Chapter 6

The terrasse was mostly backto normal by the time I got there. Uncle Herbert was entertaining the Earl of Marsden and his son, and from the way they were chuckling, the subject must have been either hunting or women. Crispin had been gathered back in by Lady Laetitia, and between her, her mother, and his father, he was being kept on the straight and narrow with no opportunity for escape. He didn't even glance my way when I stepped onto the terrasse, although that could have been for other reasons. Something was obviously going on with him, considering the way he had looked at me like he'd seen a ghost in the library earlier.

"Stupid idiot," I grumbled as I dropped into the chair between Aunt Roz and Francis.

Aunt Roz glanced at me. "What's that?"

"St George. I don't know why he puts up with Lady Laetitia draping herself all over him like that."

She was leaning in, swaying towards him, as if she wouldn't be close enough until she were in his lap.

Which she certainly wasn't going to be on the terrasse in the middle of the afternoon.

"It doesn't appear as if he minds, Pippa," Constance said softly.

Well, no. It didn't. But?—

"Two months ago, he told her flat out that he didn't want to marry her. I heard him. She was trying to cajole him into it, telling him how much they have in common and how much fun they'd have, and he made it clear that he didn't want to."

Nicely, I'll admit—he'd told Laetitia that she deserved a husband who was in love with her, not a husband who was in love with someone else—but it had been direct and unmistakable.

"I thought she'd given up," I said, "but it doesn't look that way, does it?"

We all contemplated the table, and the way Laetitia had her hand on Crispin's arm and was leaning close, eyes sparkling.

"No," Aunt Roz said, while Francis chuckled. "That looks like a woman with matrimony on her mind."

"Someone should have a word with him."

"He's not stupid, Pipsqueak," Francis said. "If he didn't want to be there, he wouldn't be."

"I'm not so sure. He has a bad habit of listening to Uncle Harold, and Uncle Harold has a bad habit of not listening to St George."

"That's their business," Aunt Roz said, "although I share your concern, Pippa. But if he won't stand up for himself, the rest of us can't stand up with him."

I suppose not. And it was none of my affair who St George ended up with, anyway. If he was idiotic enough to let himself be drawn in by Lady Laetitia again, and she was idiotic enough to pursue him after being told why he didn't want to marry her, then I supposed they deserved each other.

"What happened out here while I was inside?" I asked instead.

Constance and Francis looked at one another, and Francis nodded for Constance to go first.

"Not much. At first, there was a lot of whispering. Laetitia and her mother had their heads together, and His Grace, Duke Harold, looked like he was about to have an apoplexy…"

"Probably thinks she's Crispin's," Francis sniggered.

We all glanced at little Bess, who peered back at us with those big, blue Astley eyes. Yes, I'm sure we all thought she might be Crispin's. "And then?"

"Eventually, everyone but you and Lord St George came back," Constance said. "Laetitia made a fuss about it until Roslyn reminded her that she had sent Lord St George for the doctor and that while you were with the body, the two of you were not together."

"She isn't dead, Constance," Aunt Roz reminded her, bouncing the baby on her knee. Bess looked perfectly comfortable and perfectly at home, gurgling and cooing. "Not quite a body yet."

Constance flushed. "Of course not. My apologies."

"No apologies needed," I told her. "She looked dead. Christopher had to carry her out to the car when the doctor took her away. Wilkins turned as pale as a ghost when he saw us coming. For a second, I think he thought he'd be asked to get rid of a dead body."

Which sounded uncomfortably like the situation we had found ourselves in last month, in London, and it took me a moment to shove the memory down. "Anyway," I managed brightly, "St George and I were certainly not making eyes at one another over the not-dead body of his maybe-mistress while Lady Laetitia was sitting out here."

Francis smothered a chuckle.

"But the doctor said she'd be all right. He agreed with Aunt Roz that it was just exhaustion and heat and malnutrition and something else, and rest and food would set her right."

"Poor thing," Aunt Roz murmured, cradling the baby a little closer, protectively.

"Don't get attached, Mum," Francis advised her. "You can't keep her, you know. She isn't Dad's."

Aunt Roz gave him a crushing look. "I know that, Francis. She isn't Christopher's, either, and I hope she isn't yours…"

"Of course not," Francis said.

Aunt Roz nodded. "I'll give her back to her mum tomorrow. I just feel bad for the poor thing. Alone with a baby, and at her age. She's no older than Pippa, perhaps not even. And no money to speak of. That dress was several years out of date, and she clearly hasn't had enough to eat lately; God only knows how she got here from London…"

"How do you know she came from London?" Constance wanted to know.

"She came to the flat to see Christopher last week," I said. "And I'm sure she's the same woman who came to Sutherland House a couple of months ago to look at St George, too."

Although I didn't know that for a fact, admittedly. He hadn't actually said so. But how many young women with Sutherland babies were likely to be roaming England at any given time, really?

Then again, considering St George's proclivity for getting under women's skirts, there might actually be more than just this one.

This time, when I scowled at him, he was actually looking my way, and arched a questioning brow. I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, Laetitia noticed that his attention had strayed and brought him to heel with a tap on the nose.

I closed my mouth again and huffed.

"The girl, Pipsqueak," Francis said, and I turned my attention back to present company.

"She was in London a week ago. She was in London this spring. She's likely to live in London."

She didn't look like a country girl, certainly. Not enough tweed.

"Do you know anything else about her?" Constance wanted to know. "Other than—" she hesitated, "the obvious?"

"I know her name," I said, "if she told me the truth. Abigail Dole. I know the baby's name. Abigail called her Bess. I assume her given name is Elizabeth."

"There are no Elizabeths among the Astleys," Aunt Roz said. "Not for several generations."

"Abigail might just have liked the name." If she didn't even know the name of Bess's father, she wasn't likely to know about any Astley family names, after all. "The Duke and Duchess of York did just have a baby they named Elizabeth."

Aunt Roz nodded. "In any case, there's no helpful information there. If her name had been Charlotte, it would have been a different story."

It would. Although even that wouldn't have been proof of anything.

"And that's all I know," I told Constance. "Her name and the baby's name. And the fact that Bess's father almost certainly has to be a Sutherland. When Abigail first knocked on the door at Sutherland House, she told Rogers that she was looking for the Duke's grandson."

We all chewed on that bit of information for a moment.

"This was when Henry was alive," Aunt Roz said.

I nodded. "Sometime in the spring. Before the end of April." Before Duke Henry and Crispin's father died. Before Grimsby the valet shared all his blackmail information with us.

"Herbert's father had four grandsons. Robbie's gone?—"

"Too long ago to have had anything to do with this," Francis said gruffly. Even after almost a decade, he doesn't like to be reminded of his dead brother.

Aunt Roz nodded. "Then there's you, and Christopher, and Crispin."

And there was us, going around the same mulberry bush, beating the same dead horse.

"I'm as certain as I can be that Christopher didn't bed this girl," I said. "It's impossible to be one hundred percent certain, but he said he didn't, and besides?—"

Besides, Christopher isn't attracted to women.

Aunt Roz nodded. "You say you didn't, Francis…"

"I don't think I did," Francis said coolly, while beside him, Constance flushed pink. "I don't remember her. And I can't imagine when it would have happened. I don't spend much time in Town, and unlike my cousin, I'm not in the habit of bedding women indiscriminately…"

Although Francis does occasionally go up to London, and in the past, he had also done enough dope that certain things might have slipped his mind. It was just possible that a single encounter with Abigail Dole could have been one of those things. So like with Christopher, we could be almost certain it hadn't happened, but not one hundred percent.

"Crispin has told me categorically, over and over, that it wasn't him," I said. "He's been absolutely adamant about it."

Aunt Roz threw the hand up that wasn't supporting little Bess. "Then I don't know what we're supposed to do."

"Wait for her to wake up and accuse somebody, I suppose," I said. "I'm sure she'll recognize him when she sees him, don't you think?"

And if she hadn't recognized Crispin, and by default Christopher, then there was only Francis left.

His jaw was tight as he sat next to me. "The doctor said she'd wake up by tomorrow?"

"He didn't say specifically. But that was the impression I got. We'll just have to wait."

He nodded. "Excuse me. I feel the need for a stiff drink."

He didn't look at either of us—not even Constance—when he pushed to his feet and strode into the house. Uncle Herbert watched him go with a concerned wrinkle between his brows, and Constance flushed, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip. She stared down at her hands, blinking hard. Aunt Roz and I exchanged a glance across the table, but I don't think either of us knew what to say.

"I'm going to go wait for Christopher and the Crossley," I said, pushing my chair back. "Would you like to come with me, Constance?"

Constance hesitated, with a tortured glance at the house.

"He'll have to deal with this on his own," Aunt Roz told her. "He'll be back when he gets his head on straight."

Constance nodded, but she didn't look as if she believed it. "What if?—?"

"He won't break the engagement," I said. "Not unless you ask him to."

"That's not what concerns me." She lowered her voice. "He hasn't used Veronal for more than two months now. Not since the funerals. Not even while Christopher was unconscious for those few days, and you were all worried that he wouldn't wake up. But now…"

Now, with this hanging over his head, Francis might seek oblivion in alcohol and dope again.

"That's a valid concern," Aunt Roz told her, kindly, while Bess gurgled happily on her lap, "but there's nothing you can do about it, Constance. Francis has to decide on his own not to drown his emotions. You can't do it for him."

"But if we are to be married…"

Aunt Roz shook her head. "You will still be two different people, Constance. You cannot take on Francis's problems as if they are your own. You can help him with what troubles him?—"

Constance opened her mouth and Aunt Roz lifted a finger to pause her, "—but only if he asks. Don't manage him."

"Please don't," I muttered, slanting a glance over at Lady Laetitia, who was managing Crispin for all she was worth.

"The secret to a happy marriage," Aunt Roz intoned, "is to be together as equals. You have a life of your own, and let him have a life of his own. Then you can meld your two lives together, and neither of you will get swallowed up by the other. If you let yourself be subsumed by your husband's life, or you let him be subsumed by yours, you'll come to trouble down the line. Mark my words."

Constance gulped, nodding. I nodded, too. Not from personal experience, but because I had watched Aunt Charlotte be Uncle Harold's wife and Crispin's mother with absolutely no life of her own for years, and it wasn't something I wanted for myself.

"Go with Pippa," Aunt Roz told Constance. "Francis will do what Francis will do. If he needs a stiff drink, let him have one. And when he comes out of it, be there for him. That's all you can do besides staying healthy yourself."

"Come on," I told her, taking her elbow and giving her a boost out of the chair. "We'll figure this out. We're smart girls. We can do it."

Constance nodded. "Thank you, Roslyn."

"Don't mention it, dear." Aunt Roz smiled sweetly and got to her own feet. "If you girls are leaving, I think I'll join Herbert's table. They're enjoying themselves far too much over there."

She drifted off in that direction, baby on her hip, while Constance and I headed down the steps onto the grass. Crispin watched us go, until Laetitia tapped him on the cheek and he turned back to her with a practiced smile.

"Stupid man," I grumbled under my breath.

Constance slanted a look my way. "Francis?"

I shook my head. "St George. Also known as the most annoying man in England."

Her dimple made an appearance. "Only in England? Are you sure you wouldn't like to add in the Continent too?"

"I suppose I might as well," I said. "Although if I add in the Continent, there might actually be someone else equally annoying. A Frenchman, perhaps. The French are notoriously rude and awful."

"Has Lord St George been rude and awful today?"

I thought about it. "No more than usual, I suppose. There was that comment about looking windswept when we first arrived…"

"You got revenge for that," Constance said, sticking her hand through my arm as we arrived on the gravel of the driveway. "Poor boy, he looked positively overcome. Whatever was that about, Pippa?"

"The greeting? Flossie Schlomsky is a neighbor of ours at the Essex House Mansions. She made St George's acquaintance a few months ago, and was quite taken with him. When she found out that I would be seeing him this weekend, she told me to give him her love."

"And that was how you chose to do it? In full view of everyone?"

"I certainly wasn't about to do it privately," I said. "Besides, he did it to me first."

"Did what, exactly?"

"Leaned close," I said, demonstrating; Constance's brown eyes widened, "and called me darling in this very low, very seductive voice. Totally different from the way he normally says it. Even his eyes changed." I shuddered. "It was awful."

Constance tittered. "It can't have been that awful, surely. He's ever so handsome."

"He's a menace," I said, "and you know it. But I got him back." I smiled in satisfaction.

"You certainly did," Constance agreed. "For a moment there, it looked like he had forgotten how to breathe."

"Serves him right."

"I don't know, Pippa." We turned the corner of the house. "You know how Laetitia is. The more interested someone else is, the more adamant she becomes about keeping what's hers."

"He's not hers," I said.

"Tell that to Laetitia," Constance answered, looking around. "I don't see them."

I didn't, either. There was only the Daimler, and Aunt and Uncle's Bentley, and the Peckham's—now Constance's—burgundy Crossley parked outside the carriage house. There was no sign of Christopher, or Wilkins, or Uncle Harold's motorcar, or for that matter Francis.

"Let's go this way," I said, and headed for the boot room door. "We may as well move St George's car back while we wait. I don't see him escaping to take care of it any time soon."

Constance trailed behind me as I headed for the H6. "Do you know how to drive a motorcar, Pippa?"

I glanced at her over my shoulder. "Of course I do. Uncle Herbert let me practice on the Bentley."

"Have you driven a motorcar recently?"

I hadn't, but— "Surely it's like riding a bicycle, don't you think? Once you know how, the knowledge doesn't leave you?"

"I don't know," Constance said. "Mother would never let me learn. Gilbert—" She trailed off for a moment before she squared her shoulders and tried again. "Gilbert knew how, but Mother liked letting the chauffeur do the motoring. I don't think she trusted Gilbert."

"Was he a bad driver?" I opened the door to the Hispano-Suiza and fitted myself behind the wheel. The leather seat was cold against my back, even in the heat of the summer, and the pedals were farther away than expected. I felt around for a way to adjust the seat, but none was readily available. It probably didn't matter, anyway, when I was only going to travel a few yards.

"Does it need a key?" Constance asked, leaning into the window and watching me look around. "Are you certain you should be doing this, Pippa? He's rather protective of his motorcar, isn't he?"

He was, rather. We'd had a small set-to over it back in May, on our way home from the Dower House. I had threatened to take over the motoring, and he had behaved as if I had suggested that I wear his trousers rather than merely that I drive his automobile.

"He's on the terrasse with Laetitia," I said. "She's keeping him busy, never fear."

There was a starter pedal on the floor of the car. I raised my foot, and was just about to stomp on it, when there was a wordless bellow of fury and consternation from the boot room door. I jumped, and so did poor Constance. She banged the top of her head against the top of the window and staggered back, rubbing her crown.

The bellow had sounded like Francis, but surprisingly it was Crispin himself who came rushing towards me, or more accurately, towards his precious vehicle. I guess Laetitia wasn't keeping him busy after all. How very strange.

"Out," he told me, flapping his hands, for all the world as if he were shooing recalcitrant chickens. "Get out. Out."

I didn't get out, of course. Instead, I leaned back in the seat and sniggered as he came closer. "Goodness gracious, St George. Whatever is the matter?"

Constance stepped out of the way as Crispin yanked the door open and grabbed me by the arm. "Out, I said. You do not get to drive my motorcar, Darling. Absolutely not."

"We were just doing a good turn," I told him as he pulled me through the door with enough force that I staggered and had to brace myself on his shoulder so I wouldn't fall. "Ouch. Stop it, St George, you're hurting me. We were merely going to move your precious to the parking area for you."

"No." He shook his head. "Not you. Not my motorcar."

I dusted my hands off and took a step back so his hands fell from my upper arms. "Strong feelings from a man who destroyed his own motorcar not even a year ago."

"That was different," Crispin said. "I told you before, I don't trust you behind the wheel of my car."

"It's a matter of a few feet! How much damage do you suppose I could do in the time it would take me to motor across the driveway?"

He squinted at me. "You weren't planning to go into the village to look for Kit?"

"No! I told you. We were going to take it back to the carriage house with the others. Your precious tires would not have touched the road."

"Very well, then." He took a step back.

Very well? "You mean, you'll let me drive?"

"Of course not, Darling." He looked at me down the length of his nose. "I will move my motorcar to the carriage house, since its presence here offends you."

"Oh, fine. Be that way. Although you owe Constance an apology first. Your carrying on made her hit her head."

"Did it really?" He swung on his heel. "My dear Miss Peckham…"

"She's soon to be your cousin," I reminded him. "I think you can probably call her by her first name."

Crispin arched a brow. Not at me, at Constance. "Truly?"

"If you would like," Constance said primly.

"In that case, my dear Constance—" He poured on the charm, which included kissing her knuckles and dropping his voice into that seductive register he had attempted to use on me last month, "—please let me apologize most abjectly…"

Constance blinked, her cheeks flushing.

"Any more abject, and Francis will have your hide," I told him. "Let go of her hand, St George, and stop being a nuisance."

"I'm merely being myself, Darling, as you know very well." But he did let go, and took a step back. "What are you two girls doing out here? The party's on the terrasse."

"We're waiting for Wilkins and Christopher," I said. "The terrasse was becoming rather uncomfortable. I'm almost certain Lord Geoffrey and his father were telling bawdy jokes…"

Constance nodded.

"—although I suppose Aunt Roz probably put a stop to that when she went over there. But the Countess kept glaring at me, and the way Lady Laetitia was carrying on is frankly disgraceful."

He smirked. "Jealous, Darling?"

"Frightfully," I said dryly. "If you're not careful, you'll be betrothed by the end of the weekend, St George."

He scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous, Darling. I made it clear back in May how I feel about the idea of marriage. You heard me."

"I did," I said. "And so did she. But instead of accepting your rejection, she seems to have merely withdrawn to devise a different—better—battle plan. And now she has regrouped, and has recruited her mother to help. And it looks as if they've roped in your father, too."

Constance nodded, although she added, "It's more likely that Laetitia told Aunt Euphemia what happened, and this was Aunt Effie's idea. Although I don't suppose it matters."

"Not in the slightest," I agreed, since Laetitia was clearly going along with it either way. "I think the best thing you could do for yourself is get in your motorcar and hightail it back to Sutherland Hall, St. George."

He sneered. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Darling?"

"I would positively adore it, St George."

The sneer deepened, and I huffed. "I'm not trying to get rid of you, you moron. I'm simply concerned about what will happen if you stay. You said it yourself two months ago: Your father would be delighted to hand you over to Lady Laetitia. And as you have somewhat grown on me over the past couple of months…"

Crispin's eyes widened, but whatever he might have planned to say was interrupted by the clearing of a throat from in the vicinity of the door.

Crispin flinched, and so did I. I think we all probably expected it to be Laetitia Marsden.

It wasn't. Nor was it her mother, the Countess. Instead, it was Uncle Harold standing there, looking from me to his son to Constance and back.

"A word, St George?"

Crispin grimaced but gave in to the inevitable. "Yes, Father."

Uncle Harold stepped aside so Crispin could precede him into the boot room. The door shut behind them with a sort of final bang, leaving Constance and me alone outside.