A Knightsbridge Scandal

by Anita Davison

  In the foyer, Flora parted with her cloak to a girl behind a desk, accepted the metal token in exchange and re-joined William in the lobby where patrons greeted each other with braying voices and false laughter. Ladies with coiffed heads adorned with flowers, ribbons or precious stones wound into their hair swept by on a swish of silk, leaving a cloud of perfume behind them. The entire room struck Flora as being a performance in itself, while a sweet, cloying smell of face powder mingled with pomade, overlaid with the spirit tang of the pre-theatre drinks served by obsequious waiters in black and white livery.

  The doors flapped open at intervals to admit arriving patrons, their faces alight with anticipation of the coming evening, bringing with them a wave of cold air that blew through the entrance. An atmosphere of excitement prevailed as they greeted friends with air kisses and firm handshakes.

  ‘I’ve never been here before.’ Flora looked up at the ornamental ceiling with its gold leaf architraves and the massive crystal chandeliers that winked in the bright electric light. ‘I’ve visited Her Majesty’s opposite several times,’ she added, hoping she didn’t sound unsophisticated. ‘But never this one.’

  ‘There’s been a theatre on this site for over a hundred and fifty years.’ William handed a white five-pound note to the usherette who hovered beside the door, a pile of programs balanced in the crook of her arm. ‘John Nash designed the original facade, but the inside has been altered several times since.’ He broke off to press a gratuity into the girl’s hand, oblivious of her longing smile at his retreating back, much to the annoyance of the queue of patrons waiting for programmes.

  ‘The old girl is looking a little worn these days.’ William indicated the peeling paint in the high corners and the faded red curtains with ragged fringes that hung in the doorways. ‘I was fortunate to obtain tickets at all because the theatre is due to close soon for extensive refurbishments. I hope they don’t change things too much as these rich, dark colours always remind me of boyhood Christmases when we were treated to outings to a play followed by tea at Fortnum’s. Neecy always scoffed all the peppermints during the first act, and I was always blamed for the resultant squabble.’

  ‘You call Lady Vaughn, “Neecy”?’ Flora regarded him with surprise.

  ‘Of course, I do.’ He chuckled and leaned closer, his breath warm on her cheek. ‘She’s still my big sister, no matter how grand she gets.’

  Flora’s gaze snagged on the male half of a middle-aged couple who surreptitiously watched them out of the corner of his eye, his upright collar so high, he was forced to view the world down a patrician nose, while his female companion sneaked frequent looks at them over her shoulder.

  ‘It appears we’re a figure of interest.’ Flora nodded towards them as the pair disappeared into the main hall.

  ‘That’s Rudi Carruthers.’ William’s mouth twitched into a mischievous smile. ‘He pretended not to notice us, but I expect word will be all over the FO by tomorrow lunchtime that I’m escorting a young and beautiful lady around town.’

  ‘Oh dear. I don’t think I like the idea of your reputation being sullied on my account.’ Flora’s cheeks flamed in annoyance at people with little better to do than spread malicious gossip.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll nip it in the bud in a day or two.’ He winked. ‘Ah! there’s the bell for the start of the performance. Shall we take our seats?’

  Flora started toward the door marked, Stalls, but William held her back. ‘Not that way, I’ve booked one of the lower boxes for tonight’s performance.’

  ‘A treat indeed.’ A thrill of excitement rushed through her as he guided her through the jostling crowds that gave off waves of ‘Jicky’ perfume and ‘Floris’ cologne. He led her up the stairs and along a carpeted corridor to a door that opened into a box draped with velvet swags and hangings held back with gold silken cords, set close to the proscenium. Four matching upholstered chairs set two on two in matching oxblood damask.

  ‘This is lovely.’ Flora peered over the low edge to the rapidly filling seats below, where jewels draped around ladies’ necks and hung from delicate ears winked and flashed in the light from electric chandeliers. ‘We’re practically seated on the stage. Do we have this to ourselves?’

  ‘Indeed we do. It was all they had available, but I quite like the exclusivity. The ghost of a former actor-manager has been seen in the wings.’ William arranged his opera glasses and programme on the shelf in front of them.

  ‘Name of John Buckstone. He was a friend of Dickens. He wears a beige coat and twill trousers and hangs about in the wings. He’s been heard backstage rehearsing his lines, so if you happen to see him do let me know. I’ve never seen a ghost before.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing.’ Flora had no patience with fate, omens, or superstition. ‘And if you’re trying to frighten me, it’s not working. I don’t believe in ghosts.’

  ‘Is this play as scandalous as the review in the Daily Mail says?’ Flora tapped the programme against her lip. ‘It said Cousin Kate featured a young lady jilted by an Irish lover who falls for a stranger on a train.’ He frowned at her and she smiled. ‘I confess to having read it before I left home.’

  ‘Oh really,’ William crossed one ankle over the other. ‘And what did a Fleet Street hack have to say about it?’

  ‘I cannot recall his name, but the man’s apparently a guardian of good taste, because, in his opinion, ladies do not engage in flirtations in railway trains, nor follow that up with desperate love-making in empty country houses. At least, not without the formality of an introduction and without knowing each other’s names.’

  ‘Do you disapprove of flirtations in trains?’ he asked, though his mocking smile told her otherwise.

  ‘It depends, with whom and which train. For example, the 10.20 to Reading is too parochial for romance, whereas the Oriental Express to Venice might appeal.’

  William’s delighted laugh brought several looks their way from the stalls below them. ‘I have to agree, the Paris Gare de l’Est is infinitely more romantic than the 8.30 am to Paddington. Hush now, the play is about to begin.’

  *

  The lights went up for the interval, greeted by enthusiastic clapping and a sudden rush for the aisles; the respectful quiet ceasing abruptly as everyone began talking at once.

  ‘What do you think of it so far?’ William idly flicked through the programme but discarded it when nothing appeared to catch his interest.

  ‘Honestly?’ Flora hesitated for a heartbeat. Was it rude to criticize a performance to which one had been invited? ‘The plot is somewhat predictable, and it’s a shame the cast are all wearing ordinary clothes. I would have liked to see some elaborate historic costumes. Like you, the theatre always makes me think of Christmas, the more festive the better.’

  ‘Noted.’ William held up a finger in emphasis. ‘I’ll be sure to book Goldsmith’s She Stoops to Conquer next time. A play which is performed exactly as Sheridan would have arranged it.’

  ‘The theatre is lovely, in a faded, old-fashioned sort of way.’ She leaned forward in her seat, her arms folded on the ledge to watch ladies who strolled the aisles below them, their’ hats piled high with artificial flowers, feathers, and ribbons.

  ‘Care for a chocolate?’ William bent to retrieve the lilac pasteboard box he had placed beneath his seat. ‘They’re violet creams.’

  ‘No thank you, not that they aren’t delicious, but I have already eaten two. Any more would spoil the dinner you promised me.’

  Two men stood in the side aisle almost directly below them; both dark-haired and swarthy looking. She narrowed her eyes as something about one of them struck her as familiar, but all she could see of him was the top of his head. They seemed to be in earnest conversation, involving a good deal of finger pointing and expansive arm waving on both sides.

  The bell rang for the resumption of the performance, but instead of taking their seats, only one of the men sat down. The other bore a strong resemblance to Mr Gordon, which m
ade her follow his progress as he marched purposefully up the aisle. Before she could determine if it was indeed him or not, he had disappeared through the exit. Was William’s assistant also a theatre lover and, if so, why was he leaving before the end of the performance?

  There was no time to ponder the question as the lights dimmed, sending the patrons grouped in the aisles scurrying to their seats. The low roar of conversation diminished to the occasional cough and Flora relaxed back in her seat.

  ‘What were you looking at just now with such fierce attention, Flora?’ William asked.

  ‘I thought I saw your Mr Gordon in the stalls, but I was probably mistaken.’

  ‘I should think so. He left the office early due to some personal business on the other side of town, so he isn’t likely to be here. Anyway, comedy theatre isn’t really his style.’

  ‘Apparently not as he has just left,’ Flora murmured.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. I must have imagined it. I’m used to seeing people I know wherever I go in Richmond, but there must be thousands of men like him in the city.’ She helped herself absently to another chocolate from the box on William’s lap, though she didn’t really want one. ‘Now,’ she said as the house lights dimmed to darkness. ‘We shall see if Cousin Kate will accept her new suitor in the second half, or abandon him like she did her last?’

  ‘She was jilted, Flora, that’s somewhat different.’

  ‘Then perhaps she wants revenge on the rest of mankind and will cast Mr Desmond into the abyss?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ William paused and gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘You females make me exceedingly nervous.’

  Chapter 4

  The humid warmth of the restaurant enveloped Flora as William guided her into Elena’s L’Etoile in Charlotte Street. Savoury aromas of cooked meat and hot bread stirred her hunger, reminding her she had not eaten since midday. The room was narrow, intimate rather than imposing, with twelve or so tables set around the walls, each of which seated four diners.

  The waiter’s assessing eyes swept over them, then came to rest on William where they lit up with recognition.

  ‘Mr Osborne, how delightful to see you again. Your usual table?’

  ‘That would be most agreeable, Francoise.’ William allowed the waiter to take the lead, guiding Flora into an alcove at the rear, where a round table was set for two with a gleaming white cloth and a dizzying number of crystal glasses. A lone candle sat in a silver and glass holder in the centre of the table, the gentle hiss of a wall-mounted gas jet on the wall above.

  The low light gave the place a funereal atmosphere, prompting William to whisper, ‘Shall I order for you?’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ Flora perused a menu larger than a broadsheet. ‘I prefer to make my own choices.’

  ‘Quite so.’ His wry smile told her she had been too strident. ‘However, might I suggest you try the mushroom soufflé? It’s a house speciality.’

  Flora wrinkled her nose. Mushrooms were not to her taste; which William would have known had he played a larger part in her life. This unbidden thought shocked her in its intensity, for it was not William’s fault she had grown up without him. She pushed down her resentment and summoned a bright smile. ‘I’ll have the chicken liver parfait, followed by the lamb in raspberry sauce.’

  ‘The parfait sounds good.’ William handed the menu back to the hovering waiter. ‘I’ll have that too, followed by the grilled salmon.’ His choice of wine received an effusive compliment before the waiter bowed and retreated.

  ‘Now, tell me.’ William snapped open the napkin and laid it across his lap. ‘Why did you not bring Bunny with you on this visit? My invitation included both of you.’

  ‘He was going to come, but then this case came up. He said if he had any chance of becoming a partner in the law firm, he couldn’t turn it down.’

  ‘The fraud at the bank?’ William nodded. ‘I read about in The Times. He moves in illustrious circles these days.’

  ‘I also felt that since we discovered—’ she broke off, her cheeks burning.

  ‘That I was your father?’ He kept his voice low. ‘I hope you don’t regard me as an embarrassment?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ Flora rushed to reassure him. ‘I never did.’ She swallowed the lie, shamed by the anger she had felt at the time. For months she had hidden behind grief, not only for the death of Riordan Maguire but for having been kept in ignorance for so long. ‘I admit it took some getting used to. I hope you understand that I first needed to mourn the man who had raised me.’

  ‘I confess to a little jealousy, but naturally, I understood. How do you feel now?’ Uncertainty stood in William’s eyes. Eyes that so resembled her own, she couldn’t help but stare, his face thrown into sharp relief by the light from the candle between them.

  ‘I’m growing accustomed to it. I know why you and my mother made the decisions you did. Not that it’s my place to criticize either of you.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but you‘ve had to live with the consequences of our actions.’

  She was saved from a response by the return of the waiter with their first course. He fussed over the dishes, then made an elaborate show of pouring their wine, while Flora eyed her food hungrily, wishing he would go away.

  ‘I’ve been fortunate,’ Flora said when they were alone again. ‘My husband has been wonderfully understanding. Some men would have been horrified to learn that their wife was the result of a liaison between a lady’s maid and a member of her employer’s family.’ She groaned inwardly, aware she sounded petulant. Something she had promised herself she would not do, but she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘It wasn’t a liaison, Flora.’ His eyes pleaded for understanding. ‘I loved your mother deeply.’

  ‘Just not deeply enough,’ she murmured under her breath.

  His hand stilled on his wine glass indicating he had heard. He looked about to respond, but changed his mind and summoned a smile.

  ‘How do you get on with Bunny’s mother? I hear she’s a formidable woman.’

  ‘Er-she is.’ Flora reached for her water glass and gulped a mouthful. Why couldn’t she control her tongue? ‘Beatrice is perfectly pleasant most of the time. She saves the barbed comments about governesses for when no one else is listening. Poor Bunny cannot understand why we aren’t close friends.’

  ‘Because he never sees it?’

  ‘Exactly. I sense she’s not quite sure how to treat me these days since she learned I was not, in fact, a butler’s daughter. She keeps asking when I’m going to invite her to Cleeve Abbey in order to introduce her to Lord and Lady Vaughn. I cannot count the number of times I have explained the prerogative is entirely theirs. It’s not as if I have any influence over their social calendar.’ She took her first bite of pâté, savouring the taste, which was rich and slightly sweet with a low note of herbs.

  ‘That’s an improvement of sorts,’ William acceded. ‘Although I detect a certain resentment on your part. Have you talked to Bunny about his mother?’

  ‘Not directly.’ Flora fidgeted, uncomfortable with the subject of her mother-in-law. ‘It’s her home too after all, and Bunny’s very protective of her since she was widowed.’

  ‘That was years ago, and doesn’t mean he should allow her to trample over your self-respect.’

  ‘No, he shouldn’t. And he doesn’t mean to, it’s – awkward.’ Flora rearranged her napkin. The real reason she did not want to appeal to Bunny to smooth her way with his mother, was so as not to appear weak in his eyes. Like most men, Bunny wanted, and deserved, his domestic life to be a well-ordered, efficient sanctuary, not a hotbed of dissent and resentment.

  Whatever difficulties she experienced with Beatrice were hers alone and she would deal with them in her own way. ‘I intend to establish my own truce with my mother-in-law as time goes on. If that proves impossible, then I’ll simply make sure no one knows where I buried her.’ She popped the last piece of toast into her mouth and chewed.
r />   William’s eyes flicked up and pinned her with a look filled with uncertain laughter.

  ‘I’m teasing,’ Flora added when the silence stretched.

  ‘Of course, you are.’ He exhaled in relief. ‘But it ensures I shall take every care not to upset you.’

  ‘You couldn’t do that. After all, you and I have known each other all my life. I have very fond memories of those summers spent at the Abbey.’

  ‘I like to think Bunny allowed you to come alone on this visit because he knew how much I’ve been looking forward to having my grown-up daughter to myself for a while.’ His eyes twinkled and a smile touched his mouth. ‘Do you remember you used to call me Uncle when you were young?’

  ‘You’re not my uncle, though, are you?’ As soon as the words were said, she regretted them. She didn’t know the full story as to what happened between her parents, thus it was possible she was being unfair in heaping all the blame onto William.

  ‘No, I’m not.’ He clamped his lips together, the subject hovering between them like a small grey cloud waiting to burst. ‘What did you think of Miss Jeffreys?’ he asked, pointedly changing the subject.

  ‘She played the part of Kate beautifully, considering the overly dramatic script.’

  William chuckled. ‘I saw Miss Ellis at The Prince of Wales theatre last year and she was every bit as entertaining as this evening. Unfortunately, her divorce did nothing to enhance her reputation.’

  ‘The scandal played out in the newspapers last year; it caused quite a stir.’ She pressed one finger into her cheek and adopted her mother-in-law’s fiercest expression. ‘Actresses are disreputable enough,’ Flora mimicked. ‘Without compounding their lack of morals by divorcing their husbands.’

  William spluttered on his wine and while he recovered, she added. ‘I admire her for not accepting her husband’s violent jealousy. I don’t believe men have a right to abuse their wives.’

  ‘Hmm, I see you’re quite a progressive.’ He dabbed at the red spots of spilled wine on the tablecloth with his napkin. ‘I’d better watch what I say.’