Page 9 of The English Wife

“That’s Miss Frumley to you, my lord,” said Kitty with mock severity.

Kitty’s real name wasn’t Frumley at all. It was, she had confided to Georgie, Potter. But Frumley sounded better on the bills in the front of the theater, more aristocratic, like those earls of what’s-their-name, and Georgie hadn’t the heart to tell Kitty that the family whose name she had borrowed spelled it Tholmondelay.

“And this is Miss Evans.” Kitty displayed Georgie like a prize, dragging her unwillingly forward. “Georgie, this is Sir um—”

“Hugo. Hugo Medmenham. You may call me … Sir Hugo.” With a mocking bow, he gestured towards his companion. “Ladies, may I present to you Mr. Bayard Van Duyvil, of our former colonies.”

“Ladies,” murmured the man who wasn’t Giles. Now that he had stepped into the uneven light of the lamp over the stage door, Georgie could see that they were nothing alike. Tall, yes, and broad in the shoulders, but there any resemblance ended. Giles had affected long chestnut sideburns that curled beneath his ears, and a cavalryman’s mustache. This man was clean shaven, the lamplight making the fair hair that curled beneath his collar glow the color of old gold.

But Georgie hung back all the same. Foolish as she knew it to be, the old fear still gripped her, tightening her chest, constricting her throat.

It wasn’t Giles, she told herself again. It wasn’t Giles.

Kitty lowered her lashes, speaking in tones of exaggerated refinement that made Georgie wince for her friend. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Tucking her cold hands beneath her armpits, Georgie nodded curtly in greeting.

Sir Hugo possessed himself of Kitty’s gloved fingers, drawing her to his side. “What are you waiting for, Van Duyvil? Do they not teach you manners in America? Miss Evans wants an escort.”

Miss Evans did not, in fact, want anything of the kind. What Miss Evans wanted was to pull her hat down about her ears and walk as rapidly as she could to her boardinghouse. A free supper was one thing; Sir Hugo another. She’d heard of him before, the sort who still believed in the droit du seigneur. Toss a few coins on the bed afterwards and think the girl honored by his attentions. There’d never been charges brought—but there wouldn’t be, would there? The juries of the world were made of men. A man could hold his honor dear in masculine matters such as gambling debts and never mind that he left a trail of ruined women behind him.

Men diced with coin; women diced with their lives.

Kitty was already walking off ahead, her arm twined cozily with Sir Hugo’s, leaving Georgie no choice but to follow. Mr. Van Duyvil reluctantly extended his arm.

Georgie placed her fingers gingerly on his sleeve. “I am afraid I didn’t quite catch your name, Mr.… Vandeville?”

“Van Duyvil.” His voice was warm and rich, the vowels strange to Georgie’s ears. Strange, but not unpleasant. “It’s Dutch.”

“Devil’s spawn,” contributed Sir Hugo with a grin. He leaned closer to Kitty, saying with mock solicitousness, “Don’t be alarmed, my dear. He seldom swallows more than one soul a night.”

TWO

London, 1894

February

The street was too narrow to walk all abreast; Georgie and the man who wasn’t Giles fell behind, walking in silence for several moments before Mr. Van Duyvil said quietly, “All that about the devil … you must forgive my friend. He didn’t mean to be blasphemous. I’m afraid he’s … well, not used to mixed company.”

Not used to mixed company? Either Mr. Van Duyvil was very green or he thought she was.

Georgie shrugged. “We’ve heard worse, Kitty and I. Shakespeare’s full of ribald humor.”

“Country matters?” said the American.

Oh, the phrase sounded innocent enough, but it didn’t fool Georgie for a minute. She’d acted that scene last year, Hamlet propositioning Ophelia in the crudest possible of ways. Subtle in the original; less subtle as it had been acted at the Ali Baba. She could still hear the catcalls from the audience, drunken gentlemen half tumbling from their boxes as they offered to take Hamlet’s place onstage.

Of course, that had been when they’d still had gentlemen in the boxes, before the new musical comedies had begun stealing their audience and their income.

Best to nip any country matters in the bud. Georgie quickened her pace, forcing the American to lengthen his stride in response. “As long as you’re not offering to put your head in my lap.”

Mr. Van Duyvil ducked his chin into his collar. “I, er … no, it was just … er, Hamlet.”

“A man who came to a bad end,” said Georgie pointedly.

Mr. Van Duyvil looked down at her with interest. His eyes were a curious pale blue, like shadows on snow. “Would you say that? You could say it was a good end, avenging his father’s death.”

Georgie snorted. “At the cost of all of Denmark? Not to mention his mother and his bride. Seems a bit much, doesn’t it?”