Lady Rample Steps Out Page 2

  The door opened on a blast of warm air, and we were ushered into a tiny vestibule by a red-jacketed doorman. He looked ridiculously young, cheeks still childishly chubby and not enough fuzz to make a proper moustache. A small, red fez perched jauntily at an angle on his baby-fine hair. “Welcome, sir. Madam.”

  The vestibule was carpeted in deep red to match the wallpaper, a counter to the right manned by a young woman with elegantly Marcel-waved platinum blonde hair and a mole above her upper lip. I wondered vaguely if it were real or painted on. She took our outerwear in exchange for a gold token which Chaz tucked away in the pocket of his tuxedo trousers.

  The doorman bowed elegantly and opened a second door which opened on a set of stairs, dimly lit, leading down into Heaven knew where.

  “Ready, old bean?” Chaz offered his arm again.

  I took a deep breath and his arm. “Why not? In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “That’s the spirit!”

  And down we went, into the belly of the beast.

  Chapter 2

  At the bottom of the stairs stood a forbidding set of double doors. They were thick oak wood, stained dark and bound in iron, like something out of a dungeon. The Tower of London, perhaps. With skeletons of little princes locked away behind them. Good lord, I was maudlin.

  From the other side, I heard muffled music, but I couldn’t quite make out the melody. A red-jacketed bouncer stood guard. He was less chubby and more muscular than the doorman, his handlebar moustache at odds with his shiny bald pate.

  He opened the door for us, and out swirled the sweet wail of a saxophone along with a heady cloud of cigarette smoke tinged with something almost floral. A wide grin spread across my face and made my cheeks ache. I was instantly giddy. Not because of the smoke—I’ve never gotten the hang of it (filthy habit)—but because of the music.

  “Jazz. You brought me to a jazz club.”

  “Best in the city,” Chaz said, proud of himself. “Very hush-hush. Only those in the know, darling.”

  “Well, don’t I feel the bee’s knees.” I chuckled, listening with delight, my toes already tapping to the beat. “The band is spiffing.” As we moved inside the club, the doors swung shut behind us. I noted the inside of the doors were heavily padded and quilted in wine colored velvet, which explained why we hadn’t heard the music outside.

  The club wasn’t terribly large. There were only about half a dozen small, round tables scattered about the edges of the dance floor where a handful of couples danced a lively Balboa, bodies pressed up against each other in a way that would have scandalized most of the attendees of Sir Eustace’s party. Along the walls were padded booths—mostly occupied with canoodling couples—in the same wine velvet as the doors. In front of us was a raised dais where the band—dressed in black tails and ties—played with enthusiasm. To the right was a long marble bar, smoothly polished to a high gloss. It matched the ceiling from which dripped several small crystal chandeliers. Behind the bar, bottles glowed softly in the dim light.

  A short, round man with a thin, black moustache and the most amazingly bushy eyebrows toddled over to us. He wore the same black tails and tie as the band, but his waistcoat was wine to match the upholstery, and he wore a white carnation in his lapel. He looked for all the world like a well-dressed penguin.

  “Mr. Raynott, good of you to grace our humble halls once again.” The little man beamed from ear-to-ear. He bowed to me. “Welcome, Madam. Please, follow me.”

  He waddled ahead of us to a corner booth set at the perfect angle for watching the band, while being out of the line of sight of the other patrons. Heavy, wine velvet drapes held back with gold tassels graced either end of the booth. I wasn’t sure if they were for show, or if one could actually pull them closed for privacy. It seemed a little...obvious, if that was the case.

  Once we were seated, a black-suited waiter appeared, as if by magic, to take our drinks order. Then he whisked away almost as abruptly as he’d arrived, leaving us to our own devices.

  A candle flickered in the center of the table, accompanied by the smell of hot wax. It cast eerie shadows across Chaz’s face, emphasizing the devilish in the handsome. I turned my attention to the band. I was astonished to realize that all of the musicians were black.

  “They’re from America,” Chaz spoke over the music.

  “The entire band?” Usually one or two American jazz players would be accompanied by English musicians. To see an entire band from America was a treat. Just wait until I told Aunt Butty! She’d be gutted to have missed it. Aunt Butty was enamored of all things American.

  “Indeed. Here for a couple weeks before they head off to Paris. Very in demand. Aren’t they spiffing?”

  “Spiffing,” I agreed, as the Balboa finished, and the sounds of W. C. Handy’s St. Louis Blues spilled out into the club. I had a record of Louis Armstrong playing it while Bessie Smith sang. He was better, of course, but this band was astonishingly good.

  My gaze was snagged by the pianist. Although dressed identically to the rest of the band, there was something about him—an energy that was almost palpable—that made him stand out from the rest like a tiger amongst house cats.

  It was hard to tell how tall he was, but I was guessing tall. His shoulders were broad and straight, filling out his suit rather nicely. His skin was a rich, deep brown, and his dark hair, cut close to a rather nicely shaped skull, was pomaded within an inch of its life, revealing only the tiniest bit of curl.

  Maybe it was the heat in his gaze or the slight lift of his full lips as he caught me staring, but there was something about him that sent a shiver right to my toes. A flush rose to my cheeks and I resisted the urge to fan myself. I hadn’t blushed like this since I was sixteen.

  Fortunately, the waiter arrived at that moment with a highball for me and a sidecar for Chaz. I was tempted to down it in one; instead I sipped it like a proper lady while ordering a second drink.

  Chaz raised a brow as the waiter sauntered off. “Plan to get sloshed?”

  “If at all possible,” I said tartly. Maybe if I drank enough, I’d forget the look that had passed between me and the piano player. It simply wasn’t appropriate. Not that appropriateness had ever stopped me from doing exactly as I pleased. Within reason, of course. But I’d a feeling there was nothing at all reasonable going on.

  “Care to dance?” Chaz asked languidly.

  “But of course.” I held out my hand at a delicate angle, the diamond bracelet on my left wrist flashing beneath the chandeliers. He took my hand and pulled me out onto the dancefloor.

  The band switched to something slower and altogether sexier. Chaz was a divine dancer. Naturally graceful and athletic with no care as to what others thought. I, on the other hand, was a passing dancer, able to keep up, but only just. There was a great deal of twirling and I found myself quickly becoming breathless. The entire time, the pianist’s hot gaze scorched me. It was wildly inappropriate, and yet I couldn’t deny the forbidden thrill. What would Felix have said?

  Strangely, he’d have likely cheered me on. An oddity for his time, Lord R had never been one to follow society’s rules. He refused to let the gossips dictate who he spent time with or called friend. As such, our home had played host to a hodge-podge of peculiar characters during our short marriage. From tarot card reading spiritualists to drunken novelists, Felix enjoyed meeting interesting people regardless of their station. Being insanely rich had a tendency to buffer one from the fallout of such behavior.

  Growing up in a vicarage, you’d think I’d have been taught that all men are equal in God’s sight. However, it was more a thing preached from the pulpit than practiced in actuality. My father, the vicar of St. Oswin the Good in the tiny Cotswold village of Chipping Poggs, had been something of a crusader for the poor children of Africa. Every Sunday, he would guilt the congregation into donating more than they could afford to his pet cause.

  “Even God’s poorest creatures are deserving of our charity,” he’d say, thum
ping the pulpit for emphasis. It was literally the most riled papa ever got. In all other aspects of life, he was quite laid back and rather fond of a pint of this or a tipple of that. He spent more time in the pub than he ever did writing a sermon.

  And then an Indian man named Mr. Patel moved to the village along with his wife and two children. The children were adorable. Mr. Patel was a gentle and kind man from what I could recall. I mostly remembered his wife’s brightly colored silk outfits which shimmered under the watery Cotswold sun. I found them exciting and interesting and wanted to know everything about them and about India. I was certain my dear papa, so enamored of poor African children, would be delighted to meet the Patels and welcome them to our village. For were they not also God’s children?

  Instead, papa led the charge to run the Patels out of town. “We don’t need their sort here. Confounded Hinduists!” As if their religion truly had anything to do with it.

  Turning to mama for help had been no good. “Your father knows what’s best, dear,” she’d said, patting my hand before returning to her knitting.

  And that was that. Eventually the Patels left, and everyone in Chipping Poggs went back to pretending the distasteful incident had never occurred. Except for me. It had left a bad taste in my mouth and an anger burning in my gut. The minute Aunt Butty offered me a place to stay in London, I jumped at the chance. And that was that. I never returned to Chipping Poggs. Nor did I intend to.

  “His name is Hale, by the by. Hale Davis.” Chaz’s voice jarred me from my memories.

  I blinked. “Who is?”

  “The pianist you’re making googly eyes at.” Chaz’s lips twitched in amusement. I made an annoyed sound and ignored his inference. Cheeky sod.

  Chaz’s smile widened. “What about Lord Peter?”

  “What about him?”

  Lord Peter Varant was about as posh as they come. A peer of the realm and all that. And he’d dabbled at being my suitor for some time now. Oh, he’d never crossed the line—I was in mourning, after all—but he’d made his interest clear in a gentlemanly fashion. Now that the year was up, I expected him to declare himself at any moment. I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about that. Especially since I didn’t know what that would mean for Chaz and me. I was fairly certain Lord Varant was aware of the truth about Chaz, but that didn’t mean he would approve of his wife running around with another man, and I wasn’t going to give up my friendship with Chaz for anyone.

  Not to mention I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to be married again. I rather enjoyed my freedom.

  “I thought you two had an understanding,” Chaz said meaningfully.

  I frowned. “Whatever are you going on about?”

  “Seems you’ve caught someone’s eye.” His own gaze strayed toward the stage.

  I fought down a fiery blush. Society matrons—good gosh, was I a matron? —did not blush. “I can’t help if a man looks, can I?”

  “No. But you can help if you look back.” He lifted one eyebrow.

  I shot him a dirty look and refused to answer. He wasn’t wrong. I was looking. There was a lot to look at and it was very pleasant.

  “Doesn’t Lord Peter have first dibs?”

  “I’m not a race horse. Beside which, I’m not entirely sure I will ever marry again.” And Lord Peter was definitely the sort of man who’d insist on marriage.

  “Really? You plan on being a nun the rest of your life?” Chaz guffawed at that.

  “Heavens, no. Perish the thought. But this is 1932. Not the dark ages. Women can vote now and everything.”

  He whirled me around to get a good look at the pianist again. “And you plan to start your liberation with him?” There was no shock or censure in his tone. Simply mild curiosity. Which was exactly what I expected of Chaz. The world might judge us for our uniqueness, but we always accepted each other exactly as we were.

  “Oh, I don’t imagine it’ll come to that.” Despite the heat between us, I couldn’t imagine the man would risk his livelihood. Not if he was smart. And I wasn’t going to put him in harm’s way. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the view. He clearly is.” If his steamy gaze was anything to go by.

  It occurred to me that the man might be a lady-killer with a woman in every port. For all he knew, Chaz was my husband, and yet here he was making eyes at me across an increasingly crowded dance floor.

  The song came to an end, and I dragged Chaz back to the table. I felt flushed and bothered and was in desperate need of another drink. Fortunately, the wait staff was well trained, and I had another highball in my hand before I’d had half a chance to sit down.

  “Chaz, darling. How lovely to see you again.” The woman who appeared beside our table was tall, willow thin, with golden brown hair that fell in elegant waves to her shoulders. Her face had been done up in “Gardenia,” that shockingly pale, waxen look that was so the rage. Her lips were a Chinese red that matched her lacquered nails, and her eyelids were painted a blue which shimmered in the dim light. Her satin evening gown was flesh-colored with a daring V-neckline that very nearly displayed her assets, were she not so nearly flat chested. A multitude of pearl bracelets encircled her left wrist, but she wore no other jewelry.

  “Helena!” Chaz rose from his seat and bowed over her hand. “How lovely to see you. Have you met my friend, Lady Rample? Ophelia, this is Helena Fairfax. She owns the Astoria Club.”

  Helena’s eyes widened a fraction. “We’ve never met, but I’ve heard of you, of course, Lady Rample. Lovely to make your acquaintance.”

  “Likewise.” I’d heard of Helena Fairfax, of course. Who hadn’t? Born an Earl’s daughter, she’d married beneath her. A mere mister. Well, technically he was the second son of a mere viscount, but as his brother had sired enough brats to start a cricket team, it was unlikely Mr. Fairfax would ever inherit. What was shocking was that Chaz said she owned the club. Not her husband. A woman owning a club of any kind was almost unheard of, never mind a jazz club. A woman who was the daughter of a peer was astonishing, to put it mildly.

  After assuring herself that we were well taken care of, Helena sauntered off. I might have gawked at her a bit before turning back to Chaz.

  “She owns the club?” I felt equal parts admiration and glee at the scandal. “How is that possible?”

  Chaz gave me a languid smile as he rolled a cigarette. “It’s complicated and top secret.”

  I gave him a look. “Spill.”

  “Helena has always been an individual. Like you, she’s determined not to allow the mores of society to dictate her behavior. Nor will she allow herself to rely on a man. At least, not entirely.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He shrugged and took a sip of his cocktail. “It’s well known that Fairfax has little money and is an inveterate gambler. When Helena married him, she was afraid he’d gamble away the money she’d inherited from her mother. She got none from her father, you can imagine. In any case, she invested in this club. Hard to lose money in a place like this. Now she holds the purse strings. Best for all.”

  “But you said, ‘not entirely.’ So, she owns the club with someone else.”

  “Very astute.” He nodded toward a dark table in the corner as he blew out an elegant curl of smoke. “Alfred Musgrave. Part owner of the club and front-man. Made his money through... less than savory means. But he’s smart and determined to make this place even more successful than it already is. Hence the band all the way from America.” His gaze drifted back to the sexy pianist. “I must say, I admire his taste.”

  I tried exceedingly hard not to look, but it was a useless endeavor. Those dark eyes and that cheeky smile drew me back. I imagined those nimble, dark fingers running over my skin. I was suddenly hot and flustered, an emotion I rarely experience.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes. Very talented.”

  Chaz gave me a knowing look. Which I pointedly ignored. Instead I downed my drink. Chaz held out his hand. “Come, my darling. Let us dance the night away.”


  “Sounds fabulous, but I need to check my lipstick first.”

  I found the water closet tucked in the back next to the performers’ dressing rooms. After attending to business, I exited the claustrophobic closet only to take the wrong turn down the warren of back halls. I had just discovered my mistake and started to turn around when I heard voices from one of the rooms nearby.

  “I’m telling you, I don’t like it.” The male voice was obnoxiously strident with a nasal twang that was rather common.

  “I can’t help it if you don’t like it, Mr. Musgrave, but I assure you the books are in perfect order.” The second voice was female, cultured, very upper crust. It had to be Helena Fairfax.

  “Then you won’t mind an audit, “Alfred Musgrave bellowed. I picture his unpleasant face twisted in anger with those beady little eyes snapping beneath beetling brows.

  “Of course not. Whenever you like. Perhaps tomorrow evening?”

  “Very well. We’ll meet during the first set.”

  How interesting. Chaz had said the club was doing well, but Musgrave wanted an audit. Did that mean things weren’t going all that well?

  I turned to leave and noticed I wasn’t the only person eavesdropping. A reedy little man with mousy hair and a prominent Adam’s apple hovered near the doorway. His protuberant eyes bulged with fear and his long fingers worried a handkerchief to near threads. The minute he saw me he darted away, as if he didn’t want anyone to know he was there.

  I wondered vaguely who he was. An admirer of Helena’s, perhaps? Likely not. His suit was cheap and his shoes old and scuffed. Not her style. Maybe he worked for the club. A bookkeeper or some such.

  With a mental shrug, I made my way back to Chaz. I had reached the opening, ready to step through, when I barreled into a broad chest.

  “Whoa, there, little lady.” The voice was intrinsically masculine. The hands that grabbed my shoulders to steady me spoke of strength. I glanced up to find myself staring straight into the face of the pianist. Good gosh, why was it so hot all of a sudden? “You all right?”