Who's Sorry Now?

by Maggie Robinson

  But surely landing a man was not the be-all of a young woman’s life, was it? It hadn’t really worked for Addie.

  “Give us a week in London. I need new clothes.”

  This was blatantly untrue. Addie had stepped off the Aquitania with a trunkful of the latest New York fashions. She had wardrobes and boxes full from before Rupert’s death filled with things she hadn’t even worn yet. Most of them hadn’t gone out of style in the year she hadn’t tried them on, and if they needed hemming or letting out, that was a simple enough task.

  Beckett gave her the withering look she deserved.

  “Do you want to come with us?”

  Now she had Beckett’s full attention. “Me?”

  “Why not? You used to come out with us sometimes in New York.” Beckett and Cee were approximately the same size, although Beckett was a touch shorter. It only meant the borrowed dresses didn’t show so much leg. Cee was quite firmly in flapper territory, curly bobbed hair and all.

  “But that was in America. Everybody does strange things in America.”

  Addie smiled. “I see no reason why I have to explain your presence to anyone. I doubt they’d care anyhow.” At thirty-one and a half, Addie was a little too old for the Bright Young People set, and didn’t care much for their opinion in the first place. She was beyond costume soirees, bathing parties, and midnight treasure hunts. The almost manic quest for fun was a mystery to her. She’d much rather be curled up in bed with a good book and a cup of cocoa, Fitz snoozing at her feet.

  If he would forgive her long absence.

  Gosh, she was still a stick-in-the-mud. The trip abroad had widened her horizons but hadn’t changed her character. Addie was a responsible adult, if one didn’t count conversations with her dead husband.

  But one could be practical and yet have fun. It was time for a slight adjustment.

  “Come on. Just do it. If anyone asks, you are our cousin Maeve from Ireland.”

  “Faith and begorra. Golly, I sound like my old granny,” Beckett said with a grin.

  Chapter Three

  Even with her spectacles, Addie could hardly see a damn thing because of the thick fug of smoke hanging over the Thieves’ Den’s small back room. She couldn’t hear anything either—the American Negro jazz band was in full and fulsome swing in the main room, where it was even smokier, and she was hoarse from shouting at Cee and Beckett over the music.

  There was no one to shout at right now, though. Cee had been hauled off by a young man to do the Charleston, and everyone else at the table followed, including her maid. She could see the dance floor through the arches; it was jam-packed, as, like the Black Bottom, the dance could be performed without a partner. Plenty of single dancers were giving it their all, and Addie felt like an ancient dowager sipping on her ginger ale, vicariously feeling her back go out from the kicks and swiveling hips.

  In Regency times, as a widow, she would have been assigned to monitor the wallflowers, but no one tonight was interested in her advice or proper decorum. One didn’t come to places like the Thieves’ Den to hide one’s light under a bushel.

  Before this evening, Addie had met only one of Cee’s friends, Lady Lucy Archibald, an earl’s daughter. The family, who had been neighbors in the country, had fallen on rock-hard times. Both of Lucy’s brothers had been killed in the war. The moldering Queen Anne house had been razed after a devastating fire destroyed more than three-quarters of it. After severe financial reverses, their town house was sold, too, and Lucy’s parents were making do with a modest rental in Bloomsbury. It was said the Earl of Marbury was parting with his rare book collection volume by volume to pay the grocer’s bills, and that his wife had taken to her bed in anticipation of the Rapture. Addie supposed it was up to Lucy to marry well and restore the family fortunes, if that was even possible.

  From what Addie knew of Lucy, it would require a strong soul to take her in hand without a generous dowry and some ear plugs. She was pretty enough, tall and lissome, but prickly and proud. Her wit was cutting, and she never hesitated to make her opinions known.

  Oddly, because of that she was much sought-after by the young nouveaux-riches, who confused her sneering pronouncements with savoir faire. If Lady Lucy was attached to a project, it was bound to be a smashing success.

  Addie believed Lucy used her position to cadge free drinks and entertainment. Not having the funds for her own membership, she was a guest tonight of a club member, Bernard Dunford, who had an obvious pash for her. Lucy treated him like slime on the bottom of her worn velvet shoe, which only seemed to make the young man keener.

  There was no accounting for the vagaries of young love.

  The rest of the party consisted of the Dean siblings, whose parents owned an exclusive seafront hotel in Brighton, and Millicent Avery, who had organized the evening. Cee and Millie had been at school together, although they’d never been especially close. In fact, Addie was not sure why Cee had called Millie in the first place, but here they were in London’s newest private club. Beckett’s eyes had been big as saucers, so at least she was having a marvelous time.

  The room was wood-paneled, which made the space even darker. Olive green suede banquettes hugged white linen-draped tables, a stubby votive candle flickering in the center of each tablecloth. Attempts had been made to resemble a gentlemen’s club—the poorly-executed copies of Old Masters on the walls, for example—not that Addie would really know. She’d never tried to storm any of the bastions of masculinity in St. James’s, although that was one of the recent popular pranks. Girls dressing up in boys’ clothing always caused a stir.

  She hoped Cee wouldn’t get any ideas. Their mother would certainly not approve.

  Wending her way around the dancers, the pretty blond hostess was making the rounds, heading straight for her. Addie tried to make herself invisible by closing her eyes, but it didn’t work.

  “All alone, love? Can I get you anything?” This was asked kindly, but made Addie feel older and more out of place than ever.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” The girl didn’t go away. Addie sighed inwardly at having to make the requisite small talk. “Is it always so loud?”

  The girl smiled, revealing a deep dimple, and nodded. “I expect I’ll be deaf before I’m twenty. It’s what the membership expects, though. The band is great, isn’t it?”

  Addie supposed it was. The young musicians were certainly enthusiastic, and were making the most of taking turns with their solos.

  “How long have they played here?”

  “Ever since Valentine’s Day, the day we opened. I heard other clubs want to grab ’em, but Oliver—the leader Ollie Johnson—likes it here.” The hostess dropped her eyes to her scarlet-manicured fingernails and blushed. Addie could see one obvious attraction of the Thieves’ Den. There were no flies on Ollie, a handsome ebony-skinned trumpet player of considerable skill.

  “Well, good luck to you all.”

  The hostess pointed to the empty champagne bottles. “I’ll send a waiter over to clear all this up. Are you interested in a membership form, madam?”

  “I? Good heavens, no. I’m usually in the country.” And far too decrepit, she wanted to add. “But I’ll take one. For my sister.” Addie wondered what their mother would have to say about that.

  The girl reached into the folder she was carrying and pulled out two pieces of paper. “One for her and one for us. The first is the rules and what-not.”

  Rules! Maybe Cee wouldn’t be interested after all. Addie thanked her and tucked the papers into her evening bag.

  “What did Trix want?”

  Addie looked up to see Roy Dean loosening his white tie. His conventionally handsome face was flushed from his recent exertions, and he picked up a drink from the table and downed it in one swallow.

  “She was soliciting membership. Are you a member?”

  “Me and m’sister both.
Gave us a family discount. Hottest place around.”

  Like London’s very own version of hell, Addie thought. “So it would seem. The club has been open for a month, I take it?”

  “Caught on like wildfire. Much more fun than some other places I could mention. Do you not dance, Lady Adelaide? I’d be happy to go back on the dance floor.”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Dean. I’ve enjoyed watching.”

  “Lady Cecilia says you just got back from New York. I bet they’ve got nothing like this!” He slid around the banquette until he was next to her, so close that Addie could smell his cologne and perspiration, layering into the funk of the space.

  None of it was tempting.

  Addie had been in darker, odder, more fashionable spots in New York, but she decided innocent young Mr. Dean did not need to know. She caught Beckett’s eye across the room and waved.

  “Your little Irish cousin’s a cutie, isn’t she? Doesn’t look a bit like either of you Merrill sisters. Not that you both aren’t cute,” he said hastily. “You must have broken a few hearts in your time.”

  Deliver me, Addie said silently. She would have to ask for a push chair to get her feeble body out of here before this stupid boy buried her in kind condescension. Beckett would be pleased at the compliment, however.

  “I never kept track. What about you, Mr. Dean? How do you keep yourself busy?”

  “I have to spend the summers in Brighton—learning the hotel business from the ground up, y’know. My pa is a stickler. No shortcuts. Worked as a bellboy when I was still in short pants. The rest of the year I try to amuse myself.” From the softness under his chin and bleary eyes, he appeared to be doing a thorough job of it.

  “And your sister?”

  The young man shrugged. “She’s on the hunt for a rich husband. Pa is old-fashioned. The hotel will come to me, and poor Pip is on her own. You know how it is.”

  She did indeed. Her cousin Ian was enjoying the amenities of the Merrill family seat, Broughton Park. If Addie had been born Adelbert, she’d be the marquess and not wasting a moment of her time in the Thieves’ Den.

  A thick-set waiter came over with a tray of reinforcements—which Addie had not ordered—and tidied up the table.

  “Hey, Ted! How’s it going?”

  “Can’t complain, Mr. Dean.”

  “Rough time the other night, what?”

  The waiter kept his face neutral. “Pardon?”

  “Tommy. Tommy Bickley. Do y’know what happened?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. The police haven’t told us anything.”

  “The police?” Addie asked, suddenly alert.

  “Nothing to worry about, ma’am. One of our members had an attack. Heart, they think. A real surprise, him being so young and all. Can I bring you anything else? A buffet supper will be served in the dining room soon.”

  Addie checked her wristwatch. It was almost midnight. How much longer would Cee want to stay? She eyed a bottle of champagne. She’d switched to ginger ale, but one more glass wouldn’t hurt, would it?

  The waiter intuited her thoughts, popping the cork and pouring them each a glass of bubbly. One sip told Addie the club was cutting corners on its liquor quality by this late hour. Things may have started off top shelf, but that was a while ago.

  “This Tommy—is he all right?” she asked Roy Dean once the waiter left. The Thieves’ Den seemed a terrible place in which to be ill.

  Dean shook his head. “I heard he died in hospital. It’s all rather mysterious. Never noticed he was sick. Wondered where he went—couldn’t find him when we all left.”

  “Gracious! How dreadful. Had he been in good health?”

  “Far as I knew. We weren’t really pals. Father’s a beer baron—you know Bickley’s Brewery?”

  Addie did not, and didn’t want to. As much as she dreaded it, she had to have a talk with Cee and the company she was presently keeping.

  Chapter Four

  Sunday

  Addie had been looking forward to a quiet evening in, but it was not to be. At least tonight’s venue, the Savoy, was far more than several notches up from the Thieves’ Den, the food and drink superior, the music by the Orpheans somewhat more restrained than Ollie Johnson’s All American Band.

  The makeup of Millie’s party was somewhat elevated too, although everyone and their uncle seemed to be a deposed Russian royal of late. Prince Andrei Alexei Andropov was Millie’s special guest, along with his half-English cousin Nadia Sanborn. Nadia’s father, a diplomat like Millie’s, had married a Russian aristocrat at the turn of the century. Her relative Andrei had made a harrowing escape in the aftermath of the Revolution with empty pockets, a shaky grasp of English, and his very good looks, seeking refuge with the family,.

  Addie believed every girl at the table was a little in love with him, and it was not hard to see why. From his white-blond hair to his piercing green eyes to the breadth of his shoulders, he was very easy on the eyes. His melancholy air was designed to foster sympathy, and his fractured English was utterly charming.

  Addie was immune—she’d fallen once for a handsome face, and look where that had gotten her. Besides, the prince was too young for her by more than half a decade. She was feeling more ancient by the evening again, and wondered how many silver hairs she’d have to pluck out of her gold tomorrow morning.

  Cee was hanging on Andrei’s every accented word. Oh dear. Their mother, the Dowager Marchioness of Broughton, was not apt to welcome an impoverished Russian émigré into the family, no matter how elegantly he wore his tails and top hat and how uselessly blue his blood might be.

  Two other young men had joined their party: Gregory Trenton-Douglass and Christopher Wheeler, known as Kit. Addie had seen them last night at the Thieves’ Den at another table as well, and wondered if any of this crowd ever stayed home in their slippers and listened to the gramophone. If Addie didn’t have misgivings about Cee’s state of mind, that’s where she’d be. Her sister shouldn’t need a chaperone, and frankly, Addie didn’t feel like much of one, even though the children around her treated her with deference—as if she might totter into an open grave at any moment at the advanced age of thirty-one.

  Well, she wasn’t dead yet, and planned to make the most of her time on earth while she could. Rupert’s early demise had shown her that much—tempus fugit. Carpe diem.

  Which reminded her of Lucas. She hadn’t called him yet to tell him she was back, although he probably knew by now. News in their exclusive little circle traveled fast, and his estate marched with Broughton Park in case he couldn’t hear the tribal drums. Her mother’s return would have been noted in the neighborhood, especially as she was now employing half the village to refresh the dower house. He’d probably turn up in Town at any moment expecting an answer to his proposal.

  Addie wasn’t ready to give it.

  For years she’d had a girlish crush on Lucas Waring. Their childhood friendship might have turned to something stronger had the Kaiser not intervened. And by the time Lucas was ready to make his intentions known, it was too late. Major Rupert Charles Cressleigh Compton had landed in his Avro 504 on leave and flown off with Addie’s heart.

  That heart, bruised and battered, was still beating, and rather averse to falling prey to another man. Or at least that’s what Addie’s brain told her, when she could think clearly over the noise of twentieth century life. She had time, didn’t she? Lucas had said he’d wait, would not place pressure on her. He knew how deeply hurt she’d been.

  Life as Lady Waring would be predictable. Safe. Lucas was nearly as good looking as the Russian prince, and far more intelligible.

  No surprises.

  Addie frowned. Where had that thought come from? Oh! From Lucas’s first rather lame proposal. Rupert had said—

  No. No. No. Rupert had not said anything, and if he did, she didn’t have to pay attention anymore.
Addie prided herself as being a sensible widow, and sensible widows did not listen to their dead husbands’ advice.

  “Do you care to dance, Lady Adelaide?”

  It was the prince, who had managed to move next to her as she stared at her wedding ring. For some reason, she’d been unable to take it off and lock it away in her jewel case.

  “No, thank you, Prince Andrei,” she said with a smile. “I’m too old for such nonsense.”

  “Too old! Now that is nonsense. You are beautiful woman. I would be fool not to appetize you.”

  “I think you mean appreciate, and I’m very flattered. But I’m out of practice. Perhaps one of the other young ladies—”

  “Pfft. I did not ask them, did I? If you dance with me, it would give me opportunity to make improvements at my English. You could explain the idiots. Those sayings that make no sense.”

  Idiots? There were plenty of them, too, to be sure. “I believe you mean idioms. English is a difficult language.”

  He nodded. “It is so. Through. Though. Thought. Bough. Enough! I fear I shall never get used to it. My French is naturally much better. But, ah!” He clapped a hand over his heart. “I must. I can never go home. My country is gone. Ruined.”

  Addie couldn’t fathom never seeing Compton Chase again, even if she’d only been its mistress for six years, and felt a tug of empathy. “Perhaps one day the world will be different.”

  “Not for me. I have lost everything but good name. Come, cheer up me. One dance only.”

  Addie found herself unable to resist. Fortunately the tempo slowed to a waltz and she was swept up in the Russian’s arms. She hadn’t danced since a few sociable nights in New York, and before that, the odd evening of Kathleen Grant’s funeral, when Rupert’s jazz records were dusted off and put to good use.