Page 72 of Death at the Dower House
“Miss Darling,” Marsden said with a small bow and a barely concealed leer. “St George has it right. You do look ravishing in yellow.”
“Thank you, Lord Geoffrey.” I managed a semblance of a curtsey, even as my cheeks flushed—part embarrassment, part anger. Edible is one thing, ravishing quite another, especially in combination with Marsden’s proclivities for pawing at women. “St George likes to have his fun.”
I glanced over at the latter—he was smiling at Laetitia—and let my eyes linger for a second. With murder in mind, naturally, but no one else needed to know that. With any luck, my smoldering glance would convey jealousy instead.
“What would you like to drink, Miss Darling?” Peckham wanted to know. “Perhaps a Hanky Panky or a French 75?”
When I turned my attention to him, his eyes, small and muddy brown, were twinkling with a combination of malice and glee.
“I’ll have a Last Word,” I told him sweetly, “if that isn’t too difficult. Otherwise, a Gin Rickey will do.”
He smirked, but turned to the bar cart. And allowed me to have the last word, at least for right then.
Christopher tookme in to dinner, but since we were now an even eight and not nine, and only three women but five men, the seating arrangements were just as unorthodox as the night before.
Dawson had removed leaves to give the table a comfortable eight seats in total, and I ended up in the middle of one long side with Christopher on one side of me and Lord Geoffrey on the other. Laetitia had the opposite seat, with Crispin on one side and Francis on the other. Francis was properly partnering Constance on the hostess’s end of the table, while Gilbert had seated himself at the other end, the only place where the proper man-woman-man seating arrangements didn’t work out. He spent half the meal engaging Christopher in discussion, which forced me to talk to Marsden, and the other half talking to Crispin. Constance would much rather spend the time talking to Francis—for which no one could blame her, certainly not me—and so entertaining Marsden fell on my shoulders.
It was an uncomfortable meal. The murders, not to mention the presence of Scotland Yard in the Dower House, had no doubt discombobulated the below-stairs, and the food was not up to the standard of yesterday’s supper. The meat was overcooked and the potatoes hard. Whenever Crispin was talking to Gilbert, Laetitia eyed me across the table in a disconcerting, vaguely calculating manner. Marsden’s conversation was one innuendo after another, and he kept chasing my foot with his under the table. Francis was showering attention on Constance, too busy to notice my plight, while Christopher was being monopolized by Gilbert, perhaps so Marsden could have this go at me. And Crispin, of course, was either talking to Gilbert or to Laetitia, and was too far away to notice the footsie going on at my end of the table.
By the time Constance placed her napkin beside her plate and stood, I was exhausted. And that was just the beginning of the evening.
“What are we supposed to do now?” Laetitia wanted to know as we drifted out of the dining room towards the parlor. “I don’t suppose dancing would set the right tone.”
Decidedly not. Although I was rather impressed that she realized it.
“Card games?” Constance ventured. “Whist? Bridge?”
Laetitia wrinkled her nose.
“Or maybe board games? Chess? Ludo?”
Laetitia waved the suggestions away the same way one would a gnat.
“Feel free to suggest something that would be more to your liking,” I told her. “But you simply cannot use dancing as an excuse to drape yourself all over St George tonight. With a murder in the house and Scotland Yard still working in the library, it would not be appropriate in the least.”
She looked at me, and for a moment there was something very cold and calculated in her eyes, before she turned away, languidly. “Crispin, darling.”
She accompanied the words with a stroke of her hand over his sleeve. I was reminded of Johanna doing the same to the Hispano-Suiza.
She had caught him in the process of lighting a cigarette, and he had to take it out of his mouth to be able to answer her. “Laetitia?”
“You’ll dance with me, won’t you?” Her eyes were limpid, huge and imploring, and she kept the hand on his arm. She made quite the pretty picture as she looked up at him, transparently earnest and stunningly lovely.
“Oh.” Crispin looked from her to me and back. He cleared his throat diffidently. “I’m sorry, Laetitia, but I think Philippa’s right, you know?”
Laetitia pouted prettily. “Are you sure, darling? We could play soft music and dance slow…”
She flicked a glance my way, so quickly it was almost unnoticeable. She wanted to see how I reacted to that suggestion, I assumed. A suggestion that would certainly bother me if I did nurse any variety of tender feelings for St George.
“Your boy’s right, Letty,” her brother cut in. “It wouldn’t set the right tone to have a dance party tonight. This is a house in mourning, and we owe it to our cousins to be sensitive to their loss.”
“But I’m bored,” Laetitia whined. “Crispin…”
“For God’s sake, St George,” I told him. “Keep your girlfriend under control, can’t you? We cannot dance tonight. I don’t care how much the two of you want to. It’s inappropriate. Find something else to do with your time.”
“Perhaps a romantic walk through the grounds?” Laetitia suggested. She had moved her hand from the top of Crispin’s arm to his elbow now, and the grip looked firm.
“The rest of us will just sit here in silence and wait for you to come back, then, I suppose? Make sure you bring a clean handkerchief, St George. Judging by yesterday’s display, you’ll need it.”
