reputation
.”

“Equerry?” I goggled at him, “Are you invited to the Royal Box?”

“Yes I am,” he grinned smugly, “I’ve become rather chummy with Prince George since he’s been home on leave. He asked me to bring an interesting friend, and I can think of no one more interesting than Twister, no offense to yourself. I thought it would do his career a bit of good, too, having a member of the royal family interested in him, but he thinks Prince George is too scandalous for him to associate with.”

“Well, one
does
hear an awful lot of whispers about him,” I could understand Twister being leery of Prince George — he wasn’t entirely comfortable being socially connected to
me
, and there were (as yet) no whispers about me in circulation.

“Many of which are true,” he giggled.

“And Twister doesn’t like surprises. You should have mentioned Prince George in the first place.”

“You seem to know him awfully well,” Bunny looked at me suspiciously.

“Yes, well, we’ve met a few times over the last couple of months,” I shrugged, not sure how much I could tell Bunny without it getting into the rumour-mill, “Purely in a professional capacity.”

“Don’t tell me you’re turning into a rozzer, too!” Bunny looked disgusted.

“Of course not, but I’ve been sort of peripherally involved in some of the cases he’s working on. I’d have told you about it, but it’s supposed to be confidential.”

“Hmph,” he snorted, “Anyway, it’s probably just as well. You’re not such an old stick as Twister has turned into, so the Prince might just
prefer
your company.”

“I’ll do my best to be fascinating,” I promised.

“Well, don’t try
too
hard,” Bunny pouted, “I don’t want to become a third wheel.”

“No worries there, old sock, he’s all yours. Not my type at all.”

“Yes, well, we all have our little preferences, what?”

“
Vive la différence
!” I toasted him.

We finished our suppers and headed out for Covent Garden in a cab, though we had to walk from Long Acre because the taxi couldn’t get any closer in the crush of limousines: it was the last opera of the Season, and a very talked-about piece was on tap, so the house was sold out and invitations to boxes were going at a premium. It was a signal honour to get into the Royal Box on such a night, even though the King and Queen were not present, having gone on to Sandringham for the rest of the summer already.

When we arrived at the box, we were shown to seats well to the back, where conversation would not be interrupted by the opera itself. We were not the first to arrive, but neither of us knew the other people, mostly elderly foreign-looking types, who seemed disinclined to chat; so we busied ourselves by leaning on the rail and perusing the orchestra and audience through our opera-glasses.

Princess Mary turned up shortly after, was intensely but only briefly charming to the elderly foreigners (apparently her guests), nodded regally at me and Bunny, and sat down to immerse herself in the libretto. Prince Henry came in next, a little bit late, with a party of Army officers and attendant ladies; as the ranking royal, he bowed to the audience from the railing (by this time, Bunny and I had retreated to our own seats), and signaled the conductor that he could begin when ready.

When Prince George showed up, a few minutes into the overture, I immediately regretted promising to leave him to Bunny: HRH was considerably more attractive in person than he was in pictures — and in pictures he’s quite good-looking. His eyes in particular were simply
riveting
, when he looked at me I felt like he and I were the only two people in the world.

However, I suspect he looked at everyone like that. And though he did flirt a little, he didn’t seem especially captivated by my conversation; I was just another pretty face, and he soon devoted himself entirely to gossiping with Bunny about people I didn’t know.

Once the opera ground itself into action (
Turandot
...can’t say I saw what all the fuss was about, it was rather bombastic and a little discordant, though the staging was spectacular and there were a couple of pretty arias), I fell into chit-chat with my other neighbour, a very elegant lady who might have been anywhere between thirty and fifty years old, wearing a slinky black gown, heavy makeup, and a black turban with an opulent old ruby brooch on it.

She introduced herself as Lady Beatrice Todmore, and I remembered her from old society pages: the second daughter of the Earl of Oglesby and one of the great débutantes immediately before the War, part of the celebrated ‘Coterie’ alongside Lady Diana Manners. After the war, she married a young man of relatively humble birth who’d so conspicuously distinguished himself in various battles that he was awarded a knighthood as well as a DSO and a row of medals. There were a number of rumours that their marriage was unhappy, and in fact they were seldom seen in public together; but there was never any murmur of scandal or divorce, so people simply assumed that either they were intensely discreet in their affairs, or they didn’t have any.

She was wonderfully charming, and extremely knowledgeable about opera, but there was something about the way she spoke that was very arresting, a kind of sensuousness to her voice and words: it’s what one would expect the Serpent in the Garden of Eden to have sounded like — not unpleasant at all, but rather luxurious and enticing.

During the interval, she excused herself to go say hello to some friends in another box, and Prince George turned his riveting eyes on me again.

“I see La Pantera has got her claws into you,” he smirked at me knowingly.

“That’s an awful nickname,” I frowned, though I had to admit that it suited her: she
was
very like a lithe jungle cat, “And she hasn’t been clawing on me. She’s been perfectly charming.”

“
Charming
is the right word,” he looked at me with a mixture of pity and amusement, “She charms boys the way a cobra charms a mouse. With similar results.”

“Don’t pay any attention, Foxy,” Bunny leaned over HRH’s shoulder, “He’s just jealous she’s talking to you instead of slobbering all over him.”

“I am not!” the Prince slapped Bunny’s arm playfully, “I wouldn’t want to get slobber on this jacket, it’s new. But seriously, Lord Foxbridge, she’s a man-eater. Be careful.”

“Well, I’m not really the sort who gets nibbled by ladies, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, that’s even worse!” Prince George made a horrified face, “She’ll drag you home and let Toddy feast on you!”

“Who’s Toddy?” I laughed.

“Sir Alan Todmore,” Bunny whispered, “The war hero, you know. La Pantera’s husband.”

“We call him The Black Knight,” HRH smiled wickedly, “He likes to wear military uniforms made of black leather. Complete with silver spurs and a riding-crop.”

“I’ve heard that he has a dungeon in his house,” Bunny’s whispers were taking on the subtlety of a steam-engine as he warmed to the topic, “Just like the one in Madame Tussaud’s, but without the wax figures.”

“Don’t forget the boy-hunts,” Lady Beatrice was suddenly standing behind me, startling Bunny into a mortified yip, though Prince George took it in stride, “People say my husband rounds up boys from the East End, Lord Foxbridge; he supposedly strips them down and sets them loose in the woods, then chases them on horseback, forcing his attentions on the first one he catches. Though
where
people think he can ride out into the woods hunting naked boys is
beyond
me. We haven’t a country seat of our own, and chasing naked boys in Hyde Park
would
cause a stir.”

“Well, we all do like a sweet morsel of gossip, don’t we?” HRH asked, his big eyes as innocent as a puppy’s, “So long as it doesn’t get in the papers, no harm done.”

“None at all,” Lady Beatrice agreed, sliding gracefully into her seat, “And Toddy does
relish
the rumours. He only wishes half of them were true. I think we’ve shocked Lord Foxbridge.”

“Not at all,” I lied; in fact, I was so appalled and yet fascinated by the idea of riding after naked boys instead hounds that I could feel a blush rise to my cheeks. Fortunately, the lights went down just then, so nobody bothered to pursue the topic, turning instead to the stage as Act II came banging into its first scene with an explosion of slightly off-key racket, followed by a very nice trio.

I hadn’t read the libretto, and didn’t understand a word of Italian, so I had no idea what the three fat men were singing; but the song was pretty and wistful, though it went discordant in parts, where I assumed the men’s wistfulness turned momentarily to anger.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” I whispered to Lady Beatrice, noticing that she was watching intently and didn’t flinch when the tone changed, as I did, “What are they on about?”

“They’re complaining about their work at Court and wishing they were at home in the country,” she whispered back.

“Sounds like my father towards the end of a Parliamentary session,” I giggled.

“The bit about the dungeon is perfectly true,” she said, harkening back to the previous conversation.

“Really?” I gurgled, at a loss for words.

“I’ll show you some time, if you like,” she looked at me very closely, gauging my reaction; I must have reacted like a terrified rabbit, since she just laughed and patted my hand, “The Emperor is about to come on, brace yourself.”

After the eruption of noise and gold that marked the entrance of the Emperor, Lady Beatrice explained the opera to me (when she could be heard), which made the thing a little more bearable. It was quite a story, the time-honoured three riddles used everywhere from Homer to Shakespeare (though the riddles made absolutely
no
sense); but it seemed to dwell rather unpleasantly on rape and murder, youth cut down in its flower, and self-destructive passions. Puccini always
was
one for the darker passions, she told me: everyone was demented with hate or love, or both, and someone
always
died.