The only thing that was missing in their lives was hardship. Or maybe I was being judgmental and unfair. Their lives were probably no easier than anybody else’s. While Oxford was tough to get into, if anybody ever had a path to that ancient, prestigious door, it was each one of these young men standing in front of me.
“Lucy, is that you?”
I glanced up as a fifth member of the Gargoyles walked in. He fit right in, with that casual nonchalance, even while wearing the club uniform that, according to William, cost nearly four thousand pounds. Still, I was delighted to see the guy looking at me with a cocky grin. He came forward for a hug, and I was pleased to wrap my arms around him.
“Miles Thompson. Whatever are you doing here?” Stupid question since he was obviously in the club. Miles had been one of the actors in the rather unfortunate production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that Cardinal College had put on last year. At one point, I’d even suspected him of murder, when he’d only been guilty of sleeping with a former A-list actress and the play’s director, Ellen Barrymore.
“I’m here to celebrate St. George’s Day, of course. England’s patron saint that celebrated slayer of dragons.” He was such a great actor. He sounded like he was on the stage spouting Shakespeare. “And what brings you into our midst?”
“I’ll be your server tonight,” I told him. I acted as though this were one of those dining places in the States where everybody knows your name. “My name’s Lucy, if you need anything.”
“Like a leg over,” said the rude guy who’d already suggested I might be on the menu. And they hadn’t even had their first glass of champagne. I had an inkling I’d be earning my wages tonight.
“Stop it, Charles.” Miles shook his head at me, looking at bit embarrassed by his fellow Gargoyle. He turned to the far too cute guy still holding up part of the doorway. “Charles Smythe-Richards, meet Lucy Swift. Lucy’s a friend of mine who runs a knitting shop in Oxford. I assume that’s still true?”
“Yes. The caterer’s a friend. I help him sometimes.”
Charles Smythe-Richards did not look particularly concerned one way or the other what I might do with any part of my time that didn’t involve him. He merely nodded and once more did that insolent, slow gaze from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. I wondered if he had any other way of communicating with women. Given how cute he was, he probably didn’t have to try very hard. Miles took my arm and pulled me gently toward the window, where we could speak without being overheard. “I’m sorry to find you here, Lucy. These are good mates of mine, but get a few drinks into them, and they can get carried away.”
I was a little disappointed that Miles would want to be part of this club. “What are you even doing here? I thought you only had time for acting.”
He made a face. “After what happened, you know, during A Midsummer Night’s Dream, my father put his foot down. No more acting for me.”
I couldn’t believe it. “But you’re an amazing actor. Ellen Barrymore might have been psycho, but she was right about your talent. You could be the next Olivier or Aidan Turner.”
“I know,” he agreed, looking frustrated and sad. “And it was all right within my grasp.” He held out his hand, cupped, to demonstrate. “But when Father’s goodwill dries up, so does the money.” He shook his head. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ve still got every intention of pursuing theater. But, for now, I pretend I’m willing to go into the family business.”
“What is his problem?” I asked, glancing at Charles Smythe-Richards, who was still checking me out.
“His problem is he thinks the sun shines out of his arse. His mother’s a cabinet minister, his father is high up in the City, and everything’s always come easy to him. He’s not a bad guy, really, but if he makes a pass at you, I wouldn’t take him up on it.”
“Don’t worry.”
Another young man came in. He was tall with strawberry-blond hair and rather protuberant, blue eyes.
Miles followed my gaze. “That’s Alexander Percival Brown. He’s the son of—”
“Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Hugo Percival Brown?”
“That’s right. Alex is definitely the richest one here. Dolph over there, that’s Lord Randolph Chase, the chubby, shy one. He’s the most posh. His mother or grandmother was a lady-in-waiting to the queen, I think.” Now that he’d begun, he told me about the rest of them. “Winnie, that’s Winston Bromford. He’s the dark-haired fellow over there. His family owns Bromford Chemists.” I knew that chemists were drugstores and you’d find a Bromford’s on just about every high street in every town in England.
“The shorter, dark-haired bloke is Gabriel Parkinson. He’s half Colombian. His mother’s family have emerald mines. She married a British engineer she met down there.”
I turned to him, “And what about you? How do you fit in with this bunch?”
He looked sort of embarrassed. “Have you heard of Thompson Sugar?”
Only every morning when I poured it into my coffee. “You’re that Thompson?”
“’Fraid so.”
“Wow.”
He looked embarrassed. “It’s nothing I did. My great-great-grandfather created this sugar empire. We’re still running the company. I’m expected to step into my father’s shoes if he ever decides to retire.” His voice began to lose its sparkle, and I thought how unfair I’d been. Sure, these guys were rich and privileged, but I bet all of them had their futures mapped out for them. Miles would be the next CEO of Thompson Sugar; that had been his destiny since birth. For him to become an actor was probably a pipe dream. I wondered if his dad was also behind him belonging to
