Lord Foxbridge Butts In

by Manners, Robert

  “Equerry?” I goggled at him, “Are you invited to the Royal Box?”

  “Yes I am,” he grinned smugly, “I’ve become rather chummy with Prince George since he’s been home on leave. He asked me to bring an interesting friend, and I can think of no one more interesting than Twister, no offense to yourself. I thought it would do his career a bit of good, too, having a member of the royal family interested in him, but he thinks Prince George is too scandalous for him to associate with.”

  “Well, one does hear an awful lot of whispers about him,” I could understand Twister being leery of Prince George — he wasn’t entirely comfortable being socially connected to me, and there were (as yet) no whispers about me in circulation.

  “Many of which are true,” he giggled.

  “And Twister doesn’t like surprises. You should have mentioned Prince George in the first place.”

  “You seem to know him awfully well,” Bunny looked at me suspiciously.

  “Yes, well, we’ve met a few times over the last couple of months,” I shrugged, not sure how much I could tell Bunny without it getting into the rumour-mill, “Purely in a professional capacity.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re turning into a rozzer, too!” Bunny looked disgusted.

  “Of course not, but I’ve been sort of peripherally involved in some of the cases he’s working on. I’d have told you about it, but it’s supposed to be confidential.”

  “Hmph,” he snorted, “Anyway, it’s probably just as well. You’re not such an old stick as Twister has turned into, so the Prince might just prefer your company.”

  “I’ll do my best to be fascinating,” I promised.

  “Well, don’t try too hard,” Bunny pouted, “I don’t want to become a third wheel.”

  “No worries there, old sock, he’s all yours. Not my type at all.”

  “Yes, well, we all have our little preferences, what?”

  “Vive la différence!” I toasted him.

  We finished our suppers and headed out for Covent Garden in a cab, though we had to walk from Long Acre because the taxi couldn’t get any closer in the crush of limousines: it was the last opera of the Season, and a very talked-about piece was on tap, so the house was sold out and invitations to boxes were going at a premium. It was a signal honour to get into the Royal Box on such a night, even though the King and Queen were not present, having gone on to Sandringham for the rest of the summer already.

  When we arrived at the box, we were shown to seats well to the back, where conversation would not be interrupted by the opera itself. We were not the first to arrive, but neither of us knew the other people, mostly elderly foreign-looking types, who seemed disinclined to chat; so we busied ourselves by leaning on the rail and perusing the orchestra and audience through our opera-glasses.

  Princess Mary turned up shortly after, was intensely but only briefly charming to the elderly foreigners (apparently her guests), nodded regally at me and Bunny, and sat down to immerse herself in the libretto. Prince Henry came in next, a little bit late, with a party of Army officers and attendant ladies; as the ranking royal, he bowed to the audience from the railing (by this time, Bunny and I had retreated to our own seats), and signaled the conductor that he could begin when ready.

  When Prince George showed up, a few minutes into the overture, I immediately regretted promising to leave him to Bunny: HRH was considerably more attractive in person than he was in pictures — and in pictures he’s quite good-looking. His eyes in particular were simply riveting, when he looked at me I felt like he and I were the only two people in the world.

  However, I suspect he looked at everyone like that. And though he did flirt a little, he didn’t seem especially captivated by my conversation; I was just another pretty face, and he soon devoted himself entirely to gossiping with Bunny about people I didn’t know.

  Once the opera ground itself into action (Turandot...can’t say I saw what all the fuss was about, it was rather bombastic and a little discordant, though the staging was spectacular and there were a couple of pretty arias), I fell into chit-chat with my other neighbour, a very elegant lady who might have been anywhere between thirty and fifty years old, wearing a slinky black gown, heavy makeup, and a black turban with an opulent old ruby brooch on it.

  She introduced herself as Lady Beatrice Todmore, and I remembered her from old society pages: the second daughter of the Earl of Oglesby and one of the great débutantes immediately before the War, part of the celebrated ‘Coterie’ alongside Lady Diana Manners. After the war, she married a young man of relatively humble birth who’d so conspicuously distinguished himself in various battles that he was awarded a knighthood as well as a DSO and a row of medals. There were a number of rumours that their marriage was unhappy, and in fact they were seldom seen in public together; but there was never any murmur of scandal or divorce, so people simply assumed that either they were intensely discreet in their affairs, or they didn’t have any.

  She was wonderfully charming, and extremely knowledgeable about opera, but there was something about the way she spoke that was very arresting, a kind of sensuousness to her voice and words: it’s what one would expect the Serpent in the Garden of Eden to have sounded like — not unpleasant at all, but rather luxurious and enticing.

  During the interval, she excused herself to go say hello to some friends in another box, and Prince George turned his riveting eyes on me again.

  “I see La Pantera has got her claws into you,” he smirked at me knowingly.

  “That’s an awful nickname,” I frowned, though I had to admit that it suited her: she was very like a lithe jungle cat, “And she hasn’t been clawing on me. She’s been perfectly charming.”

  “Charming is the right word,” he looked at me with a mixture of pity and amusement, “She charms boys the way a cobra charms a mouse. With similar results.”

  “Don’t pay any attention, Foxy,” Bunny leaned over HRH’s shoulder, “He’s just jealous she’s talking to you instead of slobbering all over him.”

  “I am not!” the Prince slapped Bunny’s arm playfully, “I wouldn’t want to get slobber on this jacket, it’s new. But seriously, Lord Foxbridge, she’s a man-eater. Be careful.”

  “Well, I’m not really the sort who gets nibbled by ladies, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh, that’s even worse!” Prince George made a horrified face, “She’ll drag you home and let Toddy feast on you!”

  “Who’s Toddy?” I laughed.

  “Sir Alan Todmore,” Bunny whispered, “The war hero, you know. La Pantera’s husband.”

  “We call him The Black Knight,” HRH smiled wickedly, “He likes to wear military uniforms made of black leather. Complete with silver spurs and a riding-crop.”

  “I’ve heard that he has a dungeon in his house,” Bunny’s whispers were taking on the subtlety of a steam-engine as he warmed to the topic, “Just like the one in Madame Tussaud’s, but without the wax figures.”

  “Don’t forget the boy-hunts,” Lady Beatrice was suddenly standing behind me, startling Bunny into a mortified yip, though Prince George took it in stride, “People say my husband rounds up boys from the East End, Lord Foxbridge; he supposedly strips them down and sets them loose in the woods, then chases them on horseback, forcing his attentions on the first one he catches. Though where people think he can ride out into the woods hunting naked boys is beyond me. We haven’t a country seat of our own, and chasing naked boys in Hyde Park would cause a stir.”

  “Well, we all do like a sweet morsel of gossip, don’t we?” HRH asked, his big eyes as innocent as a puppy’s, “So long as it doesn’t get in the papers, no harm done.”

  “None at all,” Lady Beatrice agreed, sliding gracefully into her seat, “And Toddy does relish the rumours. He only wishes half of them were true. I think we’ve shocked Lord Foxbridge.”

  “Not at all,” I lied; in fact, I was so appalled and yet fascinated by the idea of riding after naked boys instead hounds that I coul
d feel a blush rise to my cheeks. Fortunately, the lights went down just then, so nobody bothered to pursue the topic, turning instead to the stage as Act II came banging into its first scene with an explosion of slightly off-key racket, followed by a very nice trio.

  I hadn’t read the libretto, and didn’t understand a word of Italian, so I had no idea what the three fat men were singing; but the song was pretty and wistful, though it went discordant in parts, where I assumed the men’s wistfulness turned momentarily to anger.

  “Do you have any idea what’s going on?” I whispered to Lady Beatrice, noticing that she was watching intently and didn’t flinch when the tone changed, as I did, “What are they on about?”

  “They’re complaining about their work at Court and wishing they were at home in the country,” she whispered back.

  “Sounds like my father towards the end of a Parliamentary session,” I giggled.

  “The bit about the dungeon is perfectly true,” she said, harkening back to the previous conversation.

  “Really?” I gurgled, at a loss for words.

  “I’ll show you some time, if you like,” she looked at me very closely, gauging my reaction; I must have reacted like a terrified rabbit, since she just laughed and patted my hand, “The Emperor is about to come on, brace yourself.”

  After the eruption of noise and gold that marked the entrance of the Emperor, Lady Beatrice explained the opera to me (when she could be heard), which made the thing a little more bearable. It was quite a story, the time-honoured three riddles used everywhere from Homer to Shakespeare (though the riddles made absolutely no sense); but it seemed to dwell rather unpleasantly on rape and murder, youth cut down in its flower, and self-destructive passions. Puccini always was one for the darker passions, she told me: everyone was demented with hate or love, or both, and someone always died.

  The next interval, Lady Beatrice stayed in the box, introducing me to her escort, a young but peculiarly unattractive colonel by the name of Tallant with bulging eyes and a receding hairline; the Colonel was full of excitement about the nightclub they were planning to visit after the opera, a new place called The Chicago Club, which was supposed to be a replica of a real American speakeasy: they served whiskey in teacups and gin in tooth-glasses, with a negro jazz band and dancers in miniscule costumes. Col. Tallant insisted I come along, as ‘Lady Bea’ had so clearly taken a shine to me.

  Act III started prettily enough, sweet and quiet with a lovely tenor aria; but things got ugly very quickly, and I was on the edge of my seat chewing my knuckles as Lady Beatrice translated the whole thing in my ear, with torture and suicide and all manner of assorted awfulness. It was terribly compelling, once I knew what was happening, but I was frankly relieved when the whole thing was over.

  Princess Mary and her guests bustled out immediately after the curtain-calls, with an air of people who are quite ready for their beds and would trample anyone who stood in their way; Bunny and Prince George tagged along to the Chicago Club with Prince Henry’s party, and we all piled rather pell-mell into a bunch of limousines that waited at the Royal Entrance. It was a very short drive to the Strand, where the Chicago Club occupied the ground-floor and basement of a big commercial building a few doors down from the Savoy.

  The entrance to the club was in the back, down a dark alley that was meant to lend atmosphere but merely smelt of garbage, with a scarlet marquee taking up most of a narrow courtyard bright with neon signs. Inside was similarly lit, with tubes of carnival-coloured neon everywhere but the rest of the lights kept low, creating a strange and disorienting contrast of bright and dark. The music was incredibly loud, dominated by a high-pitched saxophone; and when we entered there were a dozen girls in spangled shorts and brassières making an awful racket with tap shoes on the dance-floor.

  We were shown to a large curtained alcove, where Their Royal Highnesses could see without being seen, and were brought a massive battered steel tea-service of a half-dozen pots and carafes of different liquors, with glasses and teacups and napery, as well as racks of toast and chafing-dishes of sausages and scrambled eggs, so we could serve ourselves — it was exactly like having tea in a university common-room, except we were all in evening dress and getting pie-eyed drunk, screaming at each other in order to be heard over the raucous music.

  I went and danced with Lady Bea, as well as the two other ladies from Prince Henry’s party; a lot of the fellows had taken off their jackets and loosened their ties, and I followed suit after the first dance lest I be roasted alive — American dances like the Charleston and the Black Bottom are terrifically athletic, I got quite a workout that night.

  Toward the end of the night, I was escorting Lady Bea back to the table when we ran into the Marquis de Mazan, looking cool and sinister in exquisite black tie; he already knew Lady Bea and her husband, and fell into a brief but apparently amusing conversation in fluent French, then bade us both good night and disappeared into the gloom.

  “I’m surprised you know Louis,” Lady Bea said to me as we regained the table.

  “I only met him this afternoon,” I admitted, “Though he lives in the same hotel as I do.”

  “And now I’m surprised you live in that hotel,” she looked at me as if seeing me for the first time, “You’re not quite the naïve little lamb you appear, are you?”

  “I can still be shocked, as I think you’ve noticed; but nobody has called me ‘naïve’ since I left Eton. How do you know the Marquis?”

  “Oh, Toddy and I go to his little ‘auctions’ now and then,” she laughed and held out her cigarette for me to light.

  “Auctions?” I was puzzled by the word, “Like antiques?”

  “No, slave auctions,” she grinned when she saw she’d shocked me again, “They’re very amusing. Young prostitutes, boys and girls; they come out on a stage and do something wonderfully depraved, in singles or pairs or even groups, and then Louis auctions each one off to the highest bidder to take home for the night.”

  “That’s disgusting,” I made a face, thinking of Gabriel in such a situation.

  “One man’s meat is another man’s poison,” she lifted her shoulders in an indifferent shrug, “There are those who would call your amorous activities ‘disgusting.’ There’s no need to pay attention to such people.”

  “I didn’t mean to be insulting,” I apologized, “I spoke without thinking. Or rather, I was thinking of a young friend of mine who used to make his living as a prostitute. And I was thinking of things I’ve been told about the Marquis. Imagining de Mazan auctioning off my Gabriel touched a nerve.”

  “No insult taken,” she smiled beautifully, “And I quite understand. If one does not find pleasure in sadomasochism, it must sound absolutely ghastly.”

  I opened my mouth to ask her if she was herself a devotee of sadomasochism, or if she was speaking generally; but I stopped myself in time: that was too indelicate a question to launch on a lady. Chivalry demands the pretense of believing women are incapable of lewdness, and I grew up steeped to the gills in chivalry — even though experience had taught me that this was simply not true.

  We stayed at the Chicago Club until well after four in the morning, and I chose to walk home in the chill of pre-dawn in order to clear my head; I thanked Prince George for the opera, and Prince Henry for the drinks, kissed Lady Bea’s hand ostentatiously, and set off down the Strand.

  I wasn’t even as far as Trafalgar Square before I regretted the decision: four hours of dancing athletically in opera pumps, and swilling whiskey out of teacups, and then a mile’s walk in the same pumps, was a very stupid idea. But of course there were no cabs to be had at that hour, so I suffered the rest of the way home and crawled into bed without even getting undressed.

  *****

  When I woke up later that morning, my rumpled evening clothes were itching like mad, and my back and feet and head were all in excruciating pain; Pond was standing there with my coffee and a perturbed look on his face — the part of his face that wasn’
t swimming around in circles, that is.

  “Aspirin,” I croaked, gingerly turning over on my back and reaching for the coffee, “and water. Gallons of water.”

  “The Marquis de Mazan called this morning, my lord,” Pond said austerely, lowering his tray again to show me that it bore a calling-card as well as my coffee.

  “Did he say what he wanted?” I took the card so that Pond could stand back up, but didn’t look at it. I couldn’t have read it, anyway — I could barely see Pond, and he was a lot bigger than a calling-card.

  “He wanted to sneak in and surprise you!” the crust of Pond fell off as Reggie vented his anger, “The nerve of that creature! I told him it was more than my position was worth to allow you to be waked before noon after being out all night, and he laughed at me and called me a ‘silly little bulldog.’ He’ll be laughing out the other side of his face if I ever catch him outdoors on my afternoon off.”

  “You needn’t wait for your afternoon off,” I smiled, though it made me wince, “I encourage you to take a poke at him any time you like, and another one from me. Now get the aspirin, please. And a hot bath with plenty of Epsom salts, I feel like I’ve been through a combine harvester.”

  “Very good, my lord,” he bowed and went to the bathroom, his crust back in place.

  Every once in a while, I’d pop out of bed and go to the Park, but Sundays were mostly my day to loaf about my rooms; I was so frequently out late on Saturday nights, and usually nursing a hangover of some description next day, so I’d learned to accept no invitations. I didn’t get dressed until luncheon, which was usually at tea-time, then dined early in the hotel and went back to bed at a more respectable hour.

  That Sunday, though, was interrupted by a near-constant stream of visitors. First, Bunny came by while I was still at breakfast, wanting to compare notes about the opera, the royals, and the Chicago Club; he was so abominably cheerful that I wanted to throw my egg at him, but then I’d have to wait for Pond to boil another one. Then the Marquis stopped in again to ask me to lunch, but I declined as politely as I could, claiming a slight head-cold after walking home late last night. Later on, Baron van der Swertz and Gabriel came by to invite me along on a picnic they were having in St. James’s Park, but I gave the same excuse; it was a lovely day for picnicking in the Park, but I was in no mood to be a third wheel (though they were not lovers, they were constantly billing and cooing at each other, and it sometimes got on my nerves)