With those words, she sauntered away like her hips were born for this moment alone, drawing the eye of more than one gentleman from surrounding tables.
Nigel gulped and hastily paid his bill. What a fool he was! Bryony had seemed so very clear about her intentions, only . . . maybe he’d misinterpreted all that. Out of pure vanity and wishful thinking. And now he’d offended her. Which was not what he’d meant to do. After all, she didn’t deserve to be embarrassed. She’d been nothing but friendly and pleasant, and here he’d gone and acted like a regular cad.
“The least I can do is treat her to a little beer,” he whispered. “And”—he grimaced—“dancing.”
She met him in the glittering foyer as promised, already wrapped in her furs, which was something of a relief. Nigel ordered a cab, and the two of them stood at the hotel doors, waiting for it to arrive.
“Miss Braithwait,” Nigel said, breaking the long silence at last, “I fear I may have given offense.”
“Oh, you may have, mayn’t you?” She sniffed.
“I would like to apologize,” he persisted valiantly. “I would never want to imply . . . That is, it wasn’t my intention to infer . . . That is, a little clarity between friends is . . .”
Bryony looked at him from her heavily-painted eyes, her expression more pitying by the moment. Finally, she shook her head. “You poor little bunny,” she declared. “You just haven’t a clue, have you? For all your posh suits and your melt-mama’s-butter voice.” She took his arm then, leaning up against him, andgrinned. “Tell me honestly, Mr. Grimm—have you actuallybeenwith a woman before?”
The directness of the question was something of a shock. Nigel felt all the blood drain from his cheeks then rush back again in a brilliant flood. “Yes, of course!” he blurted.
She lifted an eyebrow. “Mmmm hmmm.”
“I’m actually quite, erm . . . that is to say, my former partners have expressed a, erm . . . What I mean is, I strive to be generous when, erm . . .”
She heaved a huge sigh. “Save it until after the beer, mate. Then we’ll see what’s what.”
The automagic cab pulled up just then, sparing Nigel from further humiliation. Still gripping his elbow, Bryony dragged him through the glass doors of the hotel, down the steps, and into the cold street. He held the cab door for her, averting his eyes as she climbed inside. She settled herself comfortably, moving her skirt and the end of her wrap to make room for Nigel to join her.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked.
“Erm—”
“Number fifteen, Seething Lane,” Bryony answered at once.
And the engine roared to life, and the cab carried them away down the snowy street.
“Miss Braithwait, is this not your place of employment?”
Nigel stood on the sidewalk, holding the cab door for Bryony even as he stared up at the ominous building of Number 15, Seething Lane. It was a big, blocky structure with some attempt made to liven it up with gothic arches in the windows. But this pseudo-historical effect was quite undone by the large, thaumatescent sign blaring out the words: THE ROWDY HOUSE.
“Yeah, I work here,” she acknowledged, straightening out her gold skirts and adjusting the set of her wrap. She waved off the cab, which pulled away in a spew of dirty snow, leaving the two of them in the faintly-pulsing glow of the sign.
“Wouldn’t you rather spend your night off elsewhere?” Nigel queried.
“Why?” She gave him a look. “The Rowdy House is a scream. Besides, it’s different being herewitha gent as opposed to being hereforthe gents.” Pinching his elbow, she dragged him with her to the door. A wall-like bouncer stood in the shadows of theawning, his face weirdly highlighted by the eerie light of the sign. “Hullo, Bert,” Bryony said.
“Evenin’, Bryony.”
“How’s the wifey?”
“Still pregnant.”
“Poor girl. Not long now though, I trust. This is Mr. Grimm.” She patted Nigel’s shoulder proprietorially. “He’s never been here before, but don’t worry, he’s loaded.”
Nigel’s brow puckered at this colorful and not terribly accurate description of his financial state of being. Bert, however, took in the sight of him in his nice suit, grunted, and stepped aside to let them through. Bryony opened the door, dragging Nigel with her.
And he immediately slammed into a wall of pure jazz.
Horns and drums and wailing voices, all wild and without any sense of restraint or decorum such as the music played at The King’s Crown. Everything about this atmosphere was jazz—the colors, the smells, the shadows, the figures. It was as though the music gave them all life and substance, a sort of creation magic beyond Nigel’s scope or understanding.
When he got over the first shock of it, he found himself being yanked across a crowded floor. There were tables and booths everywhere, several levels of them, all lit in deep, golden-red tones which gave everything a slightly greasy air of mystery. Smoke was thick, voices were low. He glimpsed characters of diverse backgrounds and social strata, from dock workers, to manufacturers, to solicitors, to jobless gentlemen of fortune, all jumbled together by the great equalizer of that primal music.
