Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (30 page)

Edna laughed as she looked up into his face. “What I did was inappropriate enough. You are not to hit a Prince of England!”

Rowland shook his head. “What is it we're doing here again?”

Edna sighed. “We're trying to find out if this Mrs. Simpson woman was having an affair with Lord Pierrepont, whether she might have been so scorned when he married Euphemia that she killed him.”

“Hell hath no fury,” Rowland murmured. “Have you been introduced to Mrs. Simpson yet?”

Edna shook her head. “I'm not even sure who she is.”

“This is going to be more difficult than I anticipated,” Rowland said, noticing Prince George speaking earnestly to Lady Winslow-Scott.

Edna saw too. She bit her lip nervously. “Oh dear… perhaps he's dreadfully offended. Rowly, I'm so sorry. I'm afraid I might have landed us in terrible trouble.”

Rowland laughed. “I understand the Tower of London is no longer in use, Ed. Let him be offended.”

They danced together until the bracket had concluded, expecting at any moment to be asked to leave. As it was, they were not.

Taking advantage of the reprieve they made a concerted effort to mingle with as many people as they could in an effort to happen upon Mrs. Simpson. The crowd seemed to be made up of the young elite of London: well-bred, well-educated and very well-to-do. They were gay and loud and for the most part oblivious or indifferent to the troubles of the world. As the night wore on guests became less concerned about appearances, or perhaps it was just that appearances were blurred by champagne and cocktails of various sorts. The tempo of the music increased and then became sultry as the ballroom lights were dimmed.

Lady Winslow-Scott appeared suddenly and quite intimately between Rowland and Edna, entwining her arms with theirs. “Well, didn't you lovebirds make an impression on the prince! His Majesty has asked me to ensure you are both invited to one of our weekends.”

“Really?” Edna was surprised.

“We host a few very special friends down to our house in the country for a wickedly fabulous and thoroughly indulgent weekend. You must promise me you'll come!”

A young woman with a champagne glass in each hand joined them. She took a sip from each glass. Lady Winslow-Scott introduced the Viscountess Thelma Furness.

“Oh no, Vera, it is Thelma the Viscountess Furness. A subtle change in order to signify the viscount and I are now divorced!”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Furness.” Rowland took the lead so as to remind Edna of the protocol that went with the title of Viscountess, divorced or not.

Thelma Furness spoke with the gentle drawl of an American whose accent had been consciously mitigated. In her late twenties she was the epitome of fashionable style. Her figure was petite to the point of being too thin and shown to best advantage in a form-fitting sleeveless gown.

“You must excuse me,” she said. “I'm a little tight.”

She gave one of her glasses of champagne to Edna. “You certainly made a wonderful spectacle of yourself,” she said, though not unkindly. “I must admit I felt a guilty thrill to see you defy all this stuffy, tiresome British protocol.”

Edna smiled in reply, a little startled by what she had started. She reached for Rowland's hand.

“You mustn't be frightened that I would censure you, my dear,” Thelma went on. “I know exactly what Georgie can be like.” She brought her face a little too close to Edna's in a display of confidence. “The Prince of Wales has had the most worrying time with him. Georgie has a weakness for Americans, too, you see, but he's a terrible picker. The hijinks he got up to with that Preston woman!
Kiki
for pity's sake! Did he really think his dear papa would countenance, let alone tolerate, a
Princess Kiki
?”

“Thelma and the Prince Edward are very intimate friends,” Lady Winslow-Scott contributed. Then to Thelma, “I had hoped your being here would entice His Majesty to accept my invitation.”

“I hoped so too, but who knows what rules that might have broken.” Lady Furness sighed. “It seems Ernest and Wallis have also stayed away.”

“Oh, Ernest is here somewhere,” Lady Winslow-Scott informed her. “Although he did come quite late. It seems Wallis became ill at the very last minute.”

“Well, I must say, I'm awfully disappointed. Neither my sweet prince nor my dearest Wallis to keep me company!”

“I hope your friend is not too unwell,” Edna ventured.

Lady Winslow-Scott frowned as she contemplated Wallis Simpson's health. “She has seemed a little out of sorts these past weeks. I do hope she isn't coming down with the dreaded influenza.”

Thelma Furness gulped and giggled. “How
uncommonly discreet
of you, Vera.” She held her hand up to her face and whispered loudly to Edna. “Wallis' lover died recently. She's quite at a loss but, of course, she can't mourn him publicly. I suspect that's the cause of her current indisposition.”

Edna nodded in a gesture of understanding. “And is Mr. Simpson aware of the reason for his wife not being well?”

“Who can say what Ernest knows,” Lady Winslow-Scott interjected, unwilling to let the news of the scandal be delivered entirely by another. “He's devoted to Wallis.” She looked from Edna to Rowland. “Devotion makes some men tolerant and others angry.”

They were interrupted by Lord Winslow-Scott and an elderly gentleman who wore round spectacles and a showman's moustache, which he twirled like the villain of some silent picture. Winslow-Scott introduced Herr Von Kirsch, a member of the German delegation to the London Economic Conference.

Von Kirsch clicked his heels and bowed his head. “Have we met before, sir?” he asked, squinting intently at Rowland.

Rowland answered carefully, cognisant of the fact that the German must have seen him—albeit from a distance—the day the Blackshirts disrupted the conference. “My brother is one of the Australian delegates at the economic conference, Herr Von Kirsch. Perhaps you have noticed some fraternal similarity.”

“Sinclair… yes, of course. I have spoken with your brother. He is a respected gentleman.” He turned to Edna. “Will you do an old man a kindness and allow me to have this dance, Fraulein Higgins?” he said, holding out his hand.

Edna glanced at Rowland. If anyone would realise that she was not the runaway wife of a Nazi, it would be Von Kirsch. Yet, how could she refuse?

Rowland shook his head slightly.

“Just one dance, Fraulein,” Von Kirsch persisted. “Surely, Herr Sinclair can spare you when he has the company of two such beautiful women,” he added, acknowledging Thelma Furness and Lady Winslow-Scott.

Edna took the German's hand uncertainly.

Von Kirsch led her onto the dance floor.

Rowland made inconsequential conversation with the Winslow-Scotts and Lady Furness but his eyes remained fixed upon Edna and the man with whom she danced.

“Why, Mr. Sinclair,” Thelma Furness laughed. “Shame on you. It's so terribly old-fashioned to be possessive.”

Rowland could see that Von Kirsch was speaking to Edna and that the sculptress was startled. He excused himself, walking towards them. Then suddenly Edna stopped dancing and pulled away from the German. She walked off the dance floor to Rowland.

“Ed?” he said as she grabbed his arm. She was shaking. “What is it?”

“He knows, Rowly.”

“That you're not married?”

“He knows we were in Munich. He was at the King Rupprecht's ball that night. He remembers me. He knows that we're wanted in Germany. We have to leave—now!”

V
on Kirsch beckoned for aid. Rowland didn't wait to see who would respond. He took Edna's hand and led her briskly towards the door. They stopped to thank the Winslow-Scotts for their hospitality, only because slipping past their hosts was near impossible.

Rowland explained that Edna had suddenly taken ill, an excuse corroborated by the sculptress' shaken pallor. In the far periphery of his vision Rowland could see Von Kirsch pointing them out… but to whom, he could not discern. A footman was sent to inform the Bruces' chauffeur that they were ready for the car.

“We might wait outside,” Rowland told the Winslow-Scotts. “The fresh air may do Miss Higgins some good.”

And, on that premise, they escaped the ballroom.

“Don't panic.” Rowland squeezed Edna's hand as they stepped out into the portico. “We're in England.”

Edna nodded.

“Mr. Sinclair!”

Rowland tensed, turning quickly.

Prince George strode over and stood beside them as they waited for the car. At first he said nothing, lighting a tailor-made cigarette and drawing deeply. He smiled. “What? Going so soon?”

“I'm afraid Miss Higgins is unwell.”

“Jolly shame, I was hoping I could convince you both to take supper,”—he glanced at his watch—“or breakfast with me somewhere. I'm a little bored of Lady Winslow-Scott's usual collection of scandalous women.”

“Thank you, sir, but perhaps another time,” Rowland said standing firm between the prince and Edna.

“I must say, you make a particularly handsome couple.” George regarded Rowland intently—assessing, it seemed, the calibre of his rival. He smiled. “Perhaps we could—” The arrival of the Rolls Royce cut short whatever proposition was on His Royal Highness' lips. “Oh, here's your vehicle…” He stood back as Rowland, deciding not to wait for the portly chauffeur to clamber out, opened the door for Edna.

Prince George slapped Rowland's shoulder warmly. “Well, Sinclair, I'll look forward to meeting you both again.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rowland said awkwardly. “Good evening, then.”

He slid into the rear seat beside Edna, as the prince waved them off.

Reluctant to disturb the entire Bruce household by calling in at the Ennismore Gardens terrace, Rowland telephoned Wilfred from Claridge's and had him come to the hotel.

As it was three in the morning Wilfred was not in the best of moods when he arrived. Rowland told him about the encounter with Von Kirsch.

Wilfred questioned Edna closely. “And what exactly did he say, Miss Higgins? You and Rowly are a little too prone to see vengeful Germans around every corner.”

“Herr Von Kirsch said that he remembered me from the Royal Ball in the palace of Rupprecht of Bavaria, a few weeks ago,” Edna replied, trying not to drop her gaze from Wilfred's accusing one. She felt like a child confessing some transgression. “The ball was held the very same night the SA attacked Rowly and Alois Richter died.”

“Is that all?”

Edna shook her head. “Herr Von Kirsch said he knew Herr Richter well and was deeply saddened by his terrible death. He said he recognised Rowly as the man who caused all the trouble at the Geological Museum.” She swallowed. “He said he was finally putting things together.”

“Did you confirm any of his accusations?”

“No. I didn't… I couldn't say anything.”

“Good. All the fellow has is a belief he saw you at a ball. You will deny you were ever there. He won't have enough to pursue anything legally.”

He turned to Rowland. “What were you doing at this party anyway?”

On this point Rowland was evasive. “Lady Winslow-Scott invited us. She's acquainted with Mrs. Bruce.”

“She invited you without ever having made your acquaintance?” Wilfred's scrutiny was piercing, suspicious.

“I can only presume she thought the good Mrs. Bruce's recommendation sufficient.”

“Very well,” Wilfred said, though it was clear that was not at all what he meant. He'd been woken at three in the morning after all. “I'll see what I can do to head this latest embarrassment off at the pass. May I suggest, dear brother, that since you cannot attend any form of gathering without causing an international incident, from now on you avoid all parties, dances or blasted soirées!”

For a few moments after Wilfred slammed the door and stormed out, no one said anything.

Then Milton broke the silence. “It was bloody fortunate you didn't tell him the whole story.”

“I'm not afraid of Wil,” Rowland muttered sullenly. “I just didn't wish to implicate Mrs. Bruce in this mess.”

“Out with it then,” Clyde demanded. “We'd better have it, warts and all. What did you find out?”