Rose went gingerly down the stairs in her high heels.
Lady Polly came out of the drawing-room and surveyed her daughter. “I have never seen you look so fine. Such a welcome change from the tea-gowns you always seem to favour these days.” Rose often preferred the tea-gown because it was a soft, filmy garment free from corsetry.
Miss Friendly and Daisy followed behind, equally corseted and hatted.
One of the earl’s carriages took them to Rules in Covent Garden. They were ushered upstairs to the private dining-room booked by Harry.
“I think you know everyone,” said Harry. He pulled up a seat for Rose and whispered, “I have never seen you look more beautiful.”
Rose, who had dressed to impress him, was irrationally annoyed. Typical man, she thought. He only thinks I am beautiful when I am dressed like a doll.
Rose was sitting next to Harry at a round table. Daisy was placed next to Becket, Miss Friendly next to Phil, who had secretary Ailsa on his other side.
“I ordered a round table because this is an informal party,” Harry began. “I am sure you are all anxious to hear what happened at Scotland Yard. But I think I should wait until the end of the meal when the waiters are dismissed.”
Rose envied the ease of Daisy, chattering animatedly to Becket, and Miss Friendly seemed to be getting along famously with Phil. Ailsa drank steadily, smiling all around but not contributing much to the conversation.
The meal was lavish. Consommé was followed by trout fillets. Then quail cutlets followed by ham. After that roast ortolans, followed by asparagus. For the still hungry there was a desert of Gâteau Punch au Champagne, followed by anchovies on toast.
The food was delicious, but Rose was constricted, literally and metaphorically, from eating very much. Each mouthful seemed to tighten her stays even more and the close presence of Harry was taking away her appetite. He did not seem to notice her silences but kept up a flow of conversation about the weather, about the government and the fear of strikes. Only when he asked her about her charity work did Rose forget about her animosity towards him and become animated.
She told him again about her desire to set up a charity as soon as she reached her majority. She described how her work in the soup kitchen made her feel less useless and described some of the down-and-outs.
When the meal was finished and the waiters had been dismissed, Harry rapped a knife on his wineglass and said, “I can now tell you what happened.”
They listened with rapt attention while he told them of Jeremy’s confession. “The whole family was driven mad with ambition and snobbery,” said Harry finally. “And yet, if it had not been for Lady Rose, I might not have had enough for a cast-iron case.”
“What about Lord Berrow?” asked Daisy. “I’m amazed he had nothing to do with it.”
“He did send someone to try to kill Miss Bridge,” said Harry. “But he and Banks were killed in a motoring accident in Scotland, so they will not be troubling anyone again. I will never forget the bravery of our excellent Miss Bridge. Miss Bridge?” He realized he was looking at an empty seat.
“She’s under the table, guv,” said Phil, bending down.
“It’s all my fault,” said Harry contritely. “Please help her up. She is a missionaries’ daughter and I don’t think she is used to anything stronger than water.”
Becket and Phil hoisted Ailsa up. She opened her eyes and smiled sleepily. “Whash goin’ on?” she asked and slumped again.
“Becket, you had better take her down to the motor and take her home. Do you know the address?”
“Been there once,” said Becket. “I’d better take Miss Levine with me. Need a lady along.”
“Very well. I think we should all go. You have your carriage, Lady Rose?”
“Yes, a waiter will tell the coachman to come round.”
“Then I will escort you and Miss Friendly to your home. Phil, you go with Becket and he can drive you to Chelsea after you leave Miss Bridge at her lodgings.”
Harry helped Rose down from the carriage outside the town house. “Go indoors, Miss Friendly. I wish to have a word in private with my fiancée.”
He turned to Rose and smiled into her eyes. “Are we friends again?”
“I think so.”
He shielded their faces with his silk hat and bent to kiss her. At that very moment, a steel in Rose’s corset which had gradually been working its way loose, stabbed her viciously and, as his mouth was about to meet hers, she winced.
To Harry, it looked like a wince of disgust.
He crammed his hat on his head. “Good day to you,” he said, and he turned and strode off across the square.
Harry had been celibate for a long time. As he walked angrily through the streets of London in the direction of Chelsea, he cursed himself for ever having entered into an engagement with such as Lady Rose Summer. She was beautiful, yes, but she was as cold as ice.
Halfway home, he changed his mind and set off to The Club. It was always known simply as The Club and was considered less stuffy than White’s or Brooks’s.
He entered the coffee-room and was greeted by a tall figure. “Good God, old man, is it really you? I thought you had been killed at Magersfontein!”
Harry’s face lightened as he recognized Colonel Jimmy Frent-Winston. Jimmy now looked like a rakish man-about-town. He had a high aquiline profile and bold blue eyes. “Sit down, Harry,” he said. “Let’s have a bottle of champagne.”
“Still in the army?” asked Harry.
“Home on leave. Want to kick up my heels a bit. You’re engaged, I hear.”
“Not working out,” said Harry, suddenly wanting to confide in someone.
“Ah, well, take my advice and cut and run.”
They drank champagne and swapped war stories as the day drew on towards evening.
“I say,” said Jimmy. “I know just the thing to end the day. Let’s go to The Empire and find ourselves a pair of dazzlers.”
The Empire music hall, a dream of blue and gold, was a most luxurious place. But its main attraction was the Promenade. The Promenade was where the aristocrats of prostitution paraded: blondes, brunettes and redheads, moving with a sort of feline grace and all with excellent manners. They never accosted a man; at the most he might feel the touch of a hand against his or the faint pressure of a silk-clad body as he stood at the rail watching the show below. As they moved to and fro, their jewels glittered and their silks swished and they exuded the scent of frangipani or patchouli.
In 1894, their presence had been attacked by a Mrs. Ormiston Chant, crying “white slavery.” She and her supporters battled long and hard, but the assault failed completely. All Mrs. Ormiston Chant achieved was to become the most popular guy at the next Fifth of November, where she was burnt in effigy.
Harry hesitated. His few liaisons had been with respectable women, none of them ever serious. But Rose had wounded his pride and, he felt, his manhood. Besides, he had drunk rather a lot.
They took a cab. Harry was glad of Jimmy’s company. He had been working so hard that he had had little time for friends.
The Empire declared itself a club, and Jimmy insisted on paying the entrance fee. It was full as usual, presided over by the manager, Mr. Hitchins, who ejected the rowdy with one white kid glove on the culprit’s shoulder. Most of the ejected simply went round to the side door and paid five shillings to get back in.
“We’ll go straight to the Promenade,” said Jimmy. “Oh, I do like shopping, don’t you?”
That was when Harry felt a sober jolt go through his body. At heart, he was a romantic, and the whole business of picking up a prostitute suddenly seemed unbearably sordid.
He knew better than to voice such views. Jimmy had a loud voice, the “Hyde Park drawl,” and Harry felt sure he would protest loudly enough to make them certain of attention.