Lord Foxbridge Butts In

by Manners, Robert

  “Evening cloche, actually,” I corrected, then blushed furiously, realizing I’d just given myself away. Of course those arrested would have mentioned La Pantera actually buying the boy before he disappeared from the Hampton Hotel, as well as descriptions of her companions.

  “I knew it!” he crowed, “That was you and Lady Caroline! You really went the extra mile for Claude, didn’t you?”

  “Actually, it was a lot of fun,” I admitted — in for a penny, in for a pound, “Caro and I might make a hobby of it, going out in drag together. She already does, of course; but since we’re going to be engaged next Season...”

  “Wait a minute!” he put down his cup, “You were the lady? Lady Caroline was the blond gent?”

  Damn and double damn! I gave myself away twice without even changing subjects.

  “I thought you’d bleached out your hair for the occasion!” he gasped out when his gales of laughter subsided sufficiently to allow speech, “and dyed it back to red this morning. But you were dressed as a woman! And you enjoyed it?”

  “Yes, rather,” I mumbled, mortified by his laughter.

  “And you’re going to marry Lady Caroline Chatroy?” he stopped laughing suddenly, and there was a something in his voice that I couldn’t quite identify.

  “Not for a bit, yet,” I looked at him, trying to figure out what that different tone was about. He was looking at me very intently, speculatively, as if reevaluating me, “We’ll announce it next year, at the end of the Season, and probably marry at the end of the Season after that.”

  “Have you made love to her?” he asked, his voice gone very low.

  “We’ve kissed and cuddled a bit,” I admitted, “But only when I was dressed up. It was very... interesting.”

  “I bet,” he said, “And you think you’ll be able to do your marital duty with her?”

  “Sure, why not?” I shrugged, “I will need heirs, after all, and that’s the only way to get them.”

  “I mean, did you get excited when you were kissing her?”

  “Yes, but why are you asking me this?” I wondered. It seemed so unlike him to ask for such intimate details, he never had before.

  Instead of answering me, he stood in front of me, showing me exactly how excited he’d become; grabbing me under the arms, he hauled me to my feet and into a fevered embrace. I was so taken aback that I didn’t respond at first, but eventually it dawned on me that I was finally getting my heart’s desire. Soon we were reduced to a hopeless tangle of heated limbs and torn clothes writhing on the hearthrug, and it was even better than I’d hoped and dreamed it would be.

  All I had to do was kiss a girl. Who’d have guessed?

  *****

  Epilogue

  The Viscount Takes a Drive

  The next Monday, after spending two whole blissful nights and a whole blissful day in my rooms with Twister, seeing nobody but Pond and giving the excuse to anyone who called that I’d gone back to Foxbridge for a few days (Twister had informed his landlady that he was going down to Holmesham Manor — having country houses can be awfully handy in such situations), I received a letter from my bank detailing all of the cheques I’d written and withdrawals I’d made over the last three months.

  It was a sobering document, showing that I’d got through more than ten thousand pounds since coming to London in June; and considering that I’d just made arrangements to take over the housekeeping expenses at Foxbridge, so that Pater couldn’t kick when I hired twelve new servants and started throwing parties, as well as promising Pond I’d buy a motorcar, I was slated to be soaked for a few more thousands.

  It was an incredible amount of money, and though my balance showed itself equal to the strain, it gave me some pause. I spent much of that day observing all of my little luxuries and wondering if I should economize: I mean, do I really need to have good champagne and very old claret and crusted Napoleon with dinner every night? Did I absolutely have to belong to seven clubs, some of which were practically adjacent to each other, just so I can have lunch in a different one each day? Should I send a telegram to Coldicott, our butler at Foxbridge, indicating that perhaps four footmen and four chambermaids were excessive, when two of each would do? Should I buy a sober little Morris instead of some flashy expensive roadster?

  Fortunately for my peace of mind, another letter arrived next day from my solicitors, who harvest up my income for me from all its various sources and deposit it into my bank. The quarterly profit-shares from my late grandfather’s patent-medicines firm (which manufactured quite a lot of other things, too, and was run by a board of directors in New York), the dividends from my late mother’s stocks and bonds, and the interest off my late uncle’s millions amounted to quite a tidy sum... I could have spent twice as much without getting anywhere near the bottom of the well, and the same again was coming next quarter.

  It was therefore a happy coincidence that Mr. Delagardie chose to present my quarterly hotel bill on the Tuesday rather than the Monday. If it had come on the heels of the statement of expenditures, I would have had an apoplexy on seeing the four-figure total at the bottom of the page; but since I received the bill after seeing my income statement, I was in a mood to scoff at what amounted, with Gabriel’s room and my food and wine bills thrown in, to a rate of thirteen guineas a day.

  “To whom should I make out the cheque?” I asked the manager as I sat down at my desk and brought out the book from the top drawer.

  “To Hyacinth House, my lord,” Delagardie responded smoothly, though obviously startled that I intended to pay my bill immediately upon receipt. I supposed it would have been more suave to send it along to my solicitors and have them pay it; but I do enjoy writing cheques, and was itching to spend some money.

  “I’ve often wondered,” I wrote down the amount and signed the cheque, then took a blotter to it and blew on it for good measure, “who owns Hyacinth House? You?”

  “No, my lord,” he frowned at the notion, “I am merely an employee.”

  “I only asked because so many of the better hotels are overseen by the owners. The Ritz, for example. Is there a Mr. Hyacinth somewhere behind the scenes?”

  “I am glad your lordship considers our service up the standards of the Ritz,” Delagardie bowed low.

  “Oh, absolutely,” I turned to look at the man, wondering if he was purposefully ignoring the meat of the question, “So, who does own it?”

  “The land is of course owned by the Crown,” he temporized.

  “Of course,” everyone knows that anywhere in London you could see a palace, the Crown owned the ground you were standing on; and I could see St. James’s Palace at the end of the street every time I stepped outside, “But who has the leasehold? The house itself? Who receives the cheques made out to Hyacinth House?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, my lord,” he finally admitted after a long internal struggle, “The gentleman who owns the hotel is also a resident and does not wish the other residents to know.”

  “Ah,” my nose practically twitched at this information, “I smell a mystery.”

  “I beg your lordship,” he wrung his hands in distress, “Please do not concern yourself to solve this mystery. It would be more than my position is worth if the owner’s identity became known.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Delagardie,” I stood up and gave him my hand, “I won’t endanger our host’s privacy. I’m a dreadful nosy-parker, but I can be discreet when the occasion demands.”

  “I thank your lordship,” he bowed again when I handed him the cheque, and withdrew from the room in his usual backward scuttle.

  I smirked a sneaky little smirk as I settled down in my chair and started making memoranda in my notebook; Twister would have seen through my phrasing in a moment, but Delagardie was not accustomed to legal niceties: I did not say I wouldn’t try to find out who the owner was, only that I wouldn’t tell anybody about it when I did. It’s a difficult balance, sometimes, being both inquisitive and honest.

  “What
sort of motorcar should I get, Pond?” I asked when he came in a few minutes later. After I’d finished making a list of avenues of inquiry to pursue into the identity of Hyacinth House’s owner, I started thinking about ways to fritter away some of the tens of thousands of pounds at my disposal.

  “I would not presume to advise your lordship,” he intoned solemnly; but since he’d requested the purchase in the first place, I assumed this was merely an opening gambit.

  “Stuff and nonsense,” I reached out a foot and kicked him lightly on the ankle, “You’re the one wanted me to buy it. Plus, you’d end up driving the thing half the time, going to fetch it when I want to go somewhere, and taking it back if I get squiffy. I value your judgment, so go ahead and presume to advise.”

  “Rolls-Royce is widely considered the best maker, my lord.”

  “A Rolls-Royce!” I gasped, “Rather opulent for my age, don’t you think?”

  “Your lordship may be considered a very important personage, regardless of age. Opulence would not be considered unsuitable to the future eleventh Earl of Vere.”

  “Perhaps,” I picked up the latest Tatler from the table and leafed through it in search of advertisements, “though even Pater never splashed out as far as a Rolls. He keeps an old Daimler down at Foxbridge and toots around Town in a Wolseley. What I’d really like is a Benz, but I don’t suppose German motors are considered the thing.”

  “Anti-German sentiment is still quite strong, my lord.”

  “Pity, they’re really beautiful machines. What about a Bugatti? The Marquis’s was very stylish.”

  “Perhaps a bit too French, my lord.”

  We went back and forth like this for over an hour, discussing the reputations of different brands, searching out advertisements in magazines and newspapers, considering the social merits of a touring-car instead of a two-seater, and uncovering a deep streak of xenophobia in Pond’s psychology: he sniffed dismissively at the American models, and openly sneered at anything from the Continent.

  “Well, we’ll never decide by talking about it,” I threw down the magazines and got up from my chair, “Put me into my armor, and I’ll pop over to the Royal Automobile Club and wait for someone I know to come in or out. If all else fails, I could apply for membership. Someone is bound to be able to advise me.”

  “Your lordship might find it more expedient to simply visit a showroom. There’s one in Park Lane that has an excellent reputation,” Pond smirked just a tiny bit.

  “But won’t they gull me something awful, not knowing anything about motors?” I wondered.

  “One need not purchase the motorcar immediately, my lord,” he sort-of-laughed; I was getting better at reading his tiny valet-y expressions, which were so much more subtle than his normal expressions, “But I have been told that a motorcar is much like a horse, in that it is better to see it in person before deciding on a purchase. One is expected to take a test drive before deciding, and one might find a liking for a particular model once one is presented with it.”

  “Oh, ah,” that made sense; but I’d never bought a horse, either, and wouldn’t even know where to start, “Where in Park Lane?”

  “At Stanhope Gate, my lord,” Pond went into the bedroom to get out my suit, “Hard by the Dorchester.”

  “Oh! I’ve passed that corner dozens of times,” I followed him in, shedding my dressing-gown on the way, “Set back a bit, isn’t it? I never really noticed it was a motorcar showroom.”

  “One often does not see something until one is looking for it, my lord,” Pond said, handing me my undergarments; it had taken nearly three months, but I had finally broken him of the habit of trying to put them on me as if I was a helpless toddler.

  “True. I find if I’m waiting for someone, say a short young man with yellow hair, suddenly the world seems quite overpopulated with short young blonds.”

  “Just so, my lord,” he held out my trousers to step into.

  We performed the rest of the ritual in a thoughtful silence; once I was fully kitted out, I took my hat and stick, liberated a tiny yellow iris for my button-hole, and set out for Park Lane. And Pond was right, as soon as I was looking for something, I couldn’t help noticing an abundance of it; I’d never really paid much attention to the motorcars I saw on the street before, but that day I was acutely aware of every make and model and colour passing by. Such a profusion of previously unnoticed details! I was quite overwhelmed by the time I turned off Piccadilly.

  March Motors Ltd. was exactly where Pond said it would be, a discreet-looking building with plate-glass windows on the ground floor and a small marquee over the front door; it was half-hidden by the trees in the little triangle of garden in front of the Dorchester, which is why I’d never paid much attention to it before. I stepped inside, glanced around me at the dozen or so motorcars on display, and immediately fell head over heels in love.

  I flew on wingèd heels directly to my new beloved, a long and sweeping Rolls-Royce (Pond always knows best), its coachwork enameled in buttercream yellow and rich chocolate brown, with fawn leather upholstery and burl pearwood cabinetry on the inside, and shining chromium trim all around. I didn’t care what it did or how much it cost, I had to have it.

  “The new Phantom I drophead sports-touring model,” said a very sleek, tall, fair young man in a faintly shiny gray suit. He had the glossiest hair I’ve ever seen, it actually reflected the overhead lights, “A forty-horsepower, six-cylinder engine with coachwork by Hooper.”

  “I want it. How much?” I returned my covetous gaze to the delicious-looking machine.

  “That would depend on what modifications you wish, sir,” the young man smiled winningly and put out his hand, “My name is Cyprian Coe.”

  “Viscount Foxbridge,” I answered absently and shook hands, startled out of my reverie by the outlandish name, “Cyprian Coe?”

  “My mother has a fanciful nature, my lord,” he bowed his head slightly in a very pretty gesture. He moved and spoke like an actor, and looked like a department-store mannequin; not at all what I expected to find in a motorcar showroom. For some reason, I’d fancied it would be full of gruff coachmen in uncomfortable suits.

  “Well, my front name is Sebastian, so I can’t really throw the first stone,” I grinned at him, letting the handshake linger a little longer than usual to see if he was ‘my sort.’ The slight pressure of his hand and a tiny flaring of eyes and nostrils told me he was, “What do you mean by ‘modifications’?”

  “Your lordship can order any number of modifications to the model you wish to have built,” he answered, “the coachwork, the engine, and several other features can be tailored to your lordship’s specifications.”

  “Built? But I want to buy this one,” I sounded very childish, whining like I’d been denied jam for my tea, “I don’t want to order one made, I want this particular motorcar.”

  “Oh, I see,” Cyprian looked a little doubtful, perhaps wondering if I was quite sane, “I’m not sure what the procedure would be for purchasing a floor model. I will have to speak to the proprietor.”

  “I don’t mind paying extra. I love this motorcar.”

  “Please enjoy it while I am gone, my lord,” he opened the driver’s side door and gestured me in, “I’ll return shortly.”

  I slid in behind the wheel and bounced around gleefully, pretending to drive while making idiotic motor-noises, caressing the seats (they were kidskin, not cowhide, and soft as silk), peering into the mirrors, and waving at imaginary passersby. Fortunately for my reputation, I was alone in the showroom.

  “Mr. Woolgar would be pleased to let you have this model immediately, Lord Foxbridge,” Cyprian glided up soundlessly beside the car. Over his shoulder, I could see the aforementioned Mr. Woolgar watching me intently behind the window in his office, his eyes wide in a wizened old face, like a funny little troll under a bridge.

  “Super!” I enthused, reaching into my pocket for the cheque-book, “How much?”

  “We can send a bill,
my lord,” Cyprian blinked at me in shock. I hadn’t realized that paying right away might be considered vulgar, but I suppose it would be the same as proffering cash at my tailor’s or clubs: it simply isn’t done.

  “Quite,” I blushed a bit, chastened, “I’m afraid I got carried away.”

  “It is a pleasure to serve so enthusiastic a motorist,” the salesman said smoothly with a little bow, then handed me a bit of card, “This is the price Mr. Woolgar sets on the motorcar.”

  It was quite a price, too: nearly seven thousand guineas. Seven unwilling virgin slave-boys, in other terms, or complete sets of Georgian silver for ten English gentlemen’s bachelor abodes. One hundred and fifty suits from Anderson & Sheppard, or a full year of luxury living at the Hyacinth. I burst out laughing with joy that I could afford to buy myself such an extravagant thing.

  “Is the figure not acceptable, my lord?” Cyprian misinterpreted my laughter.

  “Yes, yes, it’s fine. But it’s a heady experience, buying one’s first motorcar.”

  “Oh, this is your lordship’s first motorcar?” he looked a little worried.

  “I suppose I’ll need to get a license, won’t I?”

  “A simple matter of a few shillings will cover it and the registration for the car. We can effect the transaction for you with the borough council. Your lordship does live in Westminster?

  “Yes, in St. James’s Street. Will this delay my having the car?”

  “Your lordship may drive the car out of the showroom immediately, if you wish,” he smiled at me with amusement, “Though if you’re stopped by a constable, you’ll be liable to a fine.”

  “Oh! I’m not entirely sure I know how to drive,” I admitted, annoyed with myself for not thinking of that beforehand. It would be just like me to spend seven thousand guineas on a motorcar and then smash it into a public monument on my first try, “Would you show me? I’m told there is usually a test-drive before I’m expected to choose; perhaps since I’ve already chosen, you could take that time to show me how the thing is operated?”