Chapter 2

"That's unfortunate,"was Christopher's reaction when he made it home later that evening, and I told him about the girl's sudden appearance and equally sudden disappearance before I could get anything useful out of her.

I nodded. "It's a shame you weren't home. Maybe she would have let something slip with you that she didn't with me."

"I can't imagine what," Christopher said. "It's much more likely that she would have taken one look at me and run, the way she did with you. I'm not who she's looking for either, you know."

"I didn't think you were," I answered. "Although there was that period, the summer after we came down from Oxford, when you did a bit of experimenting, wasn't there?"

"There was, which you very well know. But it never got to the point of getting anyone with child, or doing anything that might achieve that. I didn't like any of them well enough, and Mum would have skinned me alive."

"That was too long ago anyway," I said. "My guess—not that I know much about it—is that the baby might be five or six months old."

"So she would have been conceived…" He counted on his fingers, "—last spring or early summer. Sometime in the first half of last year."

I nodded. "Six or eight months, at least, after we came down from university. You had finished your phase of experimentation by then."

"Lucky for me."

"I never thought for a moment that she was yours," I said. "Not to mention, I'm sure you got The Talk at some point, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. Mum set Crispin and me down?—"

"Aunt Roz? Talked to St George about women?"

His eyebrows rose. "Surely you didn't think Aunt Charlotte would have thought it appropriate to talk to Crispin about sex?"

Well, no. Aunt Charlotte had been rather Victorian on the subject. The last time we visited Sutherland Hall while she'd been alive, she had put me as far into the west wing as Christopher was into the east to keep us away from each other and any suggestion of impropriety. It had been a ten-minute walk to get from my room to his. Never mind the fact that we share a flat in London and can behave as improperly as we want the rest of the time.

Not that we do, of course. None of Christopher's experimentation had been with me. Not only are we the next thing to siblings, but he wouldn't incline my way if I were a total stranger. However?—

"I had rather assumed that Uncle Harold would have done the honors," I said, "since he'd care the most about getting a legitimate heir. Or at least care the most about not getting an illegitimate one."

"He might have done," Christopher admitted. "I don't know what Uncle Harold and Crispin might have discussed. But The Talk—the one about the birds and the bees—came from Mum. Didn't she talk to you?"

Of course she had. But— "That's rather different, don't you think? I'm a girl, or was at the time. I assumed Uncle Herbert and Uncle Harold would have taught you and St George the facts of life."

"Mum understands the facts of life better than either of them," Christopher said. "She was the one who had to deal with the consequences. My mother carried and birthed three boys. My father just stood by and cheered."

After a moment, he added, "Dad did sit me down one Christmas—I must have been fifteen or sixteen, I suppose; home for the holidays from Eton—and he explained about noblesse oblige and that I couldn't go around sticking little Kit into things willy-nilly …"

"Little Kit?" I made a face.

"What would you have me call it?" Christopher wanted to know. "Or rather, what would you have my father call it?"

"Your father called it little Kit?"

"No, of course not." His cheeks were pink. "He called it something much cruder than that, that I am not about to repeat in front of you. Mum was more clinical about the whole thing?—"

I nodded. "With me, too. So Uncle Herbert told you that noblesse oblige and you cannot poke women indiscriminately…"

He nodded. "That was it. I can't go around poking women indiscriminately, because I don't want to have to marry someone I don't care for just because I can't keep my flies closed."

"A pity Uncle Harold didn't have the same conversation with Crispin," I said.

Christopher squinted at me. "How do you know that he didn't?"

"If he had, do you suppose St George would carry on the way he does?"

"I don't think Crispin carries on the way he does because he doesn't know better," Christopher said. "He's well aware of how it all works. Mum made sure of it. Not that we didn't both have a good idea already. But I guess she assumed Aunt Charlotte wasn't going to get around to it, and she didn't trust whatever Uncle Harold might say—not that Uncle Harold ever struck me as someone who was very interested in women, including his wife."

No, he hadn't struck me that way, either. Christopher's aunt and uncle had been married almost as long as Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert, and it had been years before they'd had Crispin, and then more years after that with no spare. There was either a medical problem, or Uncle Harold just couldn't be bothered.

"You don't suppose…?" I ventured.

"No," Christopher said. "I think I'd be able to tell if my uncle was queer."

"It's not like he'd come on to you. You're his nephew."

"I'd still be able to tell. And thank you for putting that particular image in my head, Pippa."

We both grimaced, since it had now made its way into mine, as well. Bad enough to consider Uncle Harold—who really was a particularly dry old stick—having relations with his wife, which he must have done at some point or Crispin wouldn't exist. Much worse to contemplate him with another man.

"God knows where Crispin gets it," Christopher added thoughtfully.

His proclivity towards being a cad, I assumed, since Crispin certainly had none of Christopher's preferences for his own gender.

"Must be from Aunt Charlotte. Unless your grandfather was quite the lad in his day."

"I tend to think of Grandfather as having always been a desiccated old mummy," Christopher said, "but I suppose he might have been different when he was young. He was almost ninety when he died. What would that make it?" He counted on his fingers. "Eighteen-sixty or thereabouts when he was our age? Too long ago for me to have any idea what he was like back then."

I wasn't even a Sutherland, so I knew less than he did. "I don't suppose there are family stories?"

"No," Christopher said. "Youthful indiscretions aren't something you want to pass down to your children and children's children after you settle down, I assume. Do you plan to tell your children that their father was a rake before he married you?"

I slanted him a beady eye. "How do you know that my husband will be a rake? Maybe I'll end up with a perfectly lovely gentleman who barely even kissed a woman's hand before he met me."

Christopher smirked, and I sighed. He said, "One of you ought to know what you're doing, don't you think?"

"I know what I'm doing. Or at least I know the theory. I had The Talk with Aunt Roz, too, don't forget."

He nodded. "Dad got around a bit before he met Mum, apparently. That's why Grandfather married him off so young. And Mum was even younger. If you were her, you would be married and have Francis already."

"I'm glad I'm not," I said. "I'm not ready for a husband or babies."

Christopher shook his head. "Nor am I."

"Good thing little Bess doesn't belong to either of us."

Christopher nodded. "Just out of curiosity, did she…?"

"She looked enough like you to be yours."

He made a face. "So she looked enough like Crispin to be his, too."

"Or enough like Francis to be his," I confirmed. "For that matter, she looked enough like all three of you to be Uncle Harold's or Uncle Herbert's. Not that that's likely, I suppose."

"Probably not," Christopher agreed, "although I suppose they are both the grandsons of a Duke."

"A very late Duke. When did your great-grandfather die?"

"Before I had a chance to meet him," Christopher said, "but that doesn't make him any less of a Duke. Or them any less his grandsons."

No. But— "Surely you're not thinking that Uncle Harold or your father would have seduced this poor waif and gotten her with child? They were both married last year. Aunt Charlotte was still alive. And I'm sure you're not accusing your father of cheating on your mother?"

"Of course not," Christopher said. "My father wouldn't do that. And while I have no idea what Uncle Harold would or wouldn't do, I don't imagine it's likely. She didn't look like Aunt Charlotte, did she? The girl?"

"Abigail Dole," I said. "And she looked more like Aunt Charlotte than Aunt Roz. Petite and girlish. But dark instead of fair. She looked nothing at all like Lady Laetitia Marsden or Johanna de Vos. Or for that matter like Millicent Tremayne or Lady Violet Cummings or the Honorable Cecily Fletcher or…"

"I get it." He held up a hand. "You can stop. If you're going to run down the entire list of Crispin's conquests, we'll be here all night."

"We'll be here all night anyway," I told him. "We live here. At any rate, you have to admit he has a type."

"And she wasn't it?"

I shook my head. "She was small and dainty, pretty in an understated, old-fashioned sort of way. Not St George's type at all."

"Francis's type, then."

"If Francis's type is Constance Peckham," I said, "then yes. That's who she looked like."

Christopher nodded, looking troubled. He opened his mouth, but was interrupted by the buzzer from the lobby before he could utter whatever was on his mind (as if I couldn't guess perfectly well).

"Telegram for you, Mr. Astley," Evans's voice said.

Christopher turned pale, and so did I. A telegram is rarely a good thing, and we had both dealt with rather a lot of tragedy over the past few months. Neither of us was looking forward to more.

"Open it," I said, "if you please, Evans."

Christopher made an aborted sort of movement, but he didn't end up saying anything. And I understood where he was coming from. Really, I did. It wasn't any of Evans's business why someone might have sent us a telegram. But he'd learn about it, whatever it was, fairly quickly anyway, I figured, and if we'd just put up with him finding out now instead of later, we'd get the news two minutes faster and wouldn't have to worry as long.

There was the sound of paper ripping, and then Evans's voice. "DEAREST KIT AND PIPPA STOP SHE SAID YES STOP ENGAGEMENT PARTY BECKWITH PLACE NEXT WEEKEND STOP BE THERE END." He cleared his throat. "There's no signature."

I blinked. Christopher did the same.

"Thank you, Evans," I said. "I'll be down in a minute to fetch it."

Evans rang off, and I looked at Christopher. He looked at me. "No one died."

I shook my head as I pushed to my feet.

"Francis proposed to Constance."

"So it seems."

"Who did you say this young woman looked like, again?"

"Constance," I told him over my shoulder.

Christopher nodded. "That's what I thought you said."

Beckwith Place,the childhood home of Christopher's mother, my Aunt Roslyn, and also of her younger sister, my own mother, is located in Wiltshire, in an easterly, south-easterly direction from Salisbury. More east, less south-east than Sutherland Hall, but in the same general area. There's less than an hour's drive between the two, and also less than an hour's drive from Salisbury to Beckwith Place. When Christopher and I exited the railway station in Salisbury on Friday afternoon the following week, Uncle Herbert's black Bentley Tourer was waiting outside, with Francis at the wheel.

My eldest cousin is almost thirty: so close, in fact, that he could probably taste it. He'd turn the big three-zero in the middle of next week, and the family gathering this weekend was partly engagement party, partly birthday celebration.

Francis looks like an older version of Christopher: a bit heavier with muscle, but with the same blue eyes and wheat-blond hair. In personality, he falls somewhere between Christopher and Crispin. Louder and more boisterous than the former, not as cutting as the latter. Bantering with Crispin when he's in a mood is an exercise in avoiding injury. Bantering with Francis is mostly good fun, as he doesn't go out of his way to hurt one.

"Hullo, Pipsqueak!" he hollered when I passed through the doors from the station and into the relative warmth of the July afternoon. "This way, Kit!" He waved energetically.

I rolled my eyes, but headed towards him, raising my voice. "You know what I've told you about that, Francis."

It's an abominable nickname and I wished he wouldn't use it. Not that my wishes on the subject seem to make any difference whatsoever.

"I know, Pippa." He put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze before he took the bag out of my hand. "Let me take that for you. Hullo, little brother."

He gave Christopher a squeeze, as well.

"Francis." Christopher twitched out of the embrace and stuck out a hand. "Congratulations, old chap."

"Thanks, old bean." They shook and then Francis opened the door to the back of the Bentley. "Pipsqueak?"

I sighed, but crawled in next to the luggage. "Why do I always end up in the backseat?"

"You can have the front, Pippa," Christopher offered, but I shook my head.

"You go ahead. But drive slowly, Francis, so you can tell us all about the proposal."

"There's not much to tell," Francis said, but when he pulled away from the curb, it was at a decorous pace, quite different from the last time we'd been picked up from the railway station in Salisbury, when St George had scattered pedestrians and pigeons in a mad dash out of town in his Hispano-Suiza racing car.

Francis continued, "I timed it for two months from the first time I met her, when we came up the drive at Sutherland Hall and I saw the two of you—" he shot me a glance over his shoulder, "round the corner of the conservatory."

I nodded. I remembered it well. Constance and her family had arrived that afternoon for the funerals of the late Duke and of Crispin's mother, and she and I had been on our way back from a stroll through the garden maze, where we had come upon Lady Peckham's ward, the lovely Johanna de Vos, in the process of swallowing St George (and his title and fortune) whole. It had been quite an uncomfortable interlude, and Constance, who was much nicer-minded than I am, had been battling horrified amusement over Crispin's embarrassment, while I had been loudly and derisively sneering.

"I asked her to take a walk in the garden after tea," Francis continued, "and then I got down on one knee and asked."

"And she said yes."

He nodded. "Surprised the hell out of me, honestly."

I tilted my head. "Why did you ask, if you thought she'd say no?"

He grinned. "I thought there was a chance she'd say yes. And if she hadn't—it's only been two months, after all—I figured I'd simply wait a month and try again."

"There's no reason," Christopher asked delicately, "other than that you want to, that you're proposing so soon, is there?"

Francis arched his brows at him. "Are you old enough to know about such things, Kit?"

"I'm twenty-three," Christopher huffed. "Yes, I'm old enough to know about such things. For God's sake, Francis?—"

Francis grinned. "No, Kit. She's not the kind of girl you take liberties with, at least not without a firm understanding of where you're headed. There'll be no small Astleys born early."

Wonderful. And on that note?—

I cleared my throat. "Would the name Abigail Dole mean anything to you?"

If I had hoped to see shock—Francis's foot slipping off one of the pedals, the motorcar veering off the road, or even his hands clenching on the steering wheel—I was disappointed.

And that's the wrong word for it, because of course I hadn't been hoping for any of that. I had been hoping for the opposite, which was what I got: nothing. He glanced at me in the mirror. "Should it?"

"I have no idea," I said lightly. "Just curious."

"Of course you are," Francis hummed. "Who is Abigail Dole?"

I avoided Christopher's eyes. "She showed up at the flat a week ago looking for Christopher."

Francis glanced over at his brother, and then back at me. "And what makes you think I would know her?"

"I don't," I said, "specifically. But it seems that someone does. The baby she was carrying had the Sutherland hair and the Astley eyes—or vice versa—and looked enough like all three of you to?—"

"Ah." He appeared enlightened. "This is St George's little by-blow, is it?"

"Well…" I thought about it, "yes and no. Abigail Dole is the girl with the baby?—"

"Always the girl with the baby, Pippa." He chortled.

"Yes," I said, "but she showed up at the Essex House looking for Christopher. If the baby was St George's…"

"He's made it clear he won't fall for the ruse," Francis said, "hasn't he? So she's trying to put the screws to someone else."

I supposed that might be a possibility. I had assumed, when Abigail and little Bess showed up at the Essex House Mansions, it was to assess Christopher as the potential father. If all she knew was that the man who had seduced her had been the grandson of the Duke of Sutherland, she might just be going down the list of grandsons in order, looking for the right man. And when Crispin hadn't turned out to be him, she had moved on to Christopher.

But of course Francis's explanation made sense, too. Crispin might have been lying, and Abigail was seeking out someone else in the family to put pressure on him.

And if he had seduced her, then I supposed he'd deserve it.

"She didn't stick around long enough to answer any questions," Christopher told Francis while I was still cogitating. "Pippa went downstairs to talk to her, and as soon as she heard I was out, she ran away."

"And she never came back?"

Christopher shook his head. "Not in the week and a bit more since."

"Perhaps she thought Pippa was your wife, and she was afraid?"

They both glanced at me. I rolled my eyes. That was also a possibility, certainly. I hadn't introduced myself, or explained my relationship to Christopher, so unless Evans had done the honors—and it would have been quite improper for him to give that sort of information about two of the residents to a stranger—it was quite possible that she had assumed we were living together as man and wife instead of, essentially, as brother and sister.

"She didn't give me time to explain anything," I said. "I asked her name, she said it was Abigail Dole, and that she was looking for Mr. Astley. I told her that Mr. Astley was out but that we could go upstairs and wait. She seemed reluctant. I told her I had photographs of Christopher, but that if she had seen Crispin, she had pretty much seen Christopher as well…"

Francis smirked.

"—and then she said, ‘I have to go,' and went. I could have run after her, I suppose, although pelting up the pavement yelling for her to come back seemed to be an inappropriate sort of action that Aunt Roz would take amiss."

Not to mention the attention it would have drawn to us both, which I was sure Miss Dole was just as eager to avoid as I was. If she had wanted notoriety, she would have contacted one of the news rags and gotten her story on the front page, hanging St George's indiscretion out for all to see.

I wondered whether that approach just hadn't occurred to her, or whether she hadn't used it because he truly wasn't who she was looking for.

"Mum is hardly going to be happy about this even so."

No, I imagined not. "We don't have to tell her."

Christopher rolled his eyes and Francis snorted.

"No, listen," I said. "There's already quite a lot going on in London that Aunt Roz doesn't know about." Christopher's drag balls, his relationship (or lack thereof) with Tom Gardiner, a detective sergeant at Scotland Yard, that time last month when we were driving around London in St George's Hispano-Suiza with a dead body in the backseat… "There's no need to tell her that Miss Dole showed up at ours. We know it isn't Christopher's baby. Whatever else we may or may not know, or think we do, we do know that."

Francis slanted a look at Christopher. "Little brother?"

"I suppose," Christopher said. "I mean… yes, we know it isn't my baby. I suppose there's no reason to worry Mum when there's nothing to worry about."

Francis nodded. "We won't mention this to anyone, then. It's not our problem anyway, is it? If anyone needs to deal with it, it's St George."

As we left Salisbury proper and headed down the road that ran past the ruins of Clarendon Castle towards Beckwith Place, Francis began to whistle.