Page 30 of Death at the Dower House
“Or I can take you up to London in the H6,” Crispin offered. “I’d enjoy a trip up to Town.”
No doubt. He hadn’t had a chance to let down his hair for almost two weeks since his mother died. He must be suffering from withdrawal.
Or must have been until this weekend, at any rate. With what was going on here at the Dower House right now, going up to Town was superfluous.
“Kind of you to offer, St George,” I said, “but I think Uncle Harold would likely have something to say about that idea. Not to mention Lady Laetitia. And Johanna. And perhaps the woman you keep insisting you’re in love with. And that girl with the baby, who showed up at Sutherland House two months ago…”
There were twin sighs from each side of me. “Here we go again,” Francis said.
Christopher sniggered. “The truce lasted less than a minute this time. Might be a record.”
Crispin rolled his eyes. “Mind your own, Darling. If I want to go up to London, I can go up to London. I am of age. My father doesn’t run my life.”
“Could have fooled me,” I told him, considering the conversation—more like a shouting match—Christopher and I had overheard at Sutherland two weekends ago.
Crispin ignored this magnificently. “I already told you. The girl with the baby was a fraud. I’d never seen her before in my life.”
“A likely story,” I told him. “You probably just got so drunk one night that you didn’t realize who she was when you bedded her.”
His cheeks were pink again now, and so were the tips of his ears. “I don’t get tight and go to bed with random women, Darling!”
“So you say,” I jeered.
“Because it’s the truth! I didn’t know the girl with the baby, and it was absolutely not mine.”
A scuff of a shoe in the doorway brought us both up short, and turned everyone’s heads around, not just Crispin’s and mine. He tensed, and then relaxed again when he realized it was only Constance.
Not that I imagined his feelings about either Laetitia or Johanna mattered at this point. If Geoffrey Marsden had any sway over his sister, and if Gilbert Peckham had any say over his mother’s ward, neither of them—Marsden or Peckham—were likely to let their women marry someone like St George after the revelations that had just come out. I might actually believe him when it came to the girl with the baby—he certainly did seem sincere in denouncing her—but I was willing to bet that both Peckham and Marsden had him scratched off the list of potential suitors on the strength of it. In fact, Peckham looked quite nauseated by the whole thing.
But in any case, it was Constance in the doorway, not someone Crispin cared about. “Girl with a baby?” she asked as she made her way into the room. “Dear me. Good morning, Pippa. Gilbert. Lord Geoffrey. Lord St George. Mr. Astley. Francis.”
The last was accompanied by a small, secretive smile. Peckham glanced from Constance to Francis and back, but refrained from comment, beyond, “You slept late, Connie.”
“Late evening,” Constance said, as she made her way to the buffet. “And I’m not as late as Laetitia or Johanna.”
This was blatantly true, of course. Neither of them had joined us yet.
It was possible they were engaged in girl talk upstairs, I supposed. Sharing experiences of St George in their shared bedroom. Tips and tricks for how to seduce Crispin Astley, Viscount St George.
Or—since I had received the impression that they were pretty firmly opposed to one another—perhaps they were just taking their time getting ready. Considering the competition going on between them, they each had incentive to outdo the other in loveliness. So perhaps they were just upstairs preparing to make their entrances, each in an effort to outdo the other for Crispin’s attention.
Constance sat down next to her brother on the other side of the table. “There’s a girl with a baby?”
“She showed up at Sutherland House in London a few months ago,” I said, “with a baby she said was St George’s. He says it’s not.”
“It’s not!”
“Here we go again,” Christopher muttered, and addressed Constance. “We don’t know who the girl was. Or whose baby it is. If my cousin says he doesn’t know her, then he doesn’t know her. Crispin—”
He looked at me severely before turning his attention back to Constance, “is not a liar.”
“Fine,” I said, with a grimace.
“Delighted to have your support, Darling.” Crispin devoted himself to his breakfast, and to the peace and quiet that would no doubt be shattered once Johanna and Laetitia made their way downstairs to join us.
I engaged Christopher and Francis in conversation about the general strike. Marsden seemed amazed—unflatteringly so—that I understood enough about what was going on to converse about it, which probably meant that Lady Laetitia was just as dim as her brother. Peckham, on the other hand, did contribute a few comments. Crispin joined in, too, eventually, and so did Constance, which seemed to amaze Marsden even more.
We were about to abandon the dining room for the lawn and the croquet mallets when Lady Laetitia finally made her entrance. And whatever she’d been doing upstairs, it had obviously been worth it. She floated through the doorway into the dining room in an afternoon frock of unparalleled loveliness. Black, like yesterday’s gown—and like her shiny cap of hair—it had a thin, pink stripe on the bottom of the skirt and sleeves, a wide pink sash around the dropped waist, and a circle of pink flowers with green leaves around the top. The sleeves were tight around her upper arms and fluttered out below the elbows. Paired with a scoop neck that showed her chest to best advantage—there was what looked like a diamond nestled into the hollow at the bottom of her throat—she was simply astonishing.
