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“Adam?” I gasped. “What are you—how did you—”
It shouldn’t have been a surprise, really. If he was here visiting his family and was getting roped into these events, just like I was, it made as much sense that he would attend something like the Troop’s Cup as the Ortham Ball.
He was fully dressed the part of an English gentleman in a pristine white shirt and light gray suit, along with a jaunty straw fedora perched on his head. His knowing smile told me he understood how dashing it all was. As did the two women’s expressions when they caught who was stepping in.
“Frankie,” he said as he leaned in to press a kiss to my astonished cheek.
Then he turned to the women, who were staring with mouths so wide I honestly thought flies might buzz right in.
“Americans aren’t all brutish. I should know.” Adam nodded at them as a curt hello. “Beth. Chelsea.” Then he turned back to me. “Francesca, may I introduce these two busybodies I’ve known since childhood, Lady Elizabeth Ruckston and Miss Chelsea White. Ladies, this is Francesca Zola, lately from America. I believe you’re familiar.”
The women stumbled overtly, their expressions feigning kindness, though their eyes furiously ping-ponged back and forth between Adam and me.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, extending a hand, which they each clutched as lightly as they possibly could. “For a barbarian, I mean.”
“Likewise,” murmured Beth, the one with the ostrich hat. “Er—must go.”
“Indeed,” agreed Chelsea. “Don’t want to miss the rest of the match.”
“Nor the duke’s thighs,” I agreed.
The two socialites goggled at Adam and me for a few moments before rushing away to avoid any kind of confrontation. Adam stood by while I approached the bartender.
“Er—sparkling water, I guess?” I’d had enough to drink last night, and I wasn’t interested in making a fool of myself again. Well, no more than I already had even being here.
“Make it a Pimm’s,” Adam put in, setting a few twenty-pound notes on the bar top. “Two.”
“Oh, that’s really not necessary,” I told him. “Also, if anything, I owe you some money. Hold on, I’ll get it.”
“No, I insist,” he said. “You can buy me dinner back home sometime. Pimm’s is sort of tradition at these things, and honestly one of the few perks, unless you’re that into watching a bunch of grown men riding ponies and waving sticks around.”
I giggled a bit at that characterization as I accepted the drink from the bartender. “Thanks.” As we walked away, I clinked my glass to his. “Cheers. When in Rome, right?”
“Exactly.” He grinned.
“So, you never played at Eton, then?”
Adam seemed to visibly shudder. “Ah, no. I was too busy doing things like studying and reading. Novels, mostly.”
I perked. “What are your favorites?”
Adam tipped his head back and forth. “Fitzgerald is my jam. I’m a pretty bigGatsbyfan, like everyone. ButTender is the Nightis also great.”
“I can see that about you. You are sort of a Nick.”
Adam looked wounded. “Nick? Seriously? The guy has no guts. I’d rather be Gatsby. I’d want to be the guy who gets the girl.”
I smiled. “I don’t know. I think being shy and underrated isn’t so bad in the end.”
I took a drink of my Pimm’s, looking around. This was all right, so long as it didn’t catch Xavier’s eye. It was just nice having a real conversation with someone that was actually about something I enjoyed. “So, what about art?” I wondered, realizing I still didn’t know that much about Adam. “When did you decide to become an art teacher?”
“Well, that’s usually what happens when you’re not talented enough to make it on your own,” Adam joked. “Kidding, I guess. The truth is, I tried to go to art school after college, but found myself more attracted to what the teachers were doing than my own work. I’m not much of an artist—really a better mimic. But I thought I’d make a pretty good teacher. And so, here I am.”
“Here you are,” I said appreciatively, then held up my glass to clink with him once more. “Here’s to the teaching life.”
Adam grinned again, then looked over my shoulder, his attention caught by something. “Mum, Dad,” he called, waving a hand at a prim-looking couple in deep conversation with a lady in a bright blue summer suit who looked familiar from the back. The man turned and waved at Adam, but the woman continued speaking, deep in conversation, to the point where I couldn’t see her face. Neither could be bothered to join us.
Apparently, word was out about the harlot in the polka dots.
