The Sugared Game - K.J. Charles
Chapter One
Will Darling was going dancing, and he felt pretty good about it.
With the legal machinery of probate finally ground through, he was the official owner of his deceased uncle’s savings as well as his antiquarian and second-hand bookshop. He’d celebrated his new wealth with a spending spree of sorts, and the results were pleasing. Freshly shaved, with his unruly hair combed back ruthlessly and a few months of plentiful food and heavy lifting under his belt, he was in respectable shape, and his nearly-new jacket and well-polished shoes made him feel positively smart.
Not smart like the Smart Set, of course. He wasn’t one of those, a fact that had been made abundantly clear to him, but still smart enough to take a fashion-conscious girl to a night-club. It would be nice to be the evening-dress type, rich and sophisticated, of course, just as it would be nice if he knew any girls who had ideas for the evening beyond dancing, but you couldn’t have everything. He was solvent, healthy, and going out with his best friend as a thank-you for her unflagging support in some of the hardest times of his life, and all that made him a damned lucky man.
He took the omnibus to Maisie’s lodgings. Her landlady, a woman artist who smelled of oil paint, let him in with an admiring look up and down and called out, “Your young man, Miss Jones!”
Maisie emerged into the hall. Will gaped.
Her frock was spectacular. It was silver with crimson fringes that shimmered over her at the tiniest movement, the colour contrast dramatic against her warm brown skin, and short enough to reveal most of a pair of plump and shapely calves. As if that wasn’t enough flesh, it was also cut low at the front, and Maisie had a lot of front. Rather than a hat, she wore a wide silver headband with crimson silk rosebuds over her black marcelled waves; even her heeled shoes were silver. She was painted and lipsticked to the manner born, and looked like the brightest possible Young Person.
“You’ll catch flies,” Maisie told him with some satisfaction.
His mouth was indeed open. “Blimey.” He struggled for words. “Blimey.”
“You look all right yourself.”
Will looked fine. Maisie glowed. He cleared his throat and said, “We’ll get a taxi-cab.”
“We can get the bus from here, can’t we?”
“Not in that frock,” he said firmly. “You deserve a taxi.” Plus, if she showed that much leg on public transport, there might be a brawl. A riot, even.
He glanced at her as the taxi-cab took them through Piccadilly, bright and garish with the electric lights of advertisements blurred by the drizzle on the windows. “You really do look marvellous. I’m sorry I’m not smarter.”
“Don’t be silly, you look very nice. I thought I’d dress up a bit for this place, that’s all. Are you sure it’s all right, going here?”
“Of course it is. You deserve it.”
Will was taking her to the High-Low Club. He’d never heard of it, but he wasn’t a night-club sort of man; he’d simply asked her where she’d like to go for the evening out he owed her, and she’d named this on the grounds of having a voucher for free champagne. “Have you been before?”
She shook her head. “I’ve wanted to. Phoebe’s been. Apparently the band is wonderful and it’s awfully glamorous in a seedy way. There’s all sorts of desperate characters as well as the Smart Set.”
That didn’t sound much of a recommendation to Will. “Do I count as a desperate character?”
“Only if I can be a gangster’s moll.”
The taxi stopped on Maddox Street. Will paid, and helped Maisie out. She really was showing a great deal of leg.
The High-Low Club didn’t look like much from the outside: a tall, thin house that presented only a closed door to the world. This was opened by a large, suited doorman at Will’s knock, and they descended a rather narrow and poorly lit flight of stairs down to the basement. If Will hadn’t been able to hear the distant blare of the band, he’d have suspected they were about to be mugged.
The stairs led into a little cloakroom area, where they handed over their hats and coats and went through a set of double doors to the main room.
The music hit them with a blast as they entered. A band played at the far end, loud and frenetic, and the floor was filled with bright-coloured women and monochrome men, moving frantically to the rapid rhythms. It was an