Gentlemen Formerly Dressed by Sulari Gentill Page B

Wilfred?”
    â€œNo… one of the local Sinclairs—my cousin.”
    â€œThere are local Sinclairs?” Edna asked moving to perch on the arm of his chair.
    Rowland nodded. “One or two. Wilfred had Quex keep an eye on me when I was at school in England.”
    â€œQuex?”
    â€œAdmiral Sir Hugh Sinclair. God knows why they call him Quex.”
    â€œAhh… The Gay Lord Quex —a comedy in four acts,” Milton murmured. “Perhaps your cousin was a thespian.”
    Rowland smiled. “It probably wouldn’t be wise to accuse Quex of that.”
    â€œWell, it’s lovely that he wants to see you.” Edna peered curiously at the note. “Were you close?”
    â€œNot at all.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Rowland smiled. Edna had always been rather direct.
    â€œI was fifteen when I was sent over here to school,” he said. “Quex is about twenty years older than Wil, and was busy doing whatever it is that admirals do—I really only saw him when I was in some kind of trouble.”
    â€œYou don’t suppose he knows that you were in Soho last night, do you?” Milton glanced at The Daily Mail which lay open on the card table. The paper carried a lurid account of the gentlemen’s dance.
    Rowland shook his head. Milton alone had taken the fall for their presence at the event. The poet’s name had been listed along with Buchan’s in what was claimed to be the public interest. The dance was decried across the media as an example of the lax morality and decadent perversion of the upper classes.
    For the most part, Milton seemed to regard the incident as a grand joke, though every now and then he was moved to quote Wilde.
    â€œWilfred may have mentioned it to him,” Clyde speculated. The summons was surely too coincidental.
    â€œI doubt it,” Rowland said. “Wil is usually discreet about my indiscretions.” He sighed as he dropped the letter back onto the tray. “But he may well have let Quex know I’m in London.”
    â€œSo, you’ll have to go see him?” Edna asked, watching Rowland carefully.
    â€œYes, eventually.” Rowland checked his watch. Wilfred was sending a car at ten to take him to the Geological Museum—the venue of the London Economic Conference. He was not entirely sure why he was being sent for, but he assumed—hoped—it meant that Stanley Melbourne Bruce had found someone who would give him a hearing.
    â€œWe’d best set off,” he said, grabbing his hat from the stand by the door and waiting for Edna to pull on her gloves.
    Ethel Bruce had invited the sculptress to join her and Kate for luncheon. Edna was sure that the minister’s wife had discovered some tantalising gossip about the late Lord Pierrepont through her networks among the Empire wives. She did, in any case, rather like Mrs. Bruce.
    And so they left Clyde and Milton to their own devices.
    The black Rolls Royce took them first to the Bruces’ terrace in Ennismore Gardens, where Edna alighted to join the ladies and both Bruce and Wilfred climbed in.
    Stanley Melbourne Bruce was dressed in the impeccably conservative and elegant style with which Australian caricature artists made him synonymous. He made no mention of the previous night’s affair. Rowland’s eyes moved to Bruce’s feet, checking for spats. Bruce noticed.
    He shook his head. “For pity’s sake, man, it’s the middle of summer!”
    â€œI beg your pardon, sir?”
    â€œThe attire for which you are so obviously looking, which the gullible Antipodean media have convinced hoi polloi I never step outdoors without, is actually an item which is sensibly worn in the winter—helps with chilblains.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œI’m meeting with Chamberlain today. If the opportunity so arises I shall introduce you, but I’m afraid that’s the best I can do. You’ll just have to be on hand on