Evenin’, Bryony.” “How’s the wifey?
“Miss Braithwait, is this not your place of employment?”
“Yeah, I work here,” she acknowledged, straightening out her gold skirts and adjusting the set of her wrap. She waved off the cab, which pulled away in a spew of dirty snow, leaving the two of them in the faintly-pulsing glow of the sign.
“Wouldn’t you rather spend your night off elsewhere?” Nigel queried.
“Why?” She gave him a look. “The Rowdy House is a scream. Besides, it’s different being here with a gent as opposed to being here for the gents.
” Pinching his elbow, she dragged him with her to the door.
A wall-like bouncer stood in the shadows of the awning, his face weirdly highlighted by the eerie light of the sign. “Hullo, Bert,” Bryony said.
“Evenin’, Bryony.”
“How’s the wifey?”
“Still pregnant.”
“Poor girl. Not long now though, I trust. This is Mr. Grimm.” She patted Nigel’s shoulder proprietorially. “He’s never been here before, but don’t worry, he’s loaded.”
Nigel’s brow puckered at this colorful and not terribly accurate description of his financial state of being. Bert, however, took in the sight of him in his nice suit, grunted, and stepped aside to let them through. Bryony opened the door, dragging Nigel with her.
And he immediately slammed into a wall of pure jazz.
Horns and drums and wailing voices, all wild and without any sense of restraint or decorum such as the music played at The King’s Crown.
Everything about this atmosphere was jazz—the colors, the smells, the shadows, the figures.
It was as though the music gave them all life and substance, a sort of creation magic beyond Nigel’s scope or understanding.
When he got over the first shock of it, he found himself being yanked across a crowded floor.
There were tables and booths everywhere, several levels of them, all lit in deep, golden-red tones which gave everything a slightly greasy air of mystery.
Smoke was thick, voices were low. He glimpsed characters of diverse backgrounds and social strata, from dock workers, to manufacturers, to solicitors, to jobless gentlemen of fortune, all jumbled together by the great equalizer of that primal music.
Bryony called out greetings to both staff and guests alike as she navigated deftly through the throngs. Everyone knew her, and wolf whistles sounded from all directions in admiration of her gown. “They’ve never seen me toffed-up like this,” she said, leaning close to whisper in Nigel’s ear.
He shivered, skin prickling at the brush of her lips, and nodded hastily. At least with as noisy as it was, his utter inability to make conversation with this woman shouldn’t be a problem.
She propelled him into a seat at the bar, calling out a friendly, “Hi, JoeJoe!”
“Hi, Bryony.”
“A couple of Penny Pilsners for me and me friend here.”
The titular JoeJoe gave Nigel a quick once over, then proceeded to fill glass mugs from a barrel in the back. He set them down in front of them, and Bryony picked hers up and motioned for Nigel to do the same. He gingerly lifted the glass to his nose. Searing vapors withered his nostril hairs.
“Go on, Mr. Grimm!” Bryony said and took a large swig from her own glass. “You’ve been a wet blanket all evening. Let’s get a little pep in you and see if we can’t still salvage something of the night.”
Nigel grimaced. But at least with a beer this disgusting, he wouldn’t have to worry about overindulgence, right?
He took a tentative sip and . . . his entire being rebelled.
Choking on a cough, he doubled over and nearly fell from the barstool, all while Bryony whooped with laughter.
Others watched them, and someone called out, “Picked another winner, did you, Bryony!”
“You bet I did, Georgie Bumstead! This one is a proper genteel man!”
More laughter accompanied this. Nigel grimaced and managed to straighten up in his seat.
A wave of dizziness whooshed through his head, and he realized he had probably just made a very foolish mistake.
“Miss Braithwait,” he said, his voice slurring a little from the jazz and the smoke and the noise as much as the alcohol, “I think I’d best be going—”
“Don’t you even think about it, Mr. Grimm!
” she answered, clinking her glass to his where it sat on the bar.
She drained the rest of her drink in a few quick gulps, set her empty mug down hard, then let her fur wrap fall off her shoulders onto the back of the barstool.
“I mean to have a good time tonight, and I mean for you to have it with me. Come on, how’s about a dance? ”
“Oh, I don’t think I’m prepared to—”
“Not you.” She laughed and smacked his shoulder with the back of her hand. “I mean me!” With that she turned to the barkeep and called out in her brassiest tones, “Hey, JoeJoe! Tell the fellas to play ‘About That Boy!’”
“You gonna dance for us, Bryony?” he asked, looking at her from under a heavy brow.
“Will you give us the next two rounds on the house if I do?”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “Throw in a little something extra, and I’ll make it three.”
“You got it, boss!”
Then, to Nigel’s complete horror, she climbed with great nimbleness up onto her stool and then onto the bar, flashing rather a lot of leg through the high-cut slit as she did so.
She managed the maneuver with shocking grace, as though she did it every night .
. . which, well, maybe she did. Nigel found himself staring up at her from a most interesting angle, and the whole room around him erupted with cheers.
JoeJoe called out to the band leader, and music instantly blared to life.
Bryony struck a pose. Something about it was vaguely familiar. Then she opened her mouth and began to sing, not entirely without skill:
“Dreaming about that boy all day,
Can’t shake, shake, shake, shake, shake him away!”
The next thing Nigel knew she was prancing up and down the bar, stepping between beer glasses with a slinking sort of delicacy that would put a cat to shame.
“He’s the song, my heart’s gotta play!
Every night and every day-yay-yay-yay-yay!”
It really didn’t matter if she could sing or not. So long as she moved like that, no one really cared. Nigel stared, open-mouthed, the burn of alcohol roiling in his gut and . . .
And suddenly he blinked.
His mind cast back to a mere six nights ago. The night he’d infiltrated Lord Bruxley’s engagement party and stood among the dinner guests, observing an ensemble rendition of this very same number. Only, truth be told, he had not observed the ensemble at all.
His gaze had been entirely focused on one performer.
She definitely did not fill out her black bustier the way Bryony filled her gold gown.
And she certainly didn’t know what to do with her slender body, didn’t have the equipment to jiggle and sashay with any great effectiveness.
But it didn’t matter. He remembered her every gasp, her every blush.
The way her hand pressed against her heart in that shocked, raised-by-spinster-aunties manner of hers that she simply couldn’t help.
Her small yelps of surprise, the way she staggered, her eyes so round with horror at finding herself in such a predicament.
Gods, she was beautiful.
It had nearly killed him, watching that performance.
If one could even call the unfolding disaster at Bruxley Hall a performance, per se.
But even embarrassed and utterly out of place as she was, Luna was always just so graceful.
So lovely, so genuine. So effortlessly herself. So perfect in every particular.
Nigel set his teeth. This evening was not serving the purpose he’d intended. Why did every little thing have to drag his mind straight back to Luna Talbot? Why couldn’t he stay present, in the moment?
Grimacing, he took another swig of Penny Pilsner only to end up coughing and gagging all over again.
It was enough to brace him, however, and Nigel forced his gaze back to his date just as she finished her performance to a tremendous explosion of applause.
Five different gentlemen rushed to assist her, and she allowed two of them to lift her down from the bar, favoring both with kisses and pinches and winks.
Then she sauntered back to Nigel, tilting an eyebrow expressively.
“Well, Grimmsy, what did you make of that?”
“Erm.” Nigel swallowed. He hadn’t really taken in much of the display. “It was . . . something else, Miss Braithwait.”
Her brow lowered. A little line formed above the bridge of her nose. “Drink your beer,” she growled and turned to lean back against the bar, elbows propped, assets angled. Nigel looked away quickly and took another swig from his glass, which he instantly regretted.
“Hey,” Bryony said suddenly, reaching out to pat his arm with her fingertips. “Is that who I think it is?” She pointed across the crowded room.
Nigel turned his gaze idly in the direction she indicated.
Then his vision snapped into focus, and he looked again, harder, peering through the haze of cigarette smoke and the mayhem of moving figures to a booth in the back where a magnificent specimen of manhood lounged in his green wardsman’s uniform.
And next to him, sitting very upright, with her shoulders back, and her hands folded in front of her, and her eyes downcast—
“Lunaloo!” Bryony cried, lifting her arm over her head and waving enthusiastically. “Oh, she doesn’t see me. Come on, Mr. Grimm, let’s go say hi!”