Gentlemen Formerly Dressed by Sulari Gentill Page A

said following Bruce’s lead in dissipating the topic of conversation. “I’ve organised a doctor to call on you at Claridge’s this afternoon. The Lord only knows if that French chap managed to set the correct arm!”
    â€œI expect I might know if he hadn’t, Wil,” Rowland replied. Clearly neither Bruce nor Wilfred wanted to pursue further discussion of Pierrepont, even here.
    Ethel Bruce was, however, not so easily diverted and quite eager to discuss the recently departed peer. From her they learned that Pierrepont was a wonderful dancer, a dab hand at bridge and had once rowed for Cambridge. He’d been a notorious and committed flirt, which Ethel had found charming after a fashion, but which was not always proper.
    â€œOh dear, you don’t suppose he was shot by a jealous husband?” she said, cupping a hand over her mouth as the thought occurred to her.
    â€œHe wasn’t shot,” Bruce stated wearily, without looking up from his meal.
    â€œWell, how would we know?” Ethel said, her voice quivering with excitement. “The newspapers didn’t say. Bunky might have been shot!” She turned to Kate. “You mustn’t be frightened, my dear, I’m sure no one would have any cause to shoot Wilfred.”
    Rowland smiled.
    Wilfred cleared his throat.
    â€œStanley,” Ethel said, “you simply must see what you can find out.”
    â€œWhatever for?” Bruce sighed.
    â€œI’ll need to send our condolences.”
    â€œWhich only requires you to know that Pierrepont is dead.”
    Ethel Bruce smiled sweetly. “Of course, my dear, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
    With that retreat, the conversation did indeed move to matters less scandalous. Ethel and Milton found they had a common admiration for the works of Conan Doyle and Christie and were soon immersed in a discussion of little grey cells and intellect. Bruce debated the implications of the Ottawa Agreement with Wilfred and spoke of his hopes for the League of Nations to which he was Australia’s representative.
    Clyde listened as Kate chatted about the exploits of Ernest and young Ewan, responding with the details of some country balm for teething when she mentioned that the youngest Sinclair had been fractious.
    â€œYou’re quiet, Rowly,” Edna whispered.
    He smiled. “Just contemplating six weeks of soup,” he murmured, glancing enviously at the generous portions of lamb which had been placed before every other person at the table.
    Edna laughed, though she rubbed his arm sympathetically. “Poor Rowly… you’ve had such a miserable time of it. Perhaps this doctor of Wilfred’s will be able to help you.”
    â€œTo use a knife and fork?” Rowland asked, bemused.
    â€œNo… but maybe he can give you something to help you sleep.”
    Rowland looked up sharply, startled that she knew he was having trouble sleeping.
    â€œClyde mentioned that you’re still having nightmares,” she said. “He’s worried about you.”
    â€œThere’s no need to be,” Rowland muttered. He’d not slept soundly since the night they’d fled the house on Schellingstrasse where the SA had left him for dead. He’d tried not to allow his friends to know but, on occasion, Clyde had found him trying to read or simply drinking in the early hours of the morning. They’d played cards without mention of why either would choose pre-dawn poker over sleep. “I’m just getting used to sleeping with this cast,” Rowland lied, vaguely embarrassed.
    â€œOf course,” Edna said gently. “Perhaps Wil’s doctor will be able to give you something for that.”

    And so the meal was passed and, for the gentlemen, finished with cigars and brandy while the ladies retired to the drawing room for coffee. Ethel Bruce waited until the serving maid had left the room before she said, “There’s