The Sugared Game

by KJ Charles

  “Decided to toddle along, what,” Fanshawe said. “I say, we’ve met. This feller, I mean. He’s the chap from the night-club. The one who popped me in the eye.”

  “He did what?” Maisie said.

  “Uh—”

  “Night-club, Will?” Kim asked, materialising at his side. “I didn’t think you’d set foot in one of those in your life.”

  “No, Will isn’t a night-clubber, are you, darling?” Phoebe said. “And this is Johnnie—”

  “It is him,” Fanshawe said obstinately. “I blasted well remember being popped in the eye by a feller for no reason!”

  “I think I’d remember popping you in the eye,” Will said, since he had no choice but to follow the lead he’d been given. “It’s not my habit to assault strangers.”

  “Well, a chap who looked exactly like you dotted me one in the High-Low last week.”

  “Never heard of it,” Will said, cursing everyone involved.

  “Bubby, darling, he doesn’t look anything like him,” Phoebe said reproachfully. “Will, I mean, like that awful man who popped you in the eye. He was dreadfully common, and much taller.”

  “Also, Will is an antiquarian book dealer,” Kim said. “I dare say he’d fight you to the death over an incunabulum, but the breed isn’t known for night-club brawls. What were you doing to provoke assault, Bubby?”

  “He didn’t do anything,” Miss Moran put in. “Some fellow went simply berserk in the High-Low for no reason at all, shouting and swearing. It was desperately fear-making. Bubby tried to stop him and got a thump in the face for his pains.”

  “Serves you right,” Kim said. “You shouldn’t interfere in other people’s business.”

  “Serves me right?” Fanshawe repeated incredulously. “Listen here, Secretan—”

  “He did look like you, though,” Miss Moran remarked, as Fanshawe turned his full attention to Kim.

  “I have one of those faces,” Will said apologetically. “I constantly get strangers asking me where they know me from, or if we went to school together.”

  “You do, rather,” Phoebe agreed. “Well, that explains it.”

  “And Bubby was hopelessly blotto that night,” Miss Moran added, without criticism. “Which explains it even better. Imagine if it was you, though. Perfectly scream-making!”

  “Too hilarious,” Phoebe said. “And this is Johnnie Cheveley. Johnnie, Will Darling.”

  Cheveley was well built, good-looking, radiating the air of an English public schoolboy grown up into a cricket-playing gentleman. Will would have formed an instant dislike for him if he hadn’t already had a head start. Cheveley gave Phoebe the sort of affectionate look that should be reserved for a fiancée of his own, and said, “Thank you, my love. Good to meet you, Darling. So you aren’t a habitué of the High-Low, then?”

  Will wasn’t sure if he was being mocked, or if that was just his guilty conscience. Phoebe had said that Cheveley disliked the place, though, so he felt reasonably confident in saying, “Never been, I’m afraid.”

  “You haven’t missed much,” Cheveley assured him. “A rotten noisy Negro band, and a thoroughly vulgar woman in charge. Not worth anyone’s time. What’s an incubus, or whatever it was?”

  Will launched into an explanation of incunabula, as if this was a conversation he wanted to be having or a man he wanted to be having it with, and kept half an eye on the room around him. Another group had arrived, this lot older, sharper and sleeker, and Phoebe had whisked Maisie off to join them. Those must be the fashion people, the makers rather than wearers of clothing; just as alien to Will as the Bright Young People but potentially less irritating.

  Maisie stood out as the only one in the room who wasn’t white, as well as by far the curviest. Will couldn’t blame her for switching her accent. If he’d been able to do a posh voice that was remotely convincing, he might have tried it himself.

  After a few moments of forced conversation with Cheveley, someone came and took him away, and Will had a moment to survey proceedings. Phoebe was in effortless control of the room, laughing and talking. She introduced Maisie as a brilliant young designer, with the proof being the frocks the two of them wore, and that seemed to work for their guests. Will didn’t follow much of the conversation, but these were people at the top of their field: his input wasn’t required. He smiled and shook hands and watched: Phoebe laughing and glittering; Maisie launching herself into this unknown, privileged world with an easy smile that covered her dogged determination to get it right; Kim being Lord Arthur. He’d never seen that before.

  Not that Kim was being snobby. Everyone called him by name. But there was something different in his demeanour, an easy, charming social manner that indicated he was granting them all permission to behave as his equal. This was the wealthy son of a marquess, with his fiancée the daughter of a viscount, both of them scattering starlight everywhere. This was a man Will had no right to touch.

  At dinner he found himself at the end of the table, opposite a strikingly handsome chap whose name he’d missed. He’d have been happy to concentrate on his food and let his neighbours carry on gossiping about people he’d never met or heard of, but after a few minutes, the man remarked, “Forgive me, but would I be right in saying this isn’t entirely your sort of thing?”

  Will wondered if he meant the Criterion restaurant, the world of fashion, or just upper-class socialising. “It’s not,” he admitted with the best smile he could manage. “I run a bookshop, I’m afraid.”

  “The printed word is nothing to apologise for. I used to illustrate for magazines.”

  “Oh, really? Which?”

  “Smart Set.”

  “I’ve read a few of those,” Will said, feeling pleased with himself. “And now...?”

  “I have a Paris salon,” the man said kindly. “Edward Molyneux.”

  Will cringed. “Right, yes, sorry. You used to work with Lucile. Lady Duff-Gordon.” That was an effort to show he’d done some homework, and a bloody stupid one because Molyneux already knew. Shut up, Darling.

  “Yes, that’s me. You read your bumf, poor chap,” Molyneux said with a twinkle that only reached one eye.

  Will noted that, recognised something in his tone along with the slang, and said, “Were you at the Front, at all?”

  “Signals intelligence.” He indicated the eye that didn’t twinkle. “Got this, or rather lost it, at Arras. Where were you?”

  Will hadn’t expected war talk this evening. He slipped into the familiar world with guilty pleasure, established a few names they had in common, and exchanged stories. Molyneux proved to be a sharply intelligent man with a wicked sense of humour, and before long Will found he was having a thoroughly good time.

  A thought occurred to him as Molyneux told a frankly libellous story about certain high-ranking Signals officers. “Here,” he said once he’d stopped laughing. “I don’t suppose you and Cheveley were together? He was Signals as well.”

  “Johnnie? I only know him socially.”

  “I believe he’ll be working with Phoebe and Ma—Marguerite, on her father’s behalf.”

  “Yes, he’s Waring’s chap, isn’t he? Not sure why he’s inserting himself into this; it’s not his world.” Molyneux’s working eye flicked down the table, in Phoebe’s direction. “If I were Johnnie, I’d leave it to Phoebe. She knows her stuff, everyone likes her, and it’s a business where women have a voice, not to say the whip hand. The Victorian style of masterly man won’t do these days. Is he coming to Paris with them?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Molyneux nodded. He didn’t speak, but Will got a strong impression of, Good.

  The rest of the dinner passed swiftly in general conversation, and it only dawned on him that this might not have been the most useful way to take up Molyneux’s time as the party broke up. He caught Kim’s eye guiltily and got a brow-twitch in return.

  “It was delightful meeting you,” Molyneux told him. “I do hope Miss Zie will come to rue Royale to se
e me. I like her style very much—it has great flair, and what one might call a measured eye, daring without recklessness—and I should be pleased to talk further. Er, are she and you...?”

  “Friends, that’s all.”

  Molyneux smiled, a little slower. “In that case, I should be delighted to see you too.”

  KIM USHERED WILL AND the women into a taxi for a drink at his place, where he set about cocktails. Maisie and Phoebe sat together on the sofa, eyes bright; Will lounged by the cocktail cabinet watching Kim’s mixology.

  Kim gave him the ladies’ drinks—sidecars, apparently—to pass on. “That was a success, I think. Except Bubby. What in God’s name possessed you to invite him, Phoebe?”

  “I invited him before all that, with Adela,” Phoebe protested. “I got Elizabeth Ponsonby to ask him on a spree tonight to get him out of the way, but he must have changed his mind.”

  “Does he have one?”

  “Don’t be unkind. And I’m awfully sorry he turned up, but I can’t be blamed because Will decided to thump him in a night-club.”

  Will held his hands up to that. Maisie said, “Why did you?”

  “Don’t ask,” Kim said. “Were you pleased with tonight?”

  “It was wonderful.” Maisie’s eyes were bright. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Don’t thank me at all. My reward was watching Will discuss signals intelligence with Teddy Molyneux.”

  “Oh, is that what you were discussing, darling?” Phoebe said. “I did wonder.”

  “As well you might, since Molyneux invited him to Paris. I am shocked, William.”

  “What?” Will said, startled and alarmed. “No, he didn’t. I mean, he did, but—”

  “Darling, we all know Teddy,” Phoebe assured him. “You should be flattered: he’s dreadfully handsome. And only just divorced, so you really might go and comfort him as a kindness.” She gave him a mock-reproachful look before bursting into giggles. Maisie’s eyes were wide.

  “Yes, but he got married for comfort after that affair with Harold Nicolson,” Kim pointed out. “And God knows who Nicolson was comforting him about, but it was probably some good-looking soldier, in which case we come full circle. He should stop for a minute and take stock.”

  “Not of me he shouldn’t,” Will said. “I mean, nice chap—”

  “And staggeringly good-looking,” Phoebe added.

  “But not my sort,” Will finished firmly, if not entirely accurately. Molyneux was a looker all right, and not greatly dissimilar to Kim: dark, fine features, clever mind, and given his war record he’d probably be a useful man in a tight corner. In fact, there was everything to like about him and Will did, but that space was filled.

  “I feel awfully Bohemian,” Maisie said, clutching her cocktail. “Goodness. Did he really invite you to Paris, Will?”

  “Of course he didn’t.” Will reviewed the conversation. “Well, maybe a bit, but—”

  “Ha,” Kim said.

  “But mostly he was inviting you, professionally,” Will pressed on and repeated Molyneux’s words.

  Maisie squeaked. Phoebe said, “Teddy has a beautiful line, desperately clean. This is quite perfect. We really must go as soon as possible. Strike while the iron is hot, as they say, although I can’t honestly see how that helps or what one is supposed to strike.”

  “Iron as in blacksmiths, not laundry maids,” Kim said. “And you’re quite right. London is too provincial, and Paris is delightful in the spring. Have you booked your passages?”

  “I think we should do that tomorrow,” Phoebe said. “Honestly, Maisie, we’ve so much to do.”

  Maisie shot Will a panicked look. He could guess at her thoughts: But my sick auntie in Watford. But Paris is a long way from Cardiff. But people like me should know their place.

  “That lot tonight took you seriously,” he said. “You should too.”

  “Will is quite right,” Kim agreed. “Full many a flower is born to blush unseen and waste its sweetness on the desert air. Don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Maisie said indignantly, drawing herself up with a decided shake of her shoulders that did remarkable if unintended things to her bosom in that dress. Will averted his eyes out of courtesy, which meant he saw Phoebe’s blink. “I’m awfully excited and very grateful to you for that lovely dinner. It’s just all happening a little bit fast.”

  “The best kind of happening,” Kim said. “Tell me, what did we think of Adela Moran’s frock? Because I bow to your expertise but I thought she looked like a Russian Futurist painting, and that’s not a compliment.”

  “Perhaps not to you, darling. Adela would be delighted.”

  Maisie and Phoebe stayed a good hour for cocktails, slander, and gossip that made Will choke laughing before Maisie finally protested she had to work in the morning. Kim went downstairs to have the doorman hail them a taxi-cab, since Phoebe insisted they would share. She lived west and Maisie lived east, so that made limited sense to Will, but he’d had a few drinks and everyone seemed happy.

  He waited for Kim to return, watching the fire.

  “Hello,” said his partner in crime, slipping back in. “That went well, I think. And you survived.”

  “It was a near thing. I can’t believe you managed to distract Fanshawe.”

  “I’ve stubbed my toe on things with more intellectual heft than Bubby. How did you find Johnnie Cheveley?”

  “He’s an arsehole.”

  “Isn’t he?”

  “Molyneux didn’t think much of him either.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. Johnnie is not an admirer of the modern world. He has old-fashioned ideas on appropriate behaviour for men, women’s place in the world, the superiority of the ruling classes, and so on.”

  “He can’t think much about Phoebe working with Maisie, then.”

  “Indeed not. It’s Waring’s money, though, so Johnnie will have to live with it. Tell me, what was troubling you when you arrived?”

  “What—oh, that,” Will said. “I had a visit from Tommy Telford.”

  Kim’s eyes snapped wide. “I beg your pardon?”

  Will gave him the story. “Nasty bit of work. I was glad I had the Messer to hand.”

  “And it was a generalised message to keep your nose out? No specifics?”

  Will shook his head. “It has to be about the High-Low, I suppose. Not sure why he came for me now rather than before, though, or why Fuller wouldn’t do his own dirty work.”

  “That might have been a bit unsubtle, perhaps? Or not, given Mrs. Skyrme mentioned Telford to you. Hmm. Are you worried?”

  Will shrugged. “If he’d meant to act, he’d have acted. He was there to intimidate me, and he can stick that where the sun doesn’t shine.”

  “As night follows day,” Kim murmured. “I’m surprised Zodiac haven’t yet realised you don’t take threats well. Though you will of course take care.”

  “Eh. Are you going to tell me what that was about tonight?”

  “What part?”

  “You making a fuss about Molyneux inviting me to Paris.” In another man he might have assumed jealousy, but that didn’t seem to be one of Kim’s many faults, and he knew better than to take anything at face value by now.

  “Ah, yes.” Kim raised a brow. “I don’t know how to break it to you, dear boy, but if Maisie pursues a career in fashion, she is likely to meet people of the homosexual or sapphic persuasions. Try not to be shocked.”

  “So?”

  “So Phoebe thought she should learn to react in an environment where a misstep wouldn’t hurt. As it turned out, she is sure-footed, and a quick study. I see why you both like her so much. I’d like to know her better myself.”

  “It went well, didn’t it?”

  “Extremely.”

  “I’m grateful,” Will said. “Not that it’s up to me to be grateful for her, but she’s a damned good friend and I want her to have her chance.”

  “I feel the same. Phoebe is finding her vocation
as a midwife to talent. I should very much like to see them both succeed.”

  Will nodded. “Something good would make a nice change. Uh. Were you serious about Molyneux, though?”

  Kim’s smile was wicked. “Why, are you interested?”

  “No! Just, you know—”

  “Flattered?”

  “Oh, sod off,” Will said, but he couldn’t help a grin. “Just bear in mind I have options, next time you’re thinking about being an arsehole.”

  “That you most certainly do; he was over you like a rash. I don’t blame him: you’re positively delicious in evening dress.”

  “I look ridiculous.”

  “You do not. You look sophisticatedly thuggish, and quite the most fascinating thing that’s happened to the Criterion in a while. I’ll be fielding enquiries for weeks.”

  “You posh lot really aren’t like the rest of us, are you?”

  It was meant to be a joke, but it didn’t feel quite like one as he said it, and Kim’s frown suggested he’d noticed. “Is there a problem?”

  “Not a problem. It was just a bit peculiar tonight watching you being Lord Arthur. Condescending at people. Playing the marquess’s son with people calling you my lord.”

  “Part of the game,” Kim said. “It sugars the pill, not to call the lovely Maisie a pill. My value lies entirely in my birth, you understand. We dined with Kim—Lord Arthur, but we all call him Kim, his people have a place in East Anglia. It scarcely matters in fashionable circles that I am no more welcome to set foot in my ancestral home than they are; the point is to say they dined at Lord So-and-so’s table, no matter who he is. That’s what they want, so it’s what I give them.”

  “You do it well,” Will said. “I definitely felt like you were a lord.”

  “That wasn’t my intention.”

  “It may not have been, but you are. Even if it’s a courtesy title, you’re still a lord.”

  “But Will,” Kim said softly. “When have I ever asked you for courtesy?”