Lady Rample Steps Out

by Shéa MacLeod

  Aunt Butty sighed. “It reminds me of this one time in Cairo. I met the most divine man at a nightclub. That man could kiss! You would never believe the things he could do with his—.”

  Just then Maddie barreled through the door. Alas, I was never to know what Butty’s man in Cairo could do.

  “This came fer y’r ladyship.” Maddie slapped a stack of envelopes in my hand and marched out. I had no idea if she was in a huff because she found our conversation shocking, or if she was simply being herself. One never knew with Maddie.

  Aunt Butty stared after her askance. “You know, you really could afford better help.”

  “Of course, I could. But they wouldn’t be as interesting, now, would they, darling?” I gave her a sly smile. “Besides, your Flora isn’t exactly the best trained maid I’ve ever seen.”

  She shook her head, ignoring my jab. “Well, I must be off. By the by, I’m having a small dinner party tonight. Be there.”

  I sighed. “Truly, Aunt, would it have hurt you to give a bit more notice? What if I were attending a party this evening?”

  “Pish posh,” she said airily as she wrapped herself in her fox stole. The orange hue clashed hideously with the rest of her outfit. “Be there. Lord Varant will be.” She had the audacity to wink on her way out the door.

  Chapter 4

  After Butty took her leave, I eyeballed the stack of post Maddie had so unceremoniously dumped on me. No doubt invitations to more tedious soirees where another Sir Somebody would drone on about his so-called adventures. I dumped the lot onto a pile of other, similar envelopes which still needed opened. I had no intention of doing so any time soon.

  So, Lord Varant would be at Butty’s soiree. I was oddly nervous about facing him. We hadn’t seen each other in some time and I both wanted to make an impression and equally wanted him to know I didn’t care what he thought. What to wear? Something devastating, that was for sure.

  I paced the sitting room, restlessness stirring my soul. That strange agitation that is half boredom and half something else. I couldn’t sit still, and yet I didn’t want to do anything, either. And there were several hours yet until Aunt Butty’s dinner party. I needed to get out of the house.

  I dashed upstairs and quickly divested myself of the green tragedy. I didn’t bother calling Maddie. No doubt she was nipping the sherry by now. I decided upon a pair of black, wide legged trousers paired with a cherry red, short sleeved jumper and matching pumps. Feeling quite chic in a new trench, I yelled down into the kitchen that I was leaving and hustled out to my Mercedes parked at the curb, its top up in deference to the drizzly weather.

  Although Felix had left me a stable full of cars, the Mercedes 710 SSK Roadster was far and away my favorite. It was a delicious cobalt blue with a top speed of 120 miles per hour! The fastest car of its day. Alas, I could rarely crank it up to top speed as London roads were a bit tight for that, but on my occasional trip out to the country, I’d open her up and let her go.

  Lord R had been a strong proponent of women driving, much to the horror of his peers. He claimed to all and sundry that liberated womanhood could only be for the good of all. And, fortunately for me, that meant a stunner of a cobalt motor all to myself. Not much of a driver himself, Felix had his chauffeur teach me to drive. The man used to be a test driver for a motorcar company. Perhaps that’s where I picked up my love of driving fast.

  Heads turned as I gunned the engine and took off in a screech of tires. I admit, I enjoyed the attention a little too much as I zipped through the streets of London past white-washed Georgian townhouses and looming Victorian facades. Driving was a favorite pastime, but still it didn’t distract me from memories of bedroom eyes staring at me from over a piano. Maybe I could use my powers of persuasion and convince Chaz to revisit the jazz club tonight.

  I’d parked the car and was headed toward Harrod’s and a new dress when a woman nearly plowed into me. We both stumbled to a stop.

  “So sorry,” she mumbled, hardly looking at me.

  I recognized her immediately. “Helena Fairfax?”

  She blinked, big eyes rimmed in thick kohl were a little glassy. Did she have a drug problem, too? Or was she merely distracted?

  “Yes? Sorry, have we met?” Her butter yellow handbag matched her shoes and she clutched a little tighter. I wondered vaguely if I should be offended.

  “Last night at your...” I hesitated. Her ownership of the Astoria Club was a secret. “I’m friends with Chaz Raynott. We met last night. At the Astoria.”

  Her brow unfurrowed and something like relief crept into her gaze. “Oh, yes, I remember.” She touched the tips of her fingers to her forehead. “Sorry. I’m... a little distracted.”

  “No worries. You look like you could use a good cup of tea.”

  “You’ve no idea.” Her laugh was like tinkling glass, bright but a little brittle. It matched her glassy gaze.

  “Why don’t you join me, then? Let’s go to Brown’s. We can take my car.” I wasn’t sure why I asked, other than that I was a nosy git. Besides, tea and cakes were always a grand idea.

  She hesitated. “Why not?”

  “Fabulous!”

  Back in the car we climbed, Helena looking a tiny bit nervous. “You know how to drive?”

  “Naturally, darling. Hold on to your hat!” I swung into traffic and gunned it, swerving around cars and pedestrians. Horns tooted in my wake. Helena literally held on to her hat, face pale, lips pressed firmly together. Her eyes lost some of their glassiness. I don’t think she breathed until I pulled the car up to the curb and turned off the engine.

  The wood-paneled tea room at Brown’s Hotel was doing a brisk business. In the far corner stood a grand piano gleaming beneath crystal chandeliers. From it elicited the sounds of a classical tune. Something mellow. Chopin, perhaps. A white-jacketed waiter with an impressive red moustache led us to a square table draped in an equally white linen cloth set with two places in silver and bone china.

  “Tea, My Lady? Madam?” He bowed to me and then to Helena. I gave him points for knowing how to address us properly. I wondered if the headwaiter had whispered our identities in his ear.

  “Assam for me.”

  “Darjeeling,” Helena said.

  More wait staff arrived with steaming pots of tea and tiered trays loaded with an assortment of delectable delights. Helena took a cucumber sandwich without looking, but I eyed every morsel carefully. As well as cucumber, there was egg and cress, smoked salmon, and roast beef. The second tier held half a dozen plain scones—pots of clotted cream and strawberry jam made their appearance along with lumps of sugar and a jar of cream for the tea. The top tier was overflowing with tea cakes, Seville orange tea biscuits, frosted ginger cake, and an assortment of other goodies. I selected a few items for my plate.

  “I was astonished to discover that you own the, ah, venue,” I said as I poured tea. I didn’t want to embarrass her by blabbing about her connections. After all, it just wasn’t done for women of our class.

  She smiled tightly, gaze sliding to the other patrons as she squeezed lemon into her tea. No one paid us any mind. “Oh?” Her tone was entirely non-committal.

  “I think it’s wonderful,” I continued, taking a bite of egg and cress. Truly scrumptious. The perfect amount of mayonnaise-to-egg ratio. Dabbing delicately at the corner of my mouth I said, “A true sign of independence and equality. You should be proud.”

  She visibly relaxed, finally nibbling on the cucumber finger. “Not everyone thinks so.”

  “Some people are idiots,” I said firmly. “I’m so curious as to how you came to be a business woman. I’ve often considered it myself.” Until that moment, I’d done no such thing, but Helena Fairfax needn’t know that. I bit into a ginger cake. Delightful! Spicy and sweet and so very moist. It melted in my mouth like mana from Heaven!

  She shrugged slightly as she sipped her tea. “There wasn’t much choice. I’m sure if you know Chaz he has explained my... situation.”


  “Yes. Rather. Men.” I gave an exasperated sigh. Not everyone was so lucky in marriage as I had been. Although Lord R and I may not have had a Grand Passion, we did have friendship and kindness—which stands for a lot, if you ask me. Not to mention, he left me a great deal of money. “Although—and I know this is terribly nosy—I do find your choice of partner... curious.” Alfred Musgrave was decidedly of the lower classes. No two ways about that. Far too rough for a woman like Helena or a place like the Astoria Club, which clearly catered to the upper crust.

  She took another fortifying sip of tea. “It wasn’t my choice,” she admitted. Leaning forward she said, “You promise this goes no further?”

  I was surprised she would confide in me at all. “Of course.”

  “My husband got into debt with this Musgrave person. I would have let Leo deal with it on his own, but Musgrave threatened my club. I had no choice but to bring him in as partner.” Her features were tight. Angry. I couldn’t say as I blamed her. “He is not the sort of person I enjoy associating with. Much too crass. However, he is rather brilliant at this business stuff. We’ve never been busier.”

  “Indeed.” I wanted to ask more, particularly after overhearing the conversation of the previous night, but the stiffness of her spine and the tightness of her expression told me it was pointless. She was done talking about her business partner. I switched to a lighthearted tone as I plucked a Seville orange tea biscuit from the tiered tray. “By the way, the band you brought in from America? Divine, darling. So talented. I’ve never heard anything like them.”

  “Oh, yes.” She took out a slim, ivory cigarette holder, fit a cigarette to the end, and lit it before drawing in a deep lungful of smoke. “That was Alfred’s idea. Spiffing, aren’t they?” She blew smoke rings at the ceiling from between carnelian lips. Very chic. Very elegant. “Wait until you hear the singer they brought with them. Coco Starr. She had a touch of laryngitis last night, but she’ll be on tonight and tomorrow.”

  “I look forward to hearing her.”

  “You’ll be there, then?” She feigned disinterest, but there was an eagerness to her which was dashed odd.

  “I have a dinner party tonight, but Chaz promised to take me dancing again, so perhaps after.” Chaz had promised no such thing, but I’d no doubt I could convince him without much effort. I pretended my eagerness had everything to do with music and nothing to do with Hale Davis. Dare I ask Helena about him? Probably not. I wouldn’t want her getting the wrong idea. Not that I was sure what the right idea was...

  With no clue how to prolong the conversation, we fell into awkward silence, sipping our tea and poking at tiny cakes. Well, Helena poked. Frankly, I’m not one to waste perfectly good cake, regardless of size. Which is, no doubt, why my hips were slightly wider than fashion currently dictated.

  We talked about the weather and mutual acquaintances in that vague way English people do when they’re being polite to someone they barely know. Finally, before it got too painful, Helena begged leave and I cheerfully assured her I had my own errands to run. If I was going to drag Chaz to the Astoria Club, the occasion called for a new gown.

  “Can I give you a lift anywhere?” I asked.

  “No, thank you. My husband is picking me up.” She gave me a tight smile.

  There went any hope of pumping her for more information. “Well, then, I hope to see you tonight.”

  We bid our goodbyes and I started down the pavement toward my Mercedes until I decided a bit of a stroll would do me good. Helena was still standing curb side, waiting for her husband. I was halfway up the block toward her, when a big, black Rolls motored up to the curb. Only it wasn’t Helena’s husband who stepped out. It was Alfred Musgrave.

  How peculiar. Helena clearly didn’t like the man, so why was she getting a lift from him? And why had she told me her husband was picking her up? My suspicion was immediately aroused. I just wasn’t sure what to be suspicious about. With another man I might have thought affair, but Musgrave was decidedly unlikeable, and it was clear Helena felt the same.

  Musgrave assisted Helena into the motor, then popped around to the driver’s side. Just as he opened the door, a Morris Minor Saloon came barreling out of nowhere. It swung around the corner, wobbled wildly, and veered toward Musgrave’s Rolls, out of control. I only had enough time to notice the driver’s rather unusual tweed fedora pulled low over his face before Musgrave let out a shout. It was too late; the other car hit him, knocking him over. It didn’t even slow as it screeched down the road and around the next corner, disappearing from sight.

  For half a tick I stood there, frozen. And then Helena started screaming.

  Chapter 5

  I took off down the pavement at a fast trot, the only speed my pumps would allow. Ignoring Helena, I rounded the Rolls to find Musgrave flat on his back, a trickle of blood seeping from his forehead. Good gosh! He’d been killed!

  Then Musgrave stirred and moaned, jarring me from my overactive imaginings. I clattered to his side and helped him to his feet. He was a sturdy fellow, so it wasn’t easy. “Are you all right?” I blathered, possibly somewhat in shock. I’d never seen a person mowed down before, though with the way people drove around London, it was a surprise it didn’t happen more often. I glanced around for help, but other than Helena, the street was nearly empty. The doorman was nowhere to be seen. “We should call the police. That nitwit nearly killed you.” My heart rate was still somewhere in the rafters, but my training had begun to kick in. Once a war nurse, always a war nurse, I suppose. I reminded myself I’d seen much worse than a man toppled by a car during the Great War.

  “No police,” he said firmly as I guided him to the pavement. He fished a cheap cotton handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his bleeding forehead. “I’m fine. A bit battered. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Are you sure, Mr. Musgrave?” I asked. “It looked dreadful.”

  By now, the doorman had returned to his station and was trying to calm Helena to no avail. Two women walked by, trying not to stare, but failing miserably.

  “Just an accident.” Musgrave patted my hand. His was a bit sweaty and reeked of musk and hair oil. “No need to worry, my dear. Helena, would you stop that infernal screeching?”

  Helena’s screams turned to hiccupping whimpers. It surprised me that such a stalwart businesswoman would fall to pieces over the misfortunes of a loathsome business partner. But what did I know? We all have our weaknesses, I suppose.

  “If you’re sure,” I said, untangling my arm from Musgrave’s and stepping back. “But I do think you should see a doctor. And she,” I nodded to Helena, “should probably take something for the shock.” Like a good shot of whiskey. Which didn’t sound bad, come to think of it.

  “Kind of you, my dear, but don’t worry your pretty head.” That last was said with a sly and rather lascivious wink.

  I grimaced, suddenly feeling less charitable and a lot more sympathetic toward the driver who’d nearly missed him. “If you’re sure.”

  “I will be fine,” he assured me.

  I wasn’t so sure, but he clambered into the car and motored off, Helena still looking shell-shocked beside him. With a mental shake of the head, I went about my business, trying to forget the image of the car plowing over Musgrave. And that dashed odd hat. A fedora in some ghastly tweed of green and yellow. Wouldn’t soon be forgetting that monstrosity.

  It took two flutes of champagne at the dressmaker’s, but I managed a semblance of amnesia, emerging some time later laden with shopping bags and feeling somewhat giddy despite seeing Musgrave almost flattened in front of my eyes. I promised myself it was the joy of shopping, not the copious amounts of alcohol.

  The moment I got home I rang up Chaz. Felix had been of the firm belief that all the best homes had telephones, which was why mine was prominently displayed in the hall. Chaz liked his modern toys and had no less than three in his flat. Excessive, but that was Chaz.

  “Hello, darling,” I chirped as soon as he
answered. I wanted to ask how he was, but was suddenly afraid to do so. Instead I said, “Put on your dancing togs and pick me up tonight. I’ll be at Aunt Butty’s.”

  “Dash it, Ophelia, I meant to go to my club tonight,” he pouted. Like any man of his class, Chaz belonged to a stuffy gentleman’s club. The same one, no doubt, as his father and grandfather before him.

  “What a yawn, darling. You know you’ll have more fun with me. Besides, I’ve got such juicy gossip for you.”

  “See you at eleven.” He rang off. Chaz never could resist a good chin wag.

  AUNT BUTTY LIVED IN a large flat on the edge of Soho. In truth, she owned the entire building and rented out the other flats to artists, musicians, and writers. Quite shocking for a woman of her status, but Aunt Butty enjoyed the Bohemian life and her flat suited her just fine. She much preferred it to her country house, or the Mayfair townhouse.

  I was met at the door by a dusty-skinned butler dressed in a cream-silk sherwani embroidered in gold over matching silk pyjama. On his head, he wore an intricately wrapped dastar in a rich pavo blue and his face was graced with a luxurious black beard. His thick eyebrows made him look rather fierce, but I knew him to be a gentle soul.

  “Good evening, My Lady,” he intoned in his carefully modulated voice. I’d no idea where my aunt had picked up the Sikh gentleman and convinced him to play butler, but he was a cherished member of her rather unusual household.

  “Good evening, Mr. Singh,” I said as he took my coat. I’d wanted to wear the purple velvet, but as it was drizzling, I’d settled for the black wool with the rabbit fur collar. “How are you?”

  “Very good, My Lady.”

  Mr. Singh still carried the lilting accent of his homeland, India. He was very mysterious, even to Aunt Butty. None of us knew his first name. He’d simply been “Mr. Singh” since the day he arrived at her house. She claimed to like the look of him and didn’t care if he was cagey about his past. Very Aunt Butty behavior. She could be cagey herself.