Page 40 of Death at the Dower House
“When you say ‘us all’…?”
“Myself,” I said, “Christopher Astley, Francis Astley, and especially Lord St George.”
Tom glanced at him and back at me. “Why especially St George?”
“Constance made it clear that her mother was hoping to matchmake. Crispin has the title and most of the money.”
I avoided looking at Crispin when I said it, since this was something I had thrown in his face many times before, most of them in the heat of an argument. He knows that women pursue him because of his title and fortune—how could he not know it, with as many times as I’ve pointed it out?
Where we disagree, is whether that’s the sole reason that they pursue, or whether it’s just a contributing factor. Crispin insists that he has other things to recommend him. I tell him that he doesn’t. (Of course he’s also quite good-looking and can be very clever, even if he has a terribly sarcastic tongue to go along with that quick mind. I just don’t see why I should take pains to mention any of those attributes, since he’s conceited enough already.)
But on this particular occasion, I felt no need to rub his face in Lady Peckham’s pecuniary attitude. He might even have believed that his connection with Johanna was different, and who was I to take that away from him?
“Tell me about last night,” Tom said when we had finished the introductions and Collins’s pencil had stopped scratching across the page of the notebook.
We looked at one another, to see who would go first. When no one else spoke up, Lady Laetitia did. “My brother and I arrived in time for supper. We live just across the valley…”
She waved a languid hand, although unless my sense of geography failed me, I thought Marsden Manor was actually located on the other side of the Dower House than the one she was indicating.
“And you were planning to stay the weekend? When was that decided?”
“Oh.” She looked vague. “Aunt Iris asked us earlier this week. Before she and the others went to Sutherland Hall. She mentioned that Lord St George might be coming…”
She fluttered a look at Crispin under her lashes. He looked uncomfortable.
“You and St George are old friends,” Tom said. It was a statement of fact, not a question.
Laetitia stopped. She looked at Crispin, then at me and Christopher, and then at her brother before she looked at Tom again. Finally she said, “Yes?” with a sort of vague uncertainty that made it sound like she wasn’t certain at all.
“You spent some time together in London earlier this year. At Sutherland House, back in January.”
Laetitia blinked, as if she couldn’t imagine how he would know that. The look on Crispin’s face was horrified.
“Grimsby’s notes,” I told him, and he transferred the horrified look to me.
“Good God, Darling. Just how detailed were these notes?”
“Quite detailed.” I smirked. “The staff at Sutherland House had no qualms about telling Grimsby everything they’d seen and heard, and your mother apparently had no qualms about sharing it with me.”
I had the pleasure of seeing the color drain out of his cheeks. “My mother?” he choked. “Told you about this?”
“Remember that envelope I gave to Tom two weeks ago at Sutherland Hall, that you refused to believe contained a record of my movements? You made some quite uncouth comments, as I recall.”
He didn’t respond to that, and I added, “Your mother tore the pages about you out of Grimsby’s notebook and left them in my room.” Along with the pages pertaining to me and to Christopher.
I had dutifully passed it all on to Scotland Yard, of course. After committing it to memory.
Crispin’s jaw dropped. “She gave you information aboutmyaffairs? My mother gaveyouinformation about my affairs? Mymother?”
“Every woman you’ve brought to Sutherland House in the past year and a half,” I confirmed. “How did you think I learned about the girl with the baby?”
“I have no idea.” Crispin sank back against the chair looking wan. “Good God. If Grimsby wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him myself.”
“Not the kind of thing you want to say in front of Scotland Yard,” Tom told him dryly, but without making it sound like he thought a whole lot of Crispin’s confession.
“Besides,” I told him, “you told me about Lady Laetitia yourself, remember? Not a conquest, you said. It was more that—”
“Yes, Darling.” He interrupted me so quickly that I’m sure we all got the idea that there was something I was about to blurt out that he didn’t want me to say. “Thank you. I remember.”
