Chapter 4

Chapter Four

His Highness, the Graf von und zu Natterdorff, was waiting in the lobby of the Savoy when we walked in off the Strand. His face lightened when he saw me, and then closed up again when he spied Christopher coming in behind me.

“This is far enough,” I told the latter and pulled him to a stop just inside the doors.

He flicked a glance in the direction of the Graf and nodded. “Be careful, Pippa. I’ll be waiting up for you.”

Of course he would be. I lifted up on my toes—not a far distance, as I’m not particularly short and Christopher isn’t particularly tall—and pecked his cheek. “I’ll see you at home.”

“See that you do.” He squeezed my hand and nodded to the Graf across the lobby, and then turned and walked back out the doors. I waited until he was outside in the street before I started my own trek across the checkerboard lobby floor towards Wolfgang.

He put out a hand as I approached. When I placed my own in it, he clicked his heels together and bowed over it. “ Freulein Darling.”

“ Graf Wolfgang.” I had no idea whether that was the correct address or not. I hadn’t grown up rubbing elbows with the German nobility—the Graf ’s assertion that we had met before notwithstanding—and I had arrived in England at the beginning of a war against Germany, at a time when no one cared about addressing any German, even the nobility, properly. So whereas Aunt Roz had instructed me in how to speak to His Grace, Duke Henry, and to Uncle Harold, the then Viscount St George and his wife, Lady Charlotte, I had no grounding in how German noble titles worked. “You may call me Philippa,” I added graciously, “as it seems we’re old friends.”

At this, Wolfgang’s lips curved up in the kind of smile that made an older lady crossing the lobby stumble over her own feet. “You must call me Wolfgang, then. No need to stand on ceremony.”

“I would be delighted,” I simpered.

He offered me his arm. “Shall we?”

I put my hand on it. “Let’s.”

A few minutes later we were seated at a table in the River Restaurant, watching the Thames flow lazily by outside the tall windows, surrounded by white-topped tables under an ornately carved ceiling.

“I am transported that you would allow me the pleasure of your company,” Wolfgang told me, a bit too formally, after the waiter had watched us decide between the shrimp and the caviar for an appetizer, and between Tortue Claire and Borscht for soup. (The entire menu was in French, of course, as was de rigueur at the Savoy. Except for the Borscht , which is Russian and not German, in case you wondered.)

“It’s my pleasure,” I told him, sincerely. “It’s not every day you meet someone who remembers you from when you were small.” And half a continent away. On the opposite side of a war.

A shadow crossed his face, as if I had said those words out loud (I hadn’t). “But you don’t remember me?”

“I don’t,” I said honestly. “If what you told me was true, I was probably too young.”

His face grew another shade darker. “Of course I told you the truth. I am not a liar.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest that you were,” I said. “Of course you told me the truth. You have no reason to lie.”

He looked just marginally mollified by that. “Is that why your friend, your cousin, escorted you here? Because you do not trust me?”

“I don’t know you,” I said. Politely but honestly, since I’m not the type to beat around the bush or, for that matter, the type to flatter a gentleman needlessly. “I have no reason to think you’re untrustworthy, but I have no reason to trust you, either. Not yet.”

He didn’t seem to like that much, although he nodded, as if conceding my point.

“Christopher went home,” I added. “He’s not going to lurk in the lobby until our dinner is over so he can escort me back. He isn’t like that.” And I had firmly put my foot down so he wouldn’t.

“Tell me about yourself,” I added, since I know that all gentlemen like to discuss themselves. “What are you doing in London?”

He was on some sort of diplomatic mission, it seemed, or if not anything that specific, at least a trip during which he was supposed to meet people and talk to them and rebuild relations between Germany and England after the war. It might have been a personal mission, not a patriotic one. A way to get the Natterdorff family back in good standing again after the aggressions. He wasn’t terribly detailed, to be honest, and I didn’t ask for specifics, partly because I thought laying out the answers might be awkward for him, and partly because I truly didn’t care all that much. It was enough to sit and watch his lips move and have the timbre of his voice, and that almost-forgotten accent, the accent of my father, flow over me like a warm breeze.

“And what about you?” he asked eventually. “How has your life been since you arrived here from Germany?”

By then we were into the main meal—duck for Wolfgang, quail for me—and we spent the rest of that course talking about the Astleys and the Sutherlands. I brushed lightly over Crispin, but I did pay attention in case this whole thing was in some way about using me to get close to Duke Harold and his heir, for some nefarious purpose of Wolfgang’s own. I had no idea what that purpose might be, but the possibility was there at the back of my mind, so I paid attention to it.

It was during this recitation that the Graf ’s eyes focused on something over my shoulder and I saw his eyes narrow.

“Something wrong?” I broke off in the middle of the story about how I had gone to the Godolphin School in Salisbury while Christopher (and Crispin) were away at Eton, and how my old school chum Constance Peckham was now engaged to marry my cousin Francis.

Wolfgang’s deep blue eyes flicked to mine for a second. “I thought I saw your cousin out there in the lobby.”

I shook my head, without bothering to turn around. “Christopher went home.”

“Does he always do what he says he’ll do?”

Of course he didn’t. Not always. However?—

“There was no reason for him to lie about this. If he had wanted to hang around to make sure I was safe, he would have told me so and we would have worked something out. He wouldn’t lie about it.”

Wolfgang withdrew his eyes from behind me and focused on my face, but not without maintaining a tiny wrinkle between his brows. “You are close.”

“Cousins,” I said. “Best friends. The next thing to brother and sister.”

He looked relieved. At least I thought so.

“I’m sure it was just someone who looked like him,” I added. “London is full of fair-haired young men in evening kit.”

Especially this time of day and in this sort of setting.

Wolfgang shot a last look over my shoulder in the direction of the lobby, but he must have decided that I was most likely right, because he didn’t say anything else about it.

“So you went to secondary school in Salisbury—” he prompted, and we were off again, talking about Godolphin and Constance and the weekend party at the Dower House in Dorset where Constance and Francis had gotten to know one another.

At the end of the meal—Peach Melba; one can’t really sup at the Savoy without finishing with it—Wolfgang walked me through the lobby and out on the Strand. “May I see you home?” he asked politely, while clasping my hand in his.

“If it’s all the same to you,” I answered, keeping Christopher’s admonition in mind, “I think I’ll just take a Hackney cab. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble?—”

But that was as far as he got before a motorcar swept up behind me, close enough that I could almost feel its front fender brush the backs of my legs.

Or if not that, I could at least feel the passage of air as the fender passed within three inches or so of my calves.

I squealed and jumped, and Wolfgang pulled me towards him with a guttural growl, no doubt a German curse I hadn’t had the pleasure of hearing before I left Heidelberg.

His hands were hard on my arms, and I could feel his breath flutter the hair at the top of my head. His heart beat strongly inside the chest I was leaning on.

It took me a moment to gather myself enough to pull away. And when I swung on my heel, it came as no surprise to see the blue Hispano-Suiza idling behind me in the Savoy’s drop-off and pick-up lane, and to see Crispin Astley smirking at me from behind the wheel. “Hello, Darling.”

Wolfgang’s eyes narrowed into slits, and so did mine. “What’s the big idea, St George? You normally manage to refrain from out and out attempting to murder me.”

The smirk turned into something more like a sneer. “Let’s not exaggerate, Darling. If I wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t have missed.”

“Says you,” I retorted. “Perhaps I simply got out of the way faster than you had anticipated, and you weren’t quick enough to hit me.”

He inclined his head politely, or it might have looked like politesse to someone who didn’t know him the way I did. “Yes, Darling, that must be it. Because if I wanted to kill you, I’d certainly do it in front of the Savoy, in full view of at least a hundred people who know exactly who I am.”

He had a point. Wolfgang was staring, of course, but so was everyone else. And if there weren’t a hundred of them, there were a lot. Crispin and his motorcar are well known all over London. I’m sure the doormen at the Savoy knew him—and it—by sight.

“What are you doing here anyway?” I wanted to know. “Did you slip your leash and run away from home?”

It wasn’t even a weekend, although perhaps that had made it easier to escape.

“Father had business out of the house this evening,” Crispin answered, civilly enough, “so I thought I’d take the opportunity to run up to Town for some entertainment.”

“It’s rather a long drive just for an evening’s debauchery, isn’t it? Won’t you have to be back in your own bed by the time your father gets up tomorrow morning?”

“I’ll manage,” Crispin said. “It won’t be the first time I’ve stayed up all day and night and the following day, too.”

“I’m sure it won’t be. Don’t let me keep you.”

I flapped my hand at him. He smirked. “You’re not keeping me, Darling. As always, I’m exulting in your company. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“I’m sure you already know all about him,” I said sourly. Christopher would have told him everything he needed to know on the phone last night, no doubt. Or on the phone this morning, perhaps, if he had rung up again, which I rather thought he must have done, for Crispin to be here now. Or perhaps they had discussed it in person when Crispin arrived in London, if they had seen each other at the flat before Crispin made his way here.

I glanced around, discreetly. There was no sign of Christopher anywhere. That probably meant that if Wolfgang really had seen one of them earlier—and he probably had—it had probably been Crispin. He wouldn’t be the first person to get the two of them mixed up on short acquaintance.

Crispin’s smirk widened. “Indubitably, Darling. But if you’d prefer that I do the honors myself…”

“No,” I said. Definitely not. Best not to let Crispin do anything whatsoever himself. He can’t be trusted. There was no knowing what he’d say if I gave him free rein.

I turned back to the Graf . “Wolfgang, this is Crispin Astley, the Right Honorable Viscount St George. Christopher’s cousin. Crispin, the Graf von und zu Natterdorff.”

Wolfgang smacked his heels together with a noticeable click and inclined from the waist. “ Mein Herr .”

This time it was Crispin’s eyes which narrowed. “ Graf von Natterdorff”

A quick primer for those of you who don’t know the intricacies: a Graf , as Christopher had pointed out yesterday, is the equivalent of a count. There are no counts in the British noble ranks. There are, however, countesses. Lady Laetitia Marsden’s parents, Lord Maurice and Lady Euphemia, are the Earl and Countess of Marsden. Thus, Wolfgang was the equivalent of an earl. And an earl ranks above a viscount in the hierarchy.

Now, once Uncle Harold kicked the bucket and Crispin became Duke of Sutherland, then he’d rank above the earls and marquesses. Dukes are at the top of the social ladder, only just below royalty. But for now, Crispin was a step below Wolfgang on the nobility scale, and I could see it grate. Especially since Wolfgang had addressed him as if he were an inferior, something the Viscount St George is definitely not used to. His jaw clenched and fury flashed in his eyes.

I’m sure it didn’t help, either, that Wolfgang was taller, and older, and—it had to be said—better-looking. Or more classically handsome, at any rate.

Not that Crispin is ugly. Not at all, in fact. He quite lovely to look at. So is Christopher. They both have heart-shaped faces with big eyes and long lashes and cupid’s bow lips and high cheekbones and slightly pointy chins: a bit elfin, if you want to be fanciful. But at twenty-three—and a fairly new-minted twenty-three in Crispin’s case; his birthday had been just two months ago—they both look boyishly charming, soft and a bit pretty, while Wolfgang was a man.

An exceptionally handsome man. Of higher rank than a viscount. And with that dashing scar on his cheek.

It took a few seconds, but then Crispin pried his jaws apart to do the right thing. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

He has lovely manners when he bothers to make use of them. Of course, he couldn’t make it sound like he meant it, but the sentiment was nicely appropriate.

There was a curve to Wolfgang’s lips that suggested that he was well aware of the effort it had taken Crispin to get the words out. Thankfully, he didn’t see the need to rub it in, which wouldn’t have gone over well. Instead, he simply nodded, as if the response had been his right and there was no need, nay, indeed any reason for him to reciprocate the compliment. I saw Crispin’s eyes turn flinty, but he refrained from letting his mouth run away with him. I could tell he wanted to—had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have bothered to restrain himself—but instead, he turned back to me. “May I offer you a lift, Darling?”

“You may offer,” I said dubiously, and he smirked.

“Let me rephrase. Hop in and I’ll take you home.”

“ Freulein Darling can make her own way home,” Wolfgang said stiffly, and Crispin shot him a look.

“Of course she can, old chap. Does it every day, doesn’t she?”

He turned his attention back to me. “But I’m here, and the motorcar is at your disposal, Darling, and so am I, of course; entirely at your disposal?—”

He blinked innocently as he turned back to Wolfgang, “—and it occurs to me that you probably don’t have a motorcar at the ready, Graf von Natterdorff…”

My eyes narrowed. “You’re horrid, St George.”

He sniggered. “Of course, Darling. But after I made the drive all the way from Wiltshire to ensure you get back to Kit safely, would you really deprive me of the pleasure of your company?”

“Horrid,” I repeated. “You lie like a rug, St George. Like a flatfish. Like a cheap watch. You certainly did not drive here all the way from Wiltshire just to?—”

He raised his voice. “Darling.”

In fairness to him, he had to, because once I get going, it can be difficult to derail me.

“Yes?” I said.

“Get in the motorcar.”

I sighed. “Stop ordering me about, St George. You know it doesn’t work.”

He sighed back. “Yes, Darling. But you know what they say. Hope springs eternal.”

“Of course.” I turned back to Wolfgang, who was looking from one to the other of us with his brows lowered. “I’m sorry. But he’s right, I should let him drive me home. He’s here, and it makes sense to go with him rather than paying for a Hackney.”

“I would be happy to pay for the Hackney,” Wolfgang said.

“It’s not the money.” I could pay for my own Hackney. It’s not like I’m destitute. Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert keep Christopher and me in more-than-adequate pocket money. “But he’s here, and he’s offering, and I know that he knows where he’s going, and that I’ll be safe with him…”

A corner of Crispin’s mouth curved up. Wolfgang withdrew his attention from him to look at me. A second passed, then two. Then he nodded. “Of course.”

“I had a lovely time tonight. Thank you for inviting me.”

I extended my hand, a bit hesitantly. Crispin’s appearance may have destroyed all the goodwill that had developed over dinner, and if so, it would be hard to blame Wolfgang. St George is difficult to stomach under the best of circumstances, and these weren’t those. I could hardly hold it against Wolfgang if he never wanted to see me again, if only so it would ensure that he’d never have to deal with Crispin again.

The latter, of course, watched our exchange like a hawk. Wolfgang seemed to hesitate for a moment, too, before he took my hand in his and gazed deeply into my eyes. “Perhaps I may impose on you for supper again sometime?”

“I would be delighted,” I said, with a lot more feeling than Crispin had been able to manage. I could hear him snort behind me. Thankfully, it was soft enough that Wolfgang didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, it was soft enough that he could pretend to ignore it.

“I shall send another note,” he informed me.

“Please do.” I simpered.

He clicked his heels together and bowed over my hand. This time he raised it all the way to his lips, and let his mouth linger on my knuckles for a long moment before he brushed his thumb over the spot where they had been. It was a classic Crispin-move—I had seen him employ it before, and had seen young women titter and blush when he did it, too.

I tittered, and I probably blushed. Wolfgang smirked. “Let me assist you into the motorcar.”

He opened the door and seated me, carefully. And then he finally, reluctantly, withdrew his hand from mine before he shut the door behind me. “I look forward to seeing you again, Philippa.”

“Likewise,” I breathed, “Wolfgang.”

He clicked his heels together and bowed sharply one last time, one hand spread over his heart. And then Crispin, giving in to his bad mood, took his foot off the clutch and stomped on the gas pedal, and the Hispano-Suiza took off from the entrance to the Savoy with a roar that scattered car park assistants and pedestrians and enveloped Wolfgang in a cloud of exhaust as we shot onto The Strand and away.

I giggled, of course. It was impossible not to.

Admittedly, it took me a minute to get to that point—my heart had jumped into my throat as soon as he started driving, and it took a few seconds to force it back down where it belonged—but once we were a couple of blocks away from the Savoy and he had slowed to a more decorous pace, much more suitable for the busy London streets, I told him, amused, “I had no idea your jealousy extended so far, St George.”

He slanted me a look of dislike from under lowered brows. “Don’t be ridiculous, Darling. I’m not jealous.”

“No? What would you call it, then?”

He sniffed. “Concern. Obviously.”

“Concern? You looked ready to call him out.”

He shot me another look, this one with less dislike and more incredulity. “Call him out? To a duel, do you mean? Have you lost your mind, Darling? You think I would duel another man for you? Especially one who looks like that?”

“Looks like…? Oh, you noticed the bragging scar, did you?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Crispin said. “The Germans were mad for them before the war, apparently. Thought it made them look brave.”

He sneered.

I wanted to sneer back—it’s automatic—but I found I couldn’t. “I imagine they’ve learned better now.” After a war that had resulted in far more grievous injuries than neat slices across the cheeks.

“My father had one,” I added.

Crispin flicked me a look. “A dueling scar?”

I nodded. “I’d forgotten all about it until now. But he did. It was smaller than Wolfgang’s, and a bit lower. About…” I reached over and dragged a fingertip along his jaw, “—here.”

If that sounds flirtatious, or like I took an opportunity to touch him because I wanted to, I can assure you that such was the furthest thing from my mind. I simply didn’t want him to take his eyes off the road for something as frivolous as watching me point to the place on my own face.

And yes, perhaps there was a small part of me that wanted to see his reaction. Last month, at Beckwith Place, I had put my hand on his cheek for a moment, as part of a (if I do say so myself) rather well calculated bit of tit-for-tat, and he had practically stopped breathing. So I’ll admit I wanted to see if I could do it again.

I couldn’t, although for a second he didn’t say a word. Then he cleared his throat. “No offense, Darling, but I’m not risking my pretty face for you.”

“How deplorably ungentlemanly of you,” I told him, and folded my hands in my lap.

“Well, he’s a Graf , isn’t he, and I’m a lowly Viscount.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. “I suppose it’s all right if I’m not as much of a gentleman as he is.”

“He put you in your place rather neatly,” I said, “didn’t he?”

“He was certainly rude enough about it,” Crispin agreed. “And you did nothing to defend my honor. This is the last time I’ll come to your rescue, Darling.”

“I shall certainly hope so,” I told him. “What you ‘rescued’ me from was in all probability something I would have enjoyed.”

He sneered. “Wanted the handsome count to kiss you, did you?”

I rolled my eyes right back. “As if you have any room to talk, St George. You’ll kiss any girl who’ll let you.”

He didn’t respond to that, and I added, “I wasn’t going to go upstairs with him. Christopher made it clear that I was to go nowhere that wasn’t public. Not up to his room, not into a cab, nowhere.”

Crispin muttered something. I think it might have been, “Good for Kit.”

“Ridiculous,” I said. “I can’t believe Christopher talked you into?—”

“He didn’t. I was coming up to London anyway.”

“That’s not what you said earlier.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps I told a small fib.”

“Of course you did.” I made a face. “Let me guess. The lovely Lady Laetitia Marsden is in Town from Dorset?”

His mouth curved. “She might be.”

“Well, thanks for nothing, then, St George. You cad.” I stuck my bottom lip out.

He sniggered. “Dear me, Darling. Did you want me to drive here from Wiltshire for you?”

“I didn’t want you to drive here from Wiltshire for Laetitia Marsden,” I said. “You know my feelings on the subject, St George. You’ll regret it if you marry her. You might have fun with her?—”

As she had told him once, on one of the occasions I had overheard her try to talk him into accepting her; the words still made my face pucker when I repeated them, if I’m honest, “—but you don’t love her, and all the fun in the world isn’t going to make you happy in the long run. If fun is what you want?—”

Because it wasn’t as if I didn’t know what she meant by that reference, was it? “—you can have it without being married. You’ve had plenty of fun so far, and entirely without a wife. There’s no reason why you can’t simply continue to do what you’re already doing.”

“There’s my father,” Crispin said.

“Blast your father. If he’d rather have you married and miserable, he doesn’t deserve your consideration. Damn him.”

He didn’t answer, and we drove the rest of the way to the Essex House Mansions—just a few blocks by then—in silence. Crispin pulled the motorcar up in front of the front door. “Here we are.”

“Indeed.”

I waited for him to turn off the engine and come around the car to open the door for me, but when he didn’t, I added, “I suppose she’s waiting for you? You don’t want to come up and see Christopher?”

“I’ve already seen Kit,” Crispin said, “and had my weekly dose of Miss Schlomsky, too.”

So he had stopped by and talked to Christopher before he went to the Savoy.

“I don’t see any lipstick stains on your collar,” I remarked, with a searching glance.

“She seemed distracted,” Crispin answered. His eyes twinkled, as if he found my examination amusing. “She took the time to back me into a corner of the lift to have her way with me, certainly, but her heart didn’t seem to be in it.”

“That must have been disappointing for you.”

“Indeed.” He smirked. “My goal in coming here is always to provoke some young lady to passion.”

“If that remark is intended for me—” I subsided when his smirk broadened.

“Oh, indubitably, Darling. You turn so gloriously incandescent when you want to murder me. Such a thrill.”

“Hmph,” I said. “I don’t suppose she said anything to you, did she?”

“What do you mean, ‘anything’? She said,” and here his voice climbed into the range of Flossie’s strident alto, “‘Oh, Lord St George, aren’t you just the cutest thing?—’”

And then it dropped back down to his regular smooth tenor before he added, “But other than that, no, Darling. She didn’t.”

I flicked a glance over his black jacket, white waistcoat, and perfectly knotted bowtie. Cute? “That’s rather uninspired.”

“It’s Florence Schlomsky,” Crispin said. “Of course it was uninspired.”

Of course. “I’m sure Laetitia will do a better job of complimenting you when you see her.”

He flicked me a look. “You could do a better job of it too, you know.”

“I could,” I said, and opened my door, since it seemed obvious by this point that he wasn’t going to come around and do it, “but I won’t. Are you quite certain you don’t want to come up?”

“As I said,” Crispin said, “I’ve already seen Kit. And he must be simply slavering to hear every detail about your time with the Graf . You go on up.”

While he went off to meet the lovely Lady Laetitia, I presumed.

I nodded. “Thanks for the lift, St George. And while it was unnecessary, I appreciate the rescue, as well.”

“Any time, Darling. Have a good evening.”

“You too,” I told him, and shut the door to the Hispano-Suiza. “Safe home, St George.”

“Thank you, Darling. I’ll give Tidwell your love, shall I?”

Tidwell the butler was the very best part of Sutherland Hall, if you asked me. I nodded. “Please do. No need to remember me to your father, however.”

“No, Darling.” His lips curved. “He’s not likely to forget.”

He probably wasn’t. “Drive carefully,” I told him. “And if something happens and you can’t get out of London and you don’t want to go to Sutherland House,” and he couldn’t spend the night with Lady Laetitia, although it was difficult to imagine an eventuality where that wouldn’t be an option, “come back here and we’ll put you up for the night.”

“Thank you, Darling. I’ll see you next time, shall I?”

He didn’t wait for my response, just put the H6 in gear and rolled off down the road. I waited for him—for the car—to vanish from sight, and then I went into the lobby and greeted Evans.