Break of Dawn

‘Toby, old fellow. We thought we might find you here.’ Rupert Forester-Smythe was all smiles, and as the owner of the café bustled out he took an opened bottle of wine from him and filled Toby’s glass to the brim.

The talk was inconsequential at first; it was only when Rupert refilled Toby’s glass that he said, ‘Saw your wife today, by the way. Did you know she was at the rally in Hyde Park? I’d have thought you’d have kept a tighter rein on her, old fellow. Doesn’t do to let their heads be filled with all this nonsense about women’s rights and the rest of it.’

Toby peered at Forester-Smythe. He had never liked the man, mainly because he felt that as far as Forester-Smythe was concerned, he was an object of ridicule. The man had a way of making fun of folk and sometimes his derision was downright nasty. Did he know Sophy had thrown him out? Word was getting about. It would be just like him to rub a man’s nose in it. He drank half of his glass of wine before he said, ‘Nothing to do with me. I’ve had enough of her whoring. Washed my hands of her.’

‘Is that so?’ Rupert topped up Toby’s glass. ‘Now that’s a shame as I had a little proposition to put to you regarding the fair lady.’

‘Proposition?’

‘I thought you might persuade her to come to one of the supper clubs after the show tonight, one with a private room for a little . . . entertainment? She seems a spirited young baggage and I’m sure she could accommodate us all in turn without too much trouble.’

Toby stared at him. He knew what went on in some of these private rooms, he’d even been to one or two such escapades in his time. ‘She wouldn’t listen to me. We’re— I’m staying at my club.’

‘I see. Now that’s disappointing, very disappointing. I, we’ – his nod took in the group of smiling men – ‘would be prepared to pay handsomely for such pleasure as I’m sure she can give, but if you don’t think you can oblige us . . .’

Toby’s lower jaw moved from one side to the other as he thought rapidly. She’d thrown him out, humiliated him, ruined his life. He had been doing all right until he’d married her, and then it had been like she’d put a curse on him. She’d stood by when the theatres had refused to give him parts tailormade for him and hadn’t lifted a finger, and why? Because she was too busy having her fun with every Tom, Dick or Harry. He knew. He wasn’t as stupid as she thought he was. As for Gregory, she’d been his mistress for years, he could see it all now. She’d kept the man sweet and feathered her own nest along the way, and what did he – her lawful husband – have? A stinking room in his club and a notice of her intention to divorce him.

He glanced at Rupert. ‘How much is handsomely?’

Rupert smiled. He knew when he’d nailed his man. ‘Name your price, old fellow.’

Toby nodded. ‘All right, but like I said, she wouldn’t listen to me, supper club or no supper club. I’ve another suggestion, however.’

‘Oh yes? I’m all ears.’

Toby reached into his pocket and held aloft a key. ‘This opens my front door. You could be waiting for her when she gets back from the theatre and who’s to say she didn’t invite you home with her?’

Rupert liked it. If the baggage complained, it would be his word against hers that she hadn’t been game for a bit of hanky-panky, and who would take the side of an actress? They were teasers, all of them, and this one in particular. He was itching to bring her down a peg or two. She wouldn’t be so haughty when they’d finished with her.

‘She has a maid-cum-housekeeper living in – you’d have to deal with her.’

One of the other men guffawed. ‘An ageing crone? We met her this morning, didn’t we, Rupert,’ he added slyly.

Rupert scowled. His stomach was still tender from the steel tip of Sadie’s parasol. ‘We’ll deal with her, all right – we might even allow her to watch the fun. So’ – his hand reached for the key but Toby held it just out of reach – ‘what’s your price?’

An hour later the deal was done and Toby had his blood money. Rupert and his cronies had sauntered off, glancing back at him once and then sniggering as one of them murmured something. Toby watched them go as he finished the last of the wine they had left. Let them look down their aristocratic noses at him, he thought morosely. He didn’t care. If any of them traced their family tree back far enough they’d find they came from murderers and rapists and scoundrels; the aristocracy was littered with dubious ancestors.

His fingers caressed the wad of notes in his pocket contentedly. Tonight, he could go and see Chan. Chan’s place was a cut above some of the other opium dens and he provided a degree of privacy if you could pay for it. And he could. But first he needed a drink, a proper drink. Whisky. Or brandy perhaps. He could afford a good malt.

Rita Bradshaw's books