Page 20 of Death at the Dower House
“Except your mother, it seems.”
“My mother was a great beauty in her day,” Constance said. “I was always a disappointment to her. Not pretty enough, not glamorous enough, not sought-after enough. With Johanna, she got a second chance at bringing out a beautiful daughter. And Johanna is lovely to Mother. And to Gilbert. It’s just me she doesn’t like.”
“And me,” I said, jumping to my feet, “apparently. Probably because we can see through her. Shall we go down and give her some competition?”
“You, perhaps,” Constance said, looking at my apple green silk with the diamante accents. “I’m no threat.”
“Don’t let Francis hear you say that.” I tucked my arm through hers and pulled her toward the door. “It doesn’t appear as if she wants him, but he hasn’t looked twice at her in the past two days. He saw you in the courtyard that first day, and he hasn’t looked away from you since.”
She flushed, but there was a pleased smile curving her mouth. I squeezed her arm and added, “Happiness is the best revenge. If Johanna marries St George, she definitely won’t be happy. The money and title won’t make up for the fact that he’s an awful person, and a womanizing bounder, to boot. But also, he doesn’t love her, no matter how dazzled he is right now. So let’s go down there and flaunt what she’ll never have.”
Constance nodded.
“Shoulders back,” I told her. “Head high.”
“Shoulders back. Head high. Just like at Godolphin.”
We shared a grin as we headed down the stairs to the ground floor and supper.
In Lady Peckham’s absence,Johanna had taken it upon herself to act as our hostess. She wanted to get the practice in, perhaps, or maybe she really felt that the duty was hers. It was quite remarkably rude to Constance either way, but no one seemed to think anything of it. Least of all Constance, who seemed relieved to be rid of the responsibility. “Let her do what she wants,” she told me, as we made our way across the parlor to where Francis and Christopher were waiting. “It’s not worth making a scene over.”
It was worth it to me, or would have been worth it had I been the one snubbed, but as I wasn’t, all I could do was follow Constance’s lead. Which I did, but not without a scowl at Johanna, who of course looked absolutely exquisite in pale blue. Christopher had a similar dress, one he had worn to a drag ball the day before we’d been summoned to Sutherland Hall for the late duke’s dressing down, and while he’d looked stunning when he left the flat that night—Christopher makes for a gorgeous girl when he’s in full makeup and wig—I wondered if Johanna didn’t in fact wear it a bit better.
That felt disloyal, however, and so I was scowling. Crispin, who was standing next to the vision in blue, noticed—as he would—and arched a brow at me as we passed. “Hasn’t anyone warned you that that expression is enough to curdle milk, Darling?”
“You must have,” I shot back, “I’m sure. It can’t be the first time you’ve seen it.”
“No, indeed.” He looked me up and down, and then again. “Well, don’t you look tart and crisp and good enough to eat?”
The look on his face was straddling the line between a sneer and a smirk, and I flushed angrily. “If you’re suggesting that I look like an apple, St George…!”
The smirk—it was definitely a smirk by now—widened. “I’m merely suggesting that you look rather edible, Darling.”
I narrowed my eyes. The dress was green. Apple green. But I’m tall, not short, and slim, not round, and for him to imply—
“What a beautiful dress,” Johanna deigned to remark, as she put a calming—I assume it was meant to be calming—hand on Crispin’s sleeve. He was in full evening kit, of course—black tie—and looked just as good as could be expected. Some people are born to wear evening kit, and the Astleys are among them. They’re all remarkably good-looking—yes, even St George; I’m disdainful, not blind—and the stark black and white sets off their fair hair and fair complexion to advantage. Crispin’s eyes are a cold gray instead of the warm blue of Christopher and Francis, but it didn’t matter. He looked perfectly like the lord of the manor, and Johanna’s hand looked right in place where she’d put it.
“I’m glad you think so,” I told her, without bothering to sound like I meant it. “Yours is nice, too. Poiret?”
She inclined her head but didn’t actually say anything. It was hard to guess whether she meant yes, it was a Paul Poiret, or no, it wasn’t, but she’d like me to think it was. It didn’t actually matter either way, since the dress was lovely and I couldn’t care less whether it was a real Poiret or not.
“Excuse us,” I told her, with a flicker of a glance at St George that ought to have dropped him dead where he stood. “We’re going to join Christopher and Francis.”
I didn’t wait to be dismissed—who was she, who werethey, to dismiss us?—just pulled Constance after me across the floor towards the corner where the Astley brothers were standing with Gilbert Peckham.
He gave his sister a surprised arch of an eyebrow—perhaps it was the first time he’d noticed her looking pretty, or perhaps it was simply the first time he’d looked at her in a while—and me a more thorough once-over. “That’s a lovely dress, Miss Darling. Very becoming.”
“Thank you,” I said, through gritted teeth. “Let St George know when you have a chance.”
Christopher smothered a laugh. “What did he say now?”
“Told me I look like a Bramley,” I said, with a scowl over my shoulder.
Christopher and Francis both choked back startled laughs at that, Francis a little less successfully than Christopher. Constance made a tiny protesting sound that resolved itself into clearing her throat when we all turned to look at her.
“What?” I demanded.
She flushed. “Strictly speaking, he said you looked good.”
