Chapter 3

Aunt Roz'schildhood home is a small (at least in comparison to Sutherland Hall) brick house in the Georgian style. It was originally built with five first floor bedrooms and two attic bedrooms—in addition to, of course, the downstairs sitting room, study, dining room, library, kitchen, scullery, boot room, etcetera. In the early nineteenth century, a wing was added with two additional bedrooms above a drawing room, and in the late nineteenth century, two of the original bedrooms were converted to baths. As a result, when Francis pulled the Bentley to a stop, it was outside a house with seven bedrooms, including the two very small ones on the attic level, and rather a lot of guests.

"Dear me," I said, looking around at the array of motorcars parked along the side of the driveway. "What's all this?"

"Uncle Harold." Francis said, pointing to the Duke's black Crossley Touring Car as Christopher made his way out of the passenger side of the Bentley. "St George." He indicated the blue Hispano-Suiza.

I squinted at it. "They didn't come up together?"

Francis shook his head. "Wilkins chauffeured Uncle Harold and Crispin motored up on his own. I don't know why they didn't both come in Crispin's car, or both in the Crossley, when they were going to and from the same place to begin with, but…"

I snorted. "I'm sure St George would rather die than have someone else drive him anywhere. Although I'm surprised Uncle Harold didn't travel up with him. There's plenty of room in the Hispano-Suiza, and he'd get here faster."

"Maybe Uncle Harold is aware of Crispin's penchant for taking his life in his hands," Christopher suggested as he came to a stop next to me, both hands in the pockets of his flannels, "and he didn't feel like dying today."

It was as likely an explanation as any. I slanted him a look. "He hasn't killed anyone yet. Not as far as we know, anyway."

"But he's come rather close to offing himself," Christopher said.

"Under the influence of rather a lot of alcohol during a treasure hunt or some such foolishness. If he were to convey his father from Sutherland Hall to Beckwith Place in the middle of the afternoon, I hardly think that would be likely to happen. Do you?"

Christopher shrugged. "What's your explanation, then?"

I didn't have one, aside from what had already been mentioned. Uncle Harold knew, as did we all, about Crispin's total destruction of his previous automobile. It might simply be that Uncle Harold preferred not to put his life at risk by traveling with his son and heir. Or it might be that he preferred not to put the future of the dukedom at risk. If he and Crispin both perished in a fiery crash, Uncle Herbert would get the title and fortune. Traveling separately would ensure that if something happened to one of them, at least it wouldn't happen to both.

Or perhaps it was due to the tension between father and son that I had noticed take shape over the past few months.

They'd never been particularly close. Just as Uncle Harold had never really seemed warm towards Aunt Charlotte, he hadn't seemed warm towards Crispin, either. Their relationship had always seemed more like viscount—now duke—and heir than father and son. But since Aunt Charlotte's death, I had noticed things becoming rather more tense than even they used to be.

Perhaps she had been the buffer between them, and without her, all their sharp edges collided.

Or perhaps it wasn't the loss of Aunt Charlotte at all. Perhaps it was the conversation—or shouting match—that Christopher and I had overheard in April, during which Uncle Harold had refused, point blank, to entertain the idea of letting Crispin marry the woman he claimed to be in love with. Not a suitable wife for the scion of the Sutherlands, apparently. Too poor, too common, too foreign.

Uncle Harold had made the suggestion that Crispin should take a different wife, and then make the girl he loved his mistress. Crispin had been appalled, I'm happy to say. I was appalled, too. The whole incident had made me feel rather more kindly towards him, and rather less kindly towards his father.

At any rate, it might be that.

And honestly, it didn't matter in the slightest. They were both here, and that was really all that was significant.

"What about that?" I inquired, indicating a vaguely familiar-looking Crossley Saloon in burgundy.

"Constance's mother's car," Francis said. "Marsden was kind enough to drive it up."

My stomach sank. "Marsden? Not?—?"

"Lord Geoffrey, yes." He flicked a look at me. "His parents are here, too. That's theirs." Francis indicated an elegant dark green Daimler.

"Whose idea was that?"

"Mum's," Francis said with a grimace. "You know how she is. They're the only family Constance has left. I don't think she particularly wanted them here, but Mother thought they should be invited. If they chose not to come, that would be up to them. But…"

But of course they'd come. I made a face.

Christopher glanced at me. "What about Lady Laetitia?"

"She's here, as well," Francis confirmed, and added apologetically, "Sorry, Pipsqueak."

"I'm more worried about him than her," I said. "She'll monopolize St George's time to the degree that we're not likely to see much of either of them, which is all to the good. But if Lord Geoffrey tries to touch any part of my anatomy again, I'll hit him, and I'm sure his parents won't like that."

I had refrained from resorting to violence the last time Geoffrey Marsden had squeezed me into a corner of the sofa, because we had been on the Marsden estate and I hadn't wanted to cause a scene, but I'd be damned if I let him feel me up in my own home without doing something about it.

Christopher nodded. So did Francis. "Don't worry, Pippa. We'll make sure nothing happens."

"Someone should warn the servants," I said. "Constance told me that they can't keep staff at Marsden Manor, because Geoffrey moves through them at such a rapid pace."

"I hardly think Cook or Hughes will appeal to him," Francis answered with a snort, and I tilted my head.

"Hughes? Aunt Charlotte's lady's maid, you mean? She's here?"

"Traveled up with Uncle Harold and Wilkins," Francis confirmed. "I assume Uncle Harold doesn't have a need for her anymore, with Aunt Charlotte gone, so he's dumping her on Mum. Or perhaps she decided to leave on her own. However it came about, she's here now."

"To stay? I didn't think Aunt Roz needed—" or wanted, "—a lady's maid, either."

Unlike Aunt Charlotte, who had kept her long hair and Edwardian dress—including corsets—until she died, Aunt Roz has embraced the ease of drop-waist frocks and a shingled bob, and didn't require help dressing herself or her hair.

"Probably feels bad for Hughes," Francis said. "You know how Mum is. Hughes is getting on in age, and she had been with Aunt Charlotte for a long time. It wouldn't be easy for her to find another position. Almost everyone's like Mum these days, dealing with their own clothes and hair. Constance's aunt didn't bring a lady's maid, either, nor did Lady Laetitia. Nor did Constance's mother, for that matter, when they came to Sutherland for the funerals in May."

"Lady P's maid up and left," I informed him. "Got a telephone call one night, a week or so before the funerals, and was gone the next morning. Or so Constance told me."

"How strange."

I nodded. "I'm sure Lady P would have brought her otherwise. She didn't strike me as the type to forego the use of a maid. But I take your point. Most women have less use for them than before. I suppose Hughes would have been left on the street if Aunt Roz hadn't taken her in."

"I think she came from Marsden originally," Francis said. "Constance's mum and Aunt Charlotte swapped maids at some point—they were friends, you know—and Hughes ended up at Sutherland House. Perhaps she's hoping to talk the Countess into taking her back to Dorset."

Perhaps. That would make everything simple, anyway. "Where will she stay in the meantime? There's not enough room in the house, is there?"

Francis opened his mouth, but before he had the chance to respond, Uncle Herbert's voice cut through the still summer air.

"Pippa!" he called, from the door into the boot room. "Kit! What are you doing, standing around? Come along inside!"

"We're coming, Father," Christopher called back, as he lifted the weekender bags from the back seat of the Crossley. As we approached the house, he added, in less of a shout, "Just discussing what to expect this weekend."

Uncle Herbert nodded. "Well, we'll have to budge up tight."

He stepped back as we all three filed past him into the mess that was the boot room. "The Marsdens are here, all four of them, and so of course is my brother and Crispin. With the five of us and the six of them, it'll be a full house."

"Francis said that Hughes is here, too," I said, "from Sutherland. Where are you going to put everyone?"

"Francis has given up his room to Harold," Uncle Herbert said. "It's the big front bedroom, so it was either the Duke of Sutherland or the Earl and Countess of Marsden."

"And where are the Earl and Countess of Marsden going to bunk down?"

"In the room where Christopher used to sleep," Uncle Herbert said, "above the new addition."

The new addition was roughly a hundred years old, but since it had been built after the rest of the house, it was still called the new addition.

"Constance has agreed to allow her cousin to share her room?—"

I made a face. I could only imagine how Constance felt about that. She didn't like Lady Laetitia any better than I did. "What about her brother?"

"Lord Geoffrey," Uncle Herbert said, "will sleep in your old room."

I gagged, while Christopher winced and Francis smothered a bark of laughter. Uncle Herbert twitched a brow, but didn't inquire. "That leaves the three of you, and Crispin."

"And we're going into the rooms in the attic," Francis said, "I suppose."

Uncle Herbert nodded. "I'm afraid so. Unless you can think of a better division of rooms? We can't have His Grace, or the Earl or Countess Marsden, or even Lord Geoffrey, sleeping in the attic."

"But it's all right to put Crispin there?" He was just as much a viscount as Geoffrey Marsden. Even more of one, actually, since a duke trumps an earl, and so, presumably, the duke's son would trump the earl's son, too.

"He's family," Uncle Herbert said, waving this concern off as if it were a buzzing fly. "The boy won't mind."

He probably wouldn't, actually. In some ways, he's quite easy to deal with. He hadn't minded sharing with Christopher and Francis at the Dower House two months ago, either.

However—

"Those rooms are quite small," Francis pointed out before I could. "I don't know that I and Kit and Crispin can all squeeze into one of them."

Uncle Herbert smirked. "I guess you'll just have to draw lots to figure out which of you gets to share with Pippa."

Oh, Lord. "I'll share with Christopher," I said.

Nobody in the family would think anything of it if I shared a room with Francis, of course. But we couldn't expect the Marsdens to be as laissez faire. Consanguineous marriage is legal in England, and it was probably best if the newly engaged man didn't share a bedchamber with his unattached, female cousin.

And as for sharing with Crispin… well, he's neither my cousin nor engaged to someone else, and given his reputation, I certainly wasn't about to ruin what was left of my own by spending the night with him.

Uncle Herbert nodded while Francis grimaced. "Thanks a lot, Pipsqueak."

"Does he snore?" I wanted to know. "Talk in his sleep? Wake up screaming? You know I can't share with him, Francis. It would absolutely ruin the few shreds of my reputation that aren't already in tatters?—"

"What's wrong with your reputation?"

"I'm living with Christopher," I said, "aren't I? At least half the people of our acquaintance think we're living in sin."

"You two?" Francis snorted. "That's ridiculous, Pippa. None of us here?—"

He stopped when Christopher shook his head. "Geoffrey Marsden certainly thinks so, and he has probably told his parents. He has some suspicion that there's something going on with Pippa and Crispin too, for that matter…"

Uncle Herbert made a choking noise, and we all turned to look at him. He covered his mouth with his hand and made a coughing sound behind it. "Pardon me," he said after clearing his throat. "But I thought you said… Geoffrey Marsden thinks there's something between Pippa and Crispin?!"

It was difficult to say which of our two names received the most outraged pronunciation.

"It's her own fault," Francis told him and turned to me. "If you would just refrain from flirting with him, Pipsqueak?—"

"I do not flirt with St George!" I said, offended.

"You did that time. All that ‘sometime when we're alone' nonsense…"

Uncle Herbert made another sound. I flicked him a glance—his cheeks were red behind the hand—and then ignored him in favor of Francis.

"That wasn't flirtation, Francis. I was trying to be funny. Everyone who knows us knows that all we ever do is bicker. He knows that all we ever do is bicker!"

"Lord Geoffrey doesn't know that all you ever do is bicker," Francis pointed out, "and when you say things like ‘when we are alone…'"

I threw my hands up. "I made a mistake, all right? Christopher already explained this to me. I gave Marsden the wrong impression, and as a result we had that whole scene in which he put his hand on my knee and squished me into the corner of the sofa…"

Uncle Herbert made another noise, but this time it was outraged rather than appalled. "He did what?"

I waved it off. "It's ancient history. Happened back in May when we went to the Dower House. St George took care of it."

Uncle Herbert arched a brow before looking from one of his sons to the other. "Crispin had to rescue Philippa from Lord Geoffrey? What were the two of you doing?"

"I was dancing with Constance," Francis said. "I had other things on my mind. Christopher was dancing with… who was it again, Kit? Lady Laetitia or the fair Johanna that time?"

Christopher muttered something, his cheeks hot, and Francis grinned. "That's right. St George was dancing with Johanna, wasn't he? Yet he managed to notice that our Pippa needed rescuing, and you didn't. Why was that, Kit?"

"Leave him alone, Francis," I told him, although truthfully I had no idea what he was on about. There was absolutely no chance that Christopher had been so taken with Lady Laetitia's charms that that was why he hadn't noticed my distress. "It's done. Although I'm sure that that unfortunate scene did nothing to persuade Marsden that he was wrong about St George and myself."

"No," Francis agreed, "I don't imagine it did. When a bloke goes out of his way to rescue a girl who isn't his sister from another bloke who's attempting to pet her, it generally tells the other bloke something. At any rate, I won't make you sleep with him. If you're going to?—"

He caught his father's eye and trailed off. After clearing his throat, he started again. "I'll share with St George. You share with Kit. And if anyone says anything about it, one of us will be happy to set them straight."

"Marvelous," I said. "Shall we go in, then?"

"The others are gathered in the drawing room," Uncle Herbert said. "It's almost time for tea."

"I'll take the bags upstairs," Francis said. "Do you want the room to the left or the right of the staircase?"

"I don't care," I said.

"Right," Christopher said at the same time.

We glanced at one another. "I'm right," I asked, "or you want the room on the right?"

"Do you care?"

I didn't. "Just pick one. Your right, the house's right, or I'm right. Doesn't matter. We won't be there much, since the rooms are small and uncomfortable and the weather is nice. We can play croquet tomorrow."

Francis nodded and headed for the staircase, bags in both hands.

"This way," Uncle Herbert told us, as if we hadn't grown up here, and gestured towards the drawing room.