Page 84 of Death at the Dower House
“Oh, had we?”
He let me stew for a moment, and then he added, “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been in a woman’s bedchamber, you know. It wouldn’t even be the first time I’ve been in Laetitia’s. Or she in mine, at least.”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t. Thanks so much for reminding me, St George, since I’m sure I would have forgotten otherwise.”
He hadn’t anything to say to that, so I added, “But going in there now, with her brother present, and both your cousins, not to mention the Peckhams, would be tantamount to a declaration. And unless you’re willing to declare yourself, and you’re willing to marry her, you’re better off staying out.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then—
“I had no idea you were so old-fashioned, Darling. Declare myself, truly?”
“Call it whatever you want,” I told him. “Aunt Roz tasked me with making sure you didn’t get yourself in any trouble this weekend, and getting engaged to Lady Laetitia Marsden would definitely qualify as trouble. I’m not going back to her and telling her I allowed you to do that.”
“How are you going to stop me, Darling?”
His voice had a disconcerting note of flirtation—it was the darkness, I assume; it’s a lot easier to be brave in the dark, unless I was simply imagining it—and I told him, as prosaically as I could, “I’ll knock you down and sit on you if I have to. Francis will help me. Won’t you, Francis?”
I snagged the elder Astley’s arm before he could push past. My eyes had mostly adjusted to the dark now. I could clearly see that I was talking to Crispin, and I had also spied Francis making his approach, probably on his way towards Constance, who was still behind me somewhere, trying to get her head around what was happening.
He glanced down at me. “Won’t I what, Pipsqueak?”
“Help me keep St George from compromising himself by going into Lady Laetitia’s bedroom.”
He glanced from me to Crispin and back. “How do you plan to do that?”
“You hit him, I keep him down,” I said.
Francis’s teeth flashed in a grin. “I’d be delighted to help with that. You just tell me where you want him hit and I’ll do it.”
I gave Crispin an arch look for which he returned a roll of his eyes. “Some cousin you are, Astley. You’d turn on your own blood because she asked you to?”
“I like her better than you,” Francis told him, and glanced around. “Any idea what’s going on?”
I shook my head. “I’d just got out here when I ran into St George. I assume we all heard the same thing…?”
Francis nodded. “Someone screaming bloody murder—Lady Laetitia, it seems, since it wasn’t either you or Constance—and then a lot of footsteps and noise.”
“Where’s Christopher?”
“I don’t know,” Francis said and glanced at Crispin. “St George?”
Crispin shook his head. “I’m not sure he was there when we woke up.”
My blood ran cold, and I turned to look at him. “Surely you’re not suggesting…?”
“No, Darling.” He turned his head, and a lock of fair hair he hadn’t slicked back for the day yet flopped over his eye. “Of course not. Kit would never—”
“Then where is he?” I looked around. “You don’t think anything’s happened to him, do you?” I raised my voice. “Christopher?”
“Christopher!” Francis bellowed.
“Kit!” Crispin added his slightly higher tones to the call.
There was no response, or none from Christopher. He didn’t come running, and didn’t stick his head out through Lady Laetitia’s door to tell us he was inside, offering whatever assistance he could.
“Go make sure he’s not in your room,” I told Crispin or Francis, whichever one was likely to obey me, while I turned to the stairs. “I’m going downstairs.”
One of them headed for the other side of the landing. It must have been Francis, because when I clattered down around the bend in the stairs, Crispin was keeping pace with me. “Where to?” he asked when we reached the reception room floor.
