Jack Compton's Luck. Paula Marshall

the pretty in the reception line at the top of the stairs—at least some things hadn’t changed, Jack thought.

      Lady Leominster had stared at him when he had arrived before her and had said in a sweet voice, ‘If you’re Rupert’s cousin I suppose that you must be related to Sir William Compton. Sad about him, wasn’t it? Is there any hope that he might recover?’

      Jack had agreed that he was related to Sir William, being his younger brother, and no, there was little chance that Sir William would ever be other than a frail and helpless cripple as the result of his war wounds.

      ‘Oh, how rotten,’ she had replied, but not passing on to her next guest until she had said, ‘Please remember me to him, we were very close when we were young together, before the War, that was.’ It was plain that this Lady Leominster was quite unlike her predecessors, most of whom had been fiery Amazons, famous for their managing and meddling ways.

      Jack had moved on after that and, knowing nobody, had wandered around Leominster House which was still much as it had been before the war had changed almost everything else. Rupert had not yet reappeared, so he decided to return to the ballroom and watch the dancing a little before going back to his lodgings near Regent’s Park—although the temptation to leave immediately had been great. He resisted it, and was afterwards to wonder how different his life might have been if he had left before the dancing began.

      There was a jazz band performing on a small stand in a corner of the room. It was said to be the real thing since the musicians had all come from New Orleans to take London by storm. They were playing a tune which he did not know, but was later to learn that it was called, quite simply, ‘Charleston’. The dance being performed to the music was of the utmost live-liness and was like nothing that Jack had ever seen before—except on the stage.

      All the decorum of normal ballroom dancing had disappeared. The dancers, who seemed to be in a state of high abandon, were throwing themselves about, waving their arms and side-kicking from the knee. When they were not doing that, they were bowing their legs and knocking their knees together with much crossing of their hands over them.

      It was not so much that Jack was shocked—nothing much shocked him these days—but that the scene before him was so different from anything which he had previously seen at a great house in London society that he stared at it in amazement.

      One couple particularly caught his eye. The man was young, elegant and athletic, but his female partner was something else altogether. The only word that described her, Jack decided, was stunning. She was dancing with the utmost flair, as though not only was she on the stage, but she was also very much the star of the show. Altogether she was a sight for sore eyes, as Jack’s nurse had been fond of saying.

      Her low-waisted frock, emerald green in colour, with stockings and shoes to match, was short and diaphanous. A pair of exotic orchids rode on her left shoulder. Her dark hair was cut fashionably short, except for a long fringe which was held back by a tortoiseshell buckle ornamented with tiny emeralds and diamonds. Her eyes shot green fire to match the emeralds. Her vivacity, as she laughed up into the face of her partner, made every other woman in the dance look stolid.

      What was worse, her effect on Jack was extreme. Since he had arrived back in England after serving in Palestine once the war in Europe was over, he had lived a quiet and abstemious life. Before the war he had been part of a lively set of officers and gentlemen and had been nicknamed ‘Fighting Jack’ for his many daring and comic exploits. Four years of war and five years of trying to save the Compton family estates after his service in Palestine had changed all that.

      He was so taken up with watching her gyrations, not sure whether he appreciated her expertise or deplored it, that he failed to hear Rupert, now without his girl, sneak up on him.

      ‘Admiring the Chancellor heiress, are we?’ he asked, grinning a little at the expression on Jack’s face. He had always thought Jack a bit of a stick, full of duty and honour and all that, since he had retired from the Army, but no stick had ever looked at a woman as Jack was doing! Fighting Jack was back with a vengeance!

      Jack, startled, turned to look at Rupert just as the dance ended and the young woman and her partner moved off the floor together and towards the supper room.

      ‘Chancellor heiress?’ he parroted witlessly. ‘I thought I knew all of Bretford’s brood.’

      He was referring to the Earl of Bretford, whose family name was Chancellor. ‘But aren’t they all as poor as church mice these days?’

      ‘Not this one. She’s not one of Bretford’s get, old chap. She’s some half-Yankee fourth or fifth cousin, an heiress, no less, through her mother’s father. She’s a half-sister of the present Chancellor head of the family who is a financial wizard in the City and as rich as Croesus himself—they’re the hard-headed branch. The heiress was sent to the States shortly after the War started when she was quite a young girl. Came back earlier this year. Everyone and his brother’s after her, but she’s not yet shown any interest in marrying any of them.’

      He looked sideways at Jack. ‘How about it? Why not have a go yourself? God knows you could do with the money, no longer land rich, and dirt poor into the bargain.’

      ‘Why not have a go yourself?’ riposted Jack. ‘You are in no better case than we are.’

      ‘I suppose by “we” you mean poor Will since he’s still in the land of the living. No, I’ve had a go at her but, however carefree she looks on the dance floor, she’s as hard as nails when it comes to suitors. She made it very plain that I was an also-ran.’

      ‘And as hard as nails on the dance floor, too, if the performance I’ve just witnessed is any guide,’ said Jack, determined not to reveal how much the mere sight of the Chancellor heiress had roused him.

      ‘Beggars,’ said Rupert, as though he were coming out with something new and profound, ‘can’t be choosers, old fellow. Let’s be off to the supper room so that you can meet the lady.’

      ‘I don’t even know her name yet,’ returned Jack, ‘I can scarcely address her as the Chancellor heiress.’

      ‘Oh, it’s one of those odd Yankee ones,’ said Rupert cheerfully. ‘Lacey, no less. How do you like that?’

      ‘Not much,’ said Jack, ‘but, as you say, beggars can’t be choosers. On, Stanley, on. Not that I’m willing to sell myself for money, but anyone who carries on like that on the dance floor is well worth knowing.’

      ‘Ah, yes,’ said Rupert knowingly. ‘The Charleston, the dance which has become all the range while you’ve been in exile. She’s famous for that. She’s a flapper who rarely flaps, except when she’s on the ballroom floor.’

      ‘The Charleston, eh?’ mused Jack. ‘So that’s what it’s called. Also from the States, I suppose.’

      Rupert was cheerful, ‘You suppose correctly. Come on, let’s be off to the supper room before the grub disappears and find the American Beauty—that’s what the gossip columnists are calling her.’

      ‘If you must,’ said Jack. ‘I was thinking of going home.’

      ‘Home, where the devil’s that?’ said Rupert. ‘Up a pair of stairs somewhere cheap, I shouldn’t wonder. I’m surprised that you trouble to come to town at all if this is how you carry on when you do.’

      ‘Business,’ said Jack, ‘business brings me.’

      ‘Well, in that case,’ Rupert riposted, ‘we must go to the supper room at once. Your business tonight is to repair the Compton fortunes by snaring the Yankee beauty—a much better way of doing it than working yourself to the bone at Compton Place.’

      He slid an arm through Jack’s. ‘Come on, old fellow, stop moping and enjoy yourself for a change. The war was over last July,’ he sang, ‘it said so in “John Bull”.’ He winked at Jack as he finished, just like the comedian who had introduced the song to the London stage.

      Jack gave way and let Rupert lead him