Page 12 of The English Wife

“Aren’t attorneys meant to be elderly and respectable?”

They came to a stop before the pale stone façade of the Criterion, marble nymphs simpering down from their niches. Mr. Van Duyvil spread his hands wide. “Mightn’t attorneys be young once, too?”

“And respectable?” She hadn’t meant it to sound like flirting. It just came out that way.

“What makes you think a lawyer is more proof against the frailties of the flesh than any other man?” Mr. Van Duyvil’s eyes met hers, as bright as ice over water. “Knowledge of the law is a trade, not a guarantee of virtue.”

Georgie’s skin heated despite the February chill, excitement and trepidation mingled together.

“If you will—” Sir Hugo jostled rudely between them.

Georgie jerked quickly aside, her heel catching on the hem of her skirt. Mr. Van Duyvil lurched forward to steady her, but Sir Hugo was there before him, catching her around the waist in a grip that belied his languid manner.

Sir Hugo gave her a squeeze before releasing her. The intimacy of his hand on her hip made the bile rise in Georgie’s throat. “I acknowledge the obvious fascination of Miss Evans’s … conversation, but there are other hungers that demand to be satisfied.”

“I presume you mean supper?” said Mr. Van Duyvil, a warning in his voice.

“What else? Would you prefer to continue to debate the number of angels dancing on pins, or shall we proceed to our table? Unless, of course,” Sir Hugo added silkily, smiling at Georgie in a way that made her skin crawl and her throat tight, “you would rather forgo the formality of a meal.”

Georgie found she was shaking, although whether with anger or fear, she couldn’t have said. “The price of this meal is too dear for me. I’m for home—alone.”

“There’s no need for that.” Mr. Van Duyvil stepped between her and Sir Hugo, shielding her with his body, his eyes on Sir Hugo’s face. “You are making the lady uncomfortable, Hugo.”

“And we mustn’t do that.” Sir Hugo turned to the waiting maître d’. “My good man, we require a table for these … ladies.”

“We have a table for you on the first floor, sir,” said the maître d’. One couldn’t turn away Sir Hugo Medmenham, even when he appeared with two rouged drabs in tow, thought Georgie. She repressed the hysterical bubble that rose in her throat. Was that what they were? Was that what they would be if the Ali Baba closed its doors?

A coin passed from Sir Hugo’s palm to the gatekeeper’s. “Then take us there. Before we grow much older.” To Mr. Van Duyvil, he said, in dulcet tones, “We must all gather our rosebuds while we may, mustn’t we, Bay? They wilt so rapidly once plucked.”

A voice whispered in Georgie’s ear. Go on, tell them if you like. Who do you think will believe you?

A voice from another day, another time, but there was something in Sir Hugo’s stance, something in the glitter of the silver head of his cane, that made Georgie snatch her coat back from the hovering waiter’s grasp.

“I’ve lost my appetite.” She reached for Kitty. “Come on, Kitty. It’s late.”

“Not that late.” Kitty made an impatient face at Georgie, rolling her eyes in the direction of the staircase. “It’d be rude to leave now.”

“Yes, terribly rude,” drawled Sir Hugo. “Who knows what pleasures the night might prove?”

“Supper,” said Mr. Van Duyvil in a clipped voice.

Sir Hugo inspected the head of his cane, the silver shimmering dizzyingly in the lamplight. “Do you have an objection to dessert?”

Mr. Van Duyvil gave up pretending. Or maybe it was all pretense, thought Georgie, shrugging rapidly into her coat. The other diners were beginning to stop and stare, but she didn’t care. “Not of the sort you imply.”

“How narrow you are in your tastes,” said Sir Hugo, but it was enough to drive the color to Mr. Van Duyvil’s cheeks.

“And what of your fiancée, Hugo?” Mr. Van Duyvil’s voice carried, causing stares from a party coming up the stairs from the theater below. “Would she approve?”

There was a charged silence, broken only by the muted sounds of conversation and cutlery from the surrounding rooms.

Sir Hugo broke his gaze first, turning to Kitty with exaggerated solicitude. “My dear, this company wearies me. Shall we leave them to their supper and their virtue?”

Kitty nodded her head and put her hand in the crook of Sir Hugo’s arm. “There’s champagne at the Alhambra.”

“We’ve a matinee tomorrow, Kitty,” Georgie warned.

“We can sing those songs in our sleep.” Kitty’s smile was bright, but there was desperation in the way her fingers curled into the fine cloth of Sir Hugo’s coat. “Don’t fuss, Georgie.”