Lady Rample Steps Out

by Shéa MacLeod

  Was I? “Quite. Thank you,” I said in my most British Upper Crust. I stepped carefully away and strode through to the dance floor, my thoughts of the conversation I’d just overheard completed erased by my brush with the pianist.

  For the rest of the evening I pretended the pianist was of no interest whatsoever. I’m not entirely sure Chaz believed me.

  It was nearly sunrise by the time we staggered up the stairs, bursting into the gray dawn, buzzed on exhaustion and alcohol. The drizzle had stopped, but the air held a distinct chill.

  “So, what’d you think, old bean?” Chaz asked, wrapping an arm around my shoulder as we strolled toward the car.

  “Brill!” Happiness fizzed inside me. “Jolly good fun. We should come again.”

  “Wotcha? That you, Chaz?” The words were slurred as the man staggered out of the alleyway running between the Astoria Club and the café next door.

  Chaz frowned, stepping slightly in front of me. “Leo. That you? You should be at home.” His tone was firm.

  The man—Leo—was dressed in stylish evening wear. Not as expensive as Chaz’s, but definitely bespoke. His eyes were red rimmed, and he staggered slightly as if drunk. Beads of sweat decorated his upper lip.

  “I’m fine.” He waved Chaz off and leaned heavily against the brick wall. “Jus’ here to meet my wife.” He cackled as if he’d told a joke. Frankly, I didn’t find the situation amusing in the least.

  “Let me help you home, Leo,” Chaz insisted, ever the gentleman.

  Leo said something extraordinarily rude. Without another word, Chaz marched me toward the car.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “That was Helena’s husband, Leo Fairfax.”

  “Whatever is wrong with him?”

  Chaz’s expression was pinched. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Which only made me more curious. And suspicious. I grabbed his arm. “Come, Chaz. We’ve been friends far too long for you to pull that sort of nonsense.”

  He paused next to the car with a heavy sigh. “We used to...run in the same circles.”

  I frowned, thinking it over. Being familiar with Chaz’s preferences and past, there could be more than one. “Which circles specifically?”

  “Ones that involved certain substances.”

  “Oh.” What more was there to say?

  “Yes, just so.”

  “Why would you bring me here if you knew Leo’s wife owned the club?” Why didn’t he stay far away? Why would he put himself in the way of temptation?

  “Because I can’t let the past control my life, now, can I?”

  A stab of guilt hit me. After all, it had been me who’d first administered laudanum to an injured boy. How could I know that the next time we would see each other—a good eight years later—he’d be a disaster, addicted to opium, in debt to his dealer, and afraid his wealthy father would find out? That it would be me—with assistance from my Aunt Butty—who would help him through it all. And now his demons reared their ugly heads again.

  “Don’t.” He gripped my shoulders. “It isn’t your fault, Ophelia. None if it was. You were the one who saved me.” His eyes were soft.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. I struggled for something meaningful to say and came up with, “Why don’t we go to my place for a cup of tea?”

  “Not tonight. I’ll be fine, old thing. No worries here. Right as rain.”

  I cast a glance back at Leo’s huddled form, barely discernible in the shadows. I reminded myself that Chaz had come a long way in the last eight years, but his words felt forced and worry nested inside me, burrowing its way to my stomach.

  With a bright smile, albeit a bit forced, I rejoined Chaz, determined to bury the ghosts of the past and end this evening on a high note. “Come on, darling,” I shouted as we clambered into the car, “let’s have a jolly tune.”

  Chaz beamed. “Don’t mind if I do, old bean.”

  We sang Mad About the Boy loudly and off-key all the way home. By the time we reached my doorstep, I really believed everything would be aces.

  Chapter 3

  Light stabbed at my eyes. Who the blue blazes was playing kettle drums inside my skull? I pulled the duvet over my head with a groan.

  “Maddie, what are you doing at this ungodly hour?” My voice was muffled by a pile of pillows.

  “Sorry, m’lady.” Maddie’s young voice squeaked alarmingly. “Only it’s gone ten and her ladyship says I ought to wake up your ladyship.” She sounded as confused as I was.

  I risked exposing an eyeball to the blinding light of day. Sure enough, hot pokers stabbed my brain. Why did I let Chaz foist that last highball on me? Oh, right. I’d needed something to cool me down after watching that sexy pianist all night. By gosh, that man could tickle some ivories. I repressed a shiver of delight.

  And then I remembered the Leo incident. I hoped Chaz was alright. I really should ring him. Only later. Much later. If I called at this hour, he’d have me drawn and quartered.

  Then what Maddie had said penetrated my fogged brain. “What ladyship, Maddie?”

  “Her ladyship wot is your aunt, m’lady. She was most insistent.” Maggie’s tone conveyed just exactly what she thought about that.

  My aunt. Oh, yes. Aunt Butty. The aunt upon whom I could place the blame of my entire existence. Well, perhaps not entire. I’m certain my parents had something to do with it at some point. But it was Aunt Butty who rescued me from the tedium of the vicarage and whisked me off to the bright lights of London and, eventually, the arms of Lord Rample.

  “You did bring tea.” Dear God, I hoped so.

  “Yes, m’lady. And also, a glass of water and some headache powders. They’re on the nightstand.”

  How efficient. “God bless you, Maddie.”

  “As you say, m’lady.”

  Cheeky minx. I managed to struggle into a sitting position so I could down the foul headache powders followed by an entire pot of Assam tea, liberally sweetened. Meanwhile, Maddie dug around in my wardrobe as though searching for buried treasure, her bony backside stuck up in the air. As a lady’s maid, she was an odd one, her accent was pure London, but there was something about her way. Something vaguely...foreign. She was small and dark with shrewd eyes, despite being easily flustered. Still, she made an excellent cup of tea and did wonders for my hair. I could hardly complain.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked her.

  “The green afternoon dress, m’lady.” Her voice was muffled by swath of fabrics. “The one wot her ladyship gave you.”

  Damnation. Yes. Aunt Butty had gifted me a ghastly olive-green number recently. It did not at all go with my skin tone, which was ivory with pink undertones—very “English rose.” Instead it made me look jaundiced. It was, however, one of Aunt Butty’s favorite colors. Apparently, that made it a fitting gift for her favorite niece. Although, technically, I was her only niece. I say technically because my mother’s brother, my uncle Gerry, is rumored to have more than one family tucked away in the wilds of the English countryside. Bit of a philanderer, that one.

  “Good choice, Maddie. For this occasion, anyway. By the by, did my aunt say what occasion this was?” Aunt Butty was generally no more a morning person than was I. Arriving at one’s abode anywhere near ten of the clock was unheard of. In fact, she rarely arose before noon. Sad when one’s aunt has more of a social life, but then I had an excellent excuse. Or rather, I had an excellent excuse. I really needed to get a life. An evening with Chaz was an excellent start.

  “No, m’lady.” Maddie popped out of the wardrobe with the ghastly gown in hand, thin cheeks flushed so that the faint scar under her right eye stood out. “But she was quite excitable.”

  That wasn’t saying much. Butty’s state of being was excitable. So much so that no one commented on it unless the excitement became more pronounced than usual.

  “Oh, dear.” I downed my cup of tea and stared longingly at the nearly full pot before pushing it away. “I guess we’d be
tter hurry, then.”

  Maddie helped me into the dress and removed the silk scarf from around my head. The scarf had done its trick and kept my golden brown, shoulder-length waves in place, so after a quick sprucing up and smoothing a few flyaways, I was on my way to hear whatever disaster Aunt Butty had gotten herself into. Not that she would claim a disaster. More likely she’d consider it a Grand Adventure.

  Like the time she’d fallen from a camel, broken her leg, and ended up the guest of some sheik or other. Most people would consider it an Unfortunate Incident. Aunt Butty considered it an Opportunity. Aunt Butty spin a much better tale than Sir Eustace.

  I found my aunt perched on the edge of a blue velvet settee looking for all the world like she was about to take flight. And I don’t just mean the fact that she literally had a bird stuck on her head.

  “Aunt Butty, darling, whatever are you wearing?” I asked as we exchanged cheek kisses.

  She touched a purple feather that dipped dangerously low. “Like it? Marcel’s latest creation.”

  “It... makes a statement.”

  The wide, straw concoction was more suited to the reign of the late King Edward than to 1932. Someone had divested a bird of its feathers, dyed them puce, and rammed them back into a vague semblance of an exotic fowl, complete with curled ostrich feathers in a violent shade of lime. It was beyond hideous and clashed with my aunt’s ultra-modern, belted crepe de chine in eye-searing yellow. On the other hand, some clever minx had managed to design the garment so that its slim lines somehow suited Aunt Butty’s plump waistline and ample bosom. I was going to have to bribe her for the name of her dressmaker. My own figure was far more similar to my aunt’s than fashion currently dictated. A fact that Lady Chatelain and her ilk were quick to point out. I was just as quick to remind them that I, at least, had a personality more interesting than wet paste.

  I slouched onto the slipper chair opposite my aunt, hoping she’d notice my dress. She didn’t. Nor did she glare at me for slouching. Something was most assuredly up.

  Abandoning my slouch, I poured tea, dropping in the three lumps of sugar she preferred. Aunt Butty had always been there for me. The least I could do was listen to whatever silliness she’d been up to.

  “What’s wrong, Auntie?” I asked, handing her a teacup hand-painted with adorable little blue flowers.

  “What makes you think something is wrong?” She took the cup and sipped delicately, giving a smile of satisfaction. Maddie really did make an excellent pot of tea.

  “You’re in my townhouse before noon,” I said dryly.

  “Oh, that.” She waved airily. “I am, perhaps, a tad overstimulated, but nothing is wrong, per se.”

  Butty was a bit... eccentric. As were many of the wealthy Upper Crust. In her younger years, she’d been something of a Bohemian. The tales she used to tell of her sojourns in Paris... delightful. Wicked.

  “Do tell,” I murmured around my own cup. With the induction of a second dose of tea, I was starting to feel almost human.

  She carefully selected a biscuit and eyed it before announcing, “I’ve had intimate relations with a man.”

  I nearly spat my tea. “Well...” I had nowhere to go. Butty’s lovers were numerous. Or they had been. She’d slowed somewhat in her advancing years—her words, not mine. She was only twenty years older than my own thirty-five. “I’m certain that’s... true.”

  She lifted a beringed hand, soft and powdered, to tuck a lock of graying hair behind her ear. The scent of roses always clung to her. I could never pass by the flowers without being reminded of my aunt. “It’s not what you think, dear. He’s...” She leaned forward as if parting a ghastly secret. “American.”

  I nearly burst out laughing. Until I remembered the smoldering, midnight gaze of Hale Davis, the jazz pianist. He was American. Surely not...

  “Where, ah, did you meet this... American?”

  She settled back into the settee and took a delicate sip of her tea followed by a nibble of cream biscuit. “I met him at Bertram’s.”

  Couldn’t have anything to do with the jazz people, then. Bertram’s was very posh, very upscale, very expensive. Pheasants under glass. That sort of thing. Definitely not the sort of place for jazz. Or musicians. They’d likely turn up their noses at Beethoven himself.

  “I was with Louise.”

  “Well, that explains it.”

  She gave me an arch look. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

  “Louise Pennyfather gets you into more trouble than anyone I know.” As if Aunt Butty needed help. She and her bosom friend were a constant breath away from scandal. And they reveled in it. I supposed that at the advanced age of fifty-something, they had a right to it.

  Butty snorted. “Be that as it may, she introduced me to this gorgeous man. Friend of her husband’s. Horace Bronson. From some place called Texas. It’s in America.”

  “I’m familiar. Cowboy?”

  “Hardly. More like cow owner.” She frowned. “What do they call them?”

  “Rancher, I believe.” I practically saw dollar signs dancing in Butty’s eyes. “Sounds... intriguing.”

  “Indeed.”

  “What’s the problem then?” I asked.

  She sighed heavily and downed the rest of her tea. “He’s married.”

  “Since when has that ever stopped you?” Aunty Butty had been married thrice. Each husband had died leaving her richer than ever. And not a one of them had ever suspected she had a tendency to dally with whatever handsome gent roamed too close, up to and including the Irish gardener. Not that I blamed her. The man had been wickedly handsome and those blue eyes...

  Besides, none of her husbands had been particularly faithful. The most recent one had cast off this mortal coil in the bed of a chorus girl.

  “I have made it my personal rule to never get involved with happily married men,” Butty announced piously.

  “He couldn’t have been too happily married if he hopped into bed with you.” And it wasn’t like she needed his money or his hand in marriage. Aunt Butty was nearly as rich as I was and had sworn off marriage for good.

  “True.” She mulled it over. “His wife did sound awful.”

  In my experience, married men who wished to cheat always made their wives sound awful. “Well, then, I don’t see what the problem is.”

  She thrust out her wrist dramatically. “He gave me this.”

  A bauble of gold and diamonds sparkled on her left wrist. I eyed it carefully. “Stunning. Expensive.” Certainly a costly gift for a woman one had only just met. Butty had that effect on men. A French count had once given her an entire sarcophagus. I think she still had it at her country estate.

  She sighed. “And not my taste in the slightest.”

  It was true. Aunt Butty much preferred enameled whatsis from the Far East. Lots of color and exotic geometry. “Well, he’ll probably go back to Texas soon enough and you can be rid of the thing.” It was a bit ostentatious.

  She stared at it a moment longer. “I would have preferred a Bentley.”

  “You can’t drive,” I reminded her. I was usually the one who had to chauffeur her about in my own Mercedes Roadster. I didn’t mind. I loved to drive.

  “Regardless, it would have been much more fun. Although, I must say, what I did to get it was vastly fun. These Texas men have such large—.”

  “More tea, Auntie?” I interrupted. Lord knows I did not need a detailed run down of my aunt’s sexual exploits.

  “What did you get up to last night, dear?” she asked, holding out her cup.

  I told her about Sir Eustace’s boring party and how Chaz had rescued me. “My first time at a jazz club. It was...” The pianist popped into my mind. “It was an adventure,” I finished lamely.

  “Your father would not approve.” She said it with glee rather than censure. She was right. The vicar would not at all approve. In fact, he’d be scandalized. The thought gave me almost as much glee as it did my aunt. “Is that the place Hele
na Fairfax runs?”

  I lifted a brow, only partially surprised. Aunt Butty seemed to know everything that went on in London. Even some of the seedier aspects. “You know about that?”

  She chuckled. “A woman in business? Naturally.”

  I realized perhaps Aunt Butty could assuage my curiosity about Helena’s husband without having to involve Chaz. “Have you met her husband, Leo?”

  Aunt Butty made a face. “Nasty man. She could have done better. Although he is rather handsome.”

  I’d been so wrapped up in his behavior, I hadn’t noticed. “Is he... Does he have an opium problem?”

  She snorted. “Understatement. I believe he’s what they call a dope fiend.” No doubt she gotten that from one of those Hollywood films she was so fond of. “The one time I tried opium in Paris, I admit it was rather relaxing, but that was in my younger days. It was all the rage. Everyone was doing it. But I know too many who have lost years and fortunes to the rot. Let’s just say I shall never try it again.”

  “How exotic.” I wasn’t certain how else to react. I knew opium was popular among a certain type of person, but that wasn’t the crowd I chose to surround myself with. And fortunately, now, neither did Chaz. “After what Chaz went through, I’ve no intention of trying it.”

  “Which is very intelligent of you. It’s terrible stuff, as you well know. Word is, Leo’s got some Chinese connection or other. He’s spent half the last decade addicted to the stuff. Such a shame. Why do you ask?”

  I told her about our run-in with Leo the previous evening. “Chaz was... displeased.”

  “Well, that’s because he is a gentleman. The boy has very delicate sensibilities.” Aunt Butty was one of the few people who knew the truth about Chaz. “Not to mention, well, you know about his past. Poor thing. Hope this doesn’t upset him too much.”

  “I think I boosted his spirits enough by the end of the night. And I’ll be sure and check in on him.” Just in case.

  Our conversation turned back to the evening at the club. I thought about mentioning the pianist, but I didn’t. That was my little secret. Instead I described the décor, the music, and who among the upper echelons of society had been in attendance.