Page 9 of Death at the Dower House
He was all those things. I couldn’t argue with any of them. “He’s also a brat,” I said. “A childish, self-indulgent little horror. He’s a philanderer. A cad, if that isn’t too old-fashioned a word. He beds women indiscriminately. A girl with a baby showed up at Sutherland House in London a couple of months ago. A baby, Constance!”
“Dear me,” Constance said.
I nodded. “I don’t think he’d stop doing it if he were married, either.”
Not unless he was allowed to marry the girl he claimed to be in love with, at any rate. The foreign one his late grandfather and mother had objected to, along with his still-very-much-alive father. If he got her, maybe he’d be happy enough that he wouldn’t feel the need to stray.
And speaking of foreign girls with no title or money…
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance St George might have made Johanna’s acquaintance before now, is there?”
From the scene we’d stumbled on in the maze, things had moved rather quickly for two people who had never laid eyes on each other before today. And she was clearly both foreign and penniless. Just as he was, clearly, quite smitten with her.
“I have no idea,” Constance said, as we came around the corner of the conservatory. There was the sound of a motorcar off in the distance, and as we made our way toward the front of the Hall and the courtyard, it came closer. “She’s never mentioned him before. Then again, we don’t talk much, Johanna and I…”
No, I wouldn’t want to talk to Johanna, either. The thought of living with her, even just for the next few days, was unpleasant. I couldn’t imagine how Constance put up with it.
“Who else is coming?” Constance wanted to know, as a shiny black motorcar made its way up the drive from the road into the courtyard. The evening sun shone on a fair head behind the wheel, while a dignified brown Derby along with a green-on-green appliqued cloche took up the back seat.
“Hullo, Pipsqueak!” a voice called out.
I raised a hand in response. “That’s the rest of the Astleys. My Aunt Roslyn and Uncle Herbert and Cousin Francis. Christopher’s parents and his eldest—well, only now—brother.”
“You lost a cousin in the war,” Constance interpreted, with her eyes still on the motorcar as it zoomed around the curve of the driveway and into the courtyard.
I nodded. “Francis was the eldest, Christopher the youngest. Too young to serve. You know that; he’s the same age as we are.”
“Eleven when the war started,” Constance said.
“Precisely. Francis was eighteen and Robert sixteen. By the time conscription started, they were both called up. Francis made it through. Robert didn’t.”
“And that’s Francis.” Constance watched as my eldest cousin pulled the motorcar to a stop beside the fountain in the courtyard and jumped out. Tidwell, meanwhile, had opened the front door from the Hall and now proceeded majestically towards the automobile to open the door for Uncle Herbert while Francis did the honors for Aunt Roz. Alfie and Hugh descended on the car to carry the bags upstairs, and Francis came our way.
“Pipsqueak!”
I grimaced. “I wish so much you wouldn’t call me that, Francis.”
“I know, Pippa. That’s why I do it.” He put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze before smiling down at Constance. “Who do we have here?”
“Constance,” I said formally, “this is my cousin, Mr. Francis Astley. Francis, my friend from Godolphin, Miss Constance Peckham. The Peckhams are here for the funeral. Lady Peckham was a friend of Aunt Charlotte’s.”
Francis nodded. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Peckham.” He appropriated her hand and did the Crispin-bow over it, complete with kiss. Constance tittered and blushed again, and Francis winked at her.
“Behave yourself,” I admonished. He was red-cheeked and bright-eyed and looked flushed and healthy, and like all the Astley men, he’s quite good-looking. But while the high color and high spirits may have been the result of the invigorating drive here from Beckwith Place, he might equally well have indulged in some sort of stimulant before setting out. Francis has a problem with self-medication, and I’m sure he wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow and the funerals.
“I always do, Pippa.” He turned the wink on me before offering his arm “May I escort you two lovely ladies inside?”
“Of course.” I tucked my hand through his elbow. “You missed tea, I’m sorry to say.”
On the other side of Francis, Constance did the same, delicately but gamely.
“And be warned,” I added, as we headed for the front door, “there’s a gold-digger on the premises.”
“You don’t say?” Francis peered down at Constance. “Not this one, surely?”
“No, no.” I shook my head, and so did she. “Constance is expected to snag a husband, too, but the It Girl has St George cornered in the maze.”
Francis smothered a laugh. “Such a curse, being young, handsome, and titled.”
