As they got more and more sozzled, I met Christopher’s eyes across the table and tried to communicate how sorry I was. This wasn’t at all how I had wanted the evening to go. We—Crispin and I—had just wanted to crash the ball and have some fun. It was supposed to be a lark, nothing more. We’d thought—or I had—that we’d find Christopher and he’d be annoyed with us, but mostly forgiving and, eventually, happy to see us and touched that St George had wanted him to help celebrate his birthday.
But instead, we had taken Christopher away from the dance floor and his own friends, and had stuck him here, at the back of a booth surrounded by a contingent of St George’s set, who all thought we were here to make sport of the occasion.
Which is what we wanted them to believe, of course—especially Frederick Montrose, because if he realized that Christopher was actually a regular here, at this event and with these people, there was no question at all that Christopher Astley—that Kitty Dupree—would show up on the front page of The Daily Yell tomorrow.
Crispin being here, and in drag, was, as Montrose had pointed out, a non-starter. Everyone in London knew his reputation with women, and no one would believe that he had suddenly turned queer. But Christopher was a different story. If that news got out, all sorts of bad things might follow. Ostracization, jail, the disappointment of Uncle Herbert and the worry of Aunt Roz. The tightening of the purse strings to the point where he and I would have to leave London and go back to Beckwith Place—or God forbid, Sutherland Hall—to live.
Crispin wasn’t happy about the outcome of the evening, either, I could tell. He joked with his friends and exerted his charm on Gladys, and was successful at both, even in a dress and makeup, but he kept glancing across at Christopher and at Frederick Montrose, and occasionally sideways at me, with concern in his eyes.
Christopher didn’t seem terribly fussed about it, honestly. He conversed politely with Montrose, who didn’t seem to be asking invasive questions at all, but instead kept his eye on the newcomers more so than Christopher. After a few minutes, the young man whose name I hadn’t caught, engaged Christopher in conversation, and after that, Montrose’s bright hazel eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them, between Crispin and Gladys, and between Blanton and Hutchison at either end of the table.
Hutchison seemed laid back and at his ease. Blanton, on the other hand, got more and more jumpy as time went on. He perched on the edge of the seat next to Gladys, chewing his fingernails and darting glances, not at Christopher or Crispin or even at Frederick Montrose, but out at the dance floor and the entrance to the club.
And a few minutes later his concern was rewarded, as another young man—this one with heavily brilliantined black hair and flawless black tie—stopped by the table. “Evening, chaps.”
He showed all his teeth in a dazzling smile, one that could have given Flossie Schlomsky a run for her money.
Blanton jumped to his feet and snagged his friend by the arm, perhaps to make sure he wouldn’t disappear again. “Dom! There you are. I was afraid you weren’t going to show up.”
He turned to the table before Dom had a chance to respond. “Everyone, this is Dominic Rivers. Dom, do you know everyone?”
Mr. Rivers took in the assembly with large, dark eyes surrounded by lashes that looked—but probably weren’t—painted. His hair was dark, his eyes were dark, and his skin was a darker shade of olive than the one most of us sported. He probably came by the thick, dark lashes honestly.
To the best of my knowledge I had never seen him before in my life, and he didn’t seem to recognize me, either. He nodded to Hutchinson and the third friend, and winked at Gladys, who tittered. He looked at Crispin for several seconds before he said, tentatively, “Astley?”
“Rivers,” Crispin responded. It wasn’t precisely friendly, although it wasn’t precisely the opposite, either. “It’s St George now, you know.”
Rivers nodded. “Of course it is. What are you doing here?”
“Celebrating my birthday with a different crowd than usual,” Crispin told him lazily. He was leaning back in the booth like he hadn’t a care in the world, and like he wasn’t dressed in a gown and high heels and couldn’t care less what Rivers, whoever he was, might think about it. “My cousin Kit. Miss Philippa Darling.”
He gestured to Christopher, on the other side of the booth, and then to me. It ought rightly to have been the other way around, I suppose, but then there were the clothes, again.
“And you remember Montrose, surely?”
Rivers gave a short laugh. “Is that who it is? Evening, Montrose. Not sure I’d have recognized you without St George’s say-so.”
“I’ll take it as a compliment,” Montrose said, although it hadn’t sounded like one, and his tone indicated that he knew it. “How are things with you, Rivers?”
“Can’t complain,” Rivers said with a bright smile. “Busy, busy, you know. A pleasure, as always.”
He nodded politely—and managed to make it include all of us—before focusing his attention solely on Blanton. “Are you ready to blouse, old man?”
Blanton nodded. “Yes, please, Dom.”
Gladys, too, nodded eagerly and started scooting away from Crispin towards the edge of the bench. Whatever Rivers had to offer seemed to conquer even Crispin’s charms, and I must admit that my brows arched. Most women prioritize the Sutherland title and fortune over pretty much anything else.
“Where ho?” Montrose asked lightly.
“We’re off to Ronnie’s place,” Gladys said with a giggle. And then she seemed to remember, suddenly, who she was leaving behind, because she turned to Crispin. “You should come with us, St George.”
Crispin blinked, and I have to say, it was quite rude of her to invite him so particularly without including the rest of us. I got the pretty distinct idea that he didn’t want to go with her, however, and furthermore, I also got the idea that Blanton and Rivers, and perhaps Hutchison too, didn’t want him to come, either.
Or perhaps it was the rest of us they had a problem with. If so, they could just take Crispin and go. I’d stay with Christopher and make my way home with him at the end of the night. It was certainly no inconvenience to me if they took Crispin away.
I had my mouth open to say so when?—
“Capital idea,” Montrose said brightly, looking from one to the other of them “We’ll all go and make one big party of it. Celebrate St George’s birthday in style!”
