The Sugared Game - K.J. Charles Page 0,49
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.