Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

“You know this Kraut?”

Francis’s voice was dark and threatening, barely more than a growl.

“Don’t be rude, Francis,” I admonished, while Christopher told him, “The Graf von und zu Natterdorff is Pippa’s cousin.”

Francis looked at me with betrayal in his eyes. “Pipsqueak?”

“Once or twice removed,” I said apologetically, “or something of that nature. On my father’s side. I’m not certain how the relationship works.”

Nor was I to blame for it, really, although I didn’t think that argument would really hold water with Francis right now.

He didn’t respond to it, just turned his attention back onto Wolfgang. They stared at one another. Everyone else stared, too, while whispers spread throughout the drawing room, starting low and slowly building to a buzz. The girls’ attention was avid, probably because Wolfgang is exceptionally handsome, at least aside from that Mensur scar bisecting his cheek.

Not that there’s anything at all wrong with the way Francis looks, or for that matter the other Astleys. They’re all good-looking young men of the British type, with their fair hair and fair skin. Wolfgang, though, it must be said, is stunning.

After a moment’s contemplation of Francis, he turned to me and arched a brow. “Another one?”

Another Astley, I assumed. He had met Christopher and Crispin before, and they look enough alike to be twins, aside from a slight difference in coloring. Francis looks enough like them both to be a brother to both of them.

The latter’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Yes,” he growled. “There are three of us.”

Constance put a hand on his arm, clearly trying to calm him down, but instead of responding favorably, Francis merely took a step closer to Wolfgang and leaned into his face. He was a bit shorter, but it didn’t stop him from looking like he would be capable of breaking Wolfgang into little pieces should he decide to do so. Francis’s face was livid, and his voice shook with anger when he added, “There used to be four. But our brother never made it home from the Continent in 1918.”

Wolfgang’s eyes flashed with something—it might have been contempt or compassion, there was no way to tell—but it was gone again in an instant. He opened his mouth, but then his eyes flicked to me, and the sight must have made him think better of whatever he had planned to say, because he closed his mouth again without utterance.

Francis straightened, but not before he had poked the index finger of his free hand into Wolfgang’s chest—hard. “Stay away from my family.”

“That will be hard to do—” Wolfgang began, but then a hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed, and he shut up.

One might have expected it to be Christopher, who had been standing silently next to me during the whole exchange, but no. It was Crispin who had walked the couple of yards from the fireplace—leaving his fiancée standing there alone—to interfere.

Francis looked at him for a moment, before flicking a glance at me, and then another at Wolfgang, before he sneered and stepped back. Constance pulled him away from the fray, and the whispers that had quieted at Crispin’s arrival picked up again.

“My fiancée invited you here,” Crispin told Wolfgang, his voice as cold as ice. “It wouldn’t have been my choice, but this is her home, not mine. But if you think for a moment that your presence here?—”

He would have gone on, of course, but Wolfgang twitched his shoulder out of Crispin’s grasp and turned to him. “I am well aware of your feelings, Lord St George.”

He practically sneered Crispin’s title, and Crispin’s lips tightened. Wolfgang, being a Graf , is a slight step up the aristocratic ladder from a Viscount, and they both knew it.

Of course, once Uncle Harold pops off and Crispin comes into the title, the Sutherland dukedom beats Wolfgang’s earlhood, but until then, Wolfgang delights in trying to make Crispin feel young, short, and inferior. He continued, silkily, “But as you say, your fiancée invited me. Please allow me to congratulate you on your spectacular fortune. She’s lovely.”

He clicked his heels and made a perfectly executed bow, just on the edge of insolent.

Crispin pried his teeth apart. “Thank you.”

“Perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce me, so I may extend my congratulations?”

There wasn’t anything Crispin could say to that, of course, so the two of them took off for Laetitia, who was still standing in front of the fireplace, one foot tapping and arms folded across her chest. She managed to hide the latter feature somewhat by virtue of clutching a glass of champagne in one hand, while the other had come up to support the opposite elbow, but it was still, clearly, a petulant crossing of her arms.

I had once seen her slap Crispin’s cheek with her fan when he hadn’t obeyed her summons quickly enough. There was no fan this time, but I watched anyway, curious as to what form her displeasure would take. He had abandoned her there, in front of the fireplace, after all. Surely she must want revenge. With any luck, perhaps I would get to see her throw the dregs of her champagne in his face.

But alas, no. She flicked her fiancé an absolutely fulminating glare when he got close enough to be blasted by it, but it turned to one of simpering welcome when he presented the Graf von und zu Natterdorff. Wolfgang bent over her hand, and Laetitia sent me a triumphant smirk over his bowed head. I rolled my eyes and turned away.

“That was unfortunate,” Christopher commented, as he watched Constance pull Francis to the edge of the room, amidst looks and whispers.

I nodded. “But surely you knew that would be coming? As soon as we knew that Wolfgang was invited, you must have realized that putting him and Francis in the same room would turn out to be a problem.”

“I thought it would be best not to upset the apple cart prematurely,” Christopher said, with another glance at his brother. “If we had told him about Wolfgang yesterday, we would have been exposed to twenty-four hours of nothing else. But in retrospect, it might perhaps have been kinder to let Francis know what to expect ahead of time.”

Francis and Constance had ended up by the wall on the opposite side of the room. He had his head bowed attentively towards her, and she was talking quickly, her hand on his arm and her eyes on his face. They were big and brown and beseeching. Francis’s complexion was still flushed and his eyes were angry, but he was nodding along with what she was saying.

“The War seems far away for us,” Christopher added, eyes still on them. “We didn’t fight, and we’ve already lived a third of our lives since it ended. But you know Francis is still struggling with it all.”

“Of course. Although I don’t think Wolfgang took part in the War, you know. Like you and me,” and Constance and Crispin, “he’s too young.”

“He’s still German,” Christopher said, and of course there was nothing I could say to that. Other than to, perhaps, remind him that so was I, but it didn’t seem like an opportune moment for that.

Things went downhill after that, not that the reason for this party hadn’t already been a downer. More people showed up, some I recognized, some I didn’t. A supper buffet was served, which we all ate standing up, balancing tiny plates and cocktail glasses, and then a gramophone started playing and the dancing commenced while the drinking continued. Laetitia circled the room in Crispin’s arms, tulle floating behind her, while the gaudy Sutherland engagement ring sparkled on his shoulder. More than once, a beam of reflected light caught me directly in the eye and made me squint. Laetitia’s expression was caught somewhere between indecent triumph and petulance, the latter because Crispin looked mostly bored, at least until she caught his eye and glared at him, and then he dragged a smile onto his face and gave her a spin. It only lasted until she looked away, and then his mask dropped off into weariness again.

“The poor sod looks miserable,” Christopher muttered. He and I were taking a turn around the floor too, and he kept twisting me around to keep them in sight.

I nodded. “And this is just the engagement party. Just imagine what he’s going to look like in December. Not to mention five years from now.”

Christopher looked at me. “That’s a bit callous, Pippa, isn’t it?”

“Is it? He made his own bed—quite literally. Perhaps it’ll be good for him to lie in it.”

Christopher hummed. A moment passed while he eyed me, and while I avoided looking at him. “How bad do you feel, really?” he wanted to know.

“Lousy,” I admitted, since I regretted my own part in this farce rather deeply. “Although I don’t know why I should, Christopher. When I spoke to him earlier, he was as unpleasant as ever.”

“That’s just his way,” Christopher said. “He hides everything. It doesn’t mean he isn’t upset.”

“Well, I don’t see what I can do about it. I didn’t want him to propose to Laetitia. I was just lashing out because he’d been a prat. But now that it’s done, I don’t know how I can fix it. We discussed this last night, and short of killing her, I don’t know what anyone can do to help.”

“Me either,” Christopher admitted, and gave me another twirl. “Getting rid of Laetitia Marsden would probably not be worth the trouble of going to prison for the rest of my life.”

“It wouldn’t,” I agreed. “If you were the one marrying her, or I was—not that that’s a possibility—I could have made a case for it. I’m not consigning either of us to a life of misery. But I’m not risking my freedom for St George. Especially not when he isn’t kicking up more of a fuss than he’s currently doing.”

We eyed them both in silence for a moment. Laetitia floated around the floor like everything was perfect in her world, and Crispin looked like he wanted to sink right through it.

“I suppose we’ll just keep the idea of murder in reserve,” Christopher said, “unless he brings it up himself. If he does, I might consider it. And meanwhile, we can hope that something happens so murder won’t be necessary.”

I couldn’t imagine what that might be, and told him so. But since there was nothing else we could do, we left the conversation there. Elsewhere in the room, Lady Violet Cummings was floating in Lord Geoffrey Marsden’s arms, smiling beatifically up at him while his hand rested low on her back. A bit lower than I would have been comfortable with, honestly, but perhaps Geoffrey Marsden was next in line for Violet’s affections now that Crispin was off the market. Olivia Barnsley was waltzing with the Honorable Reggie Fish, and she looked pleased, as well. So did he, as a matter of fact. Cecily Fletcher, meanwhile, was dancing with Dominic Rivers, but she appeared no happier about the situation than he did. Neither of them even looked at the other.

Over by the wall, Francis was throwing back a glass of something clear that probably wasn’t water, while Constance watched, her expression worried. And behind Christopher, a hand came out of nowhere and landed on his shoulder.

“May I cut in?” a lightly accented male voice asked.

There is no way to say no, of course. Etiquette dictates that when a rival asks to cut into a dance, the polite young gentleman steps back. (The young lady gets no say in the matter, but has to accept, with a smile, being passed from one young man to the other like a package.)

In this case, it was Wolfgang who wanted to cut in, and I had no problem dancing with him. Christopher had no problem letting me, it seemed, because he bowed. “I’ll go check on Francis,” he told me.

I nodded, and watched him step back before Wolfgang took his place and swept me into a smooth Foxtrot. As we traversed the floor, Wolfgang smiled down at me. “Philippa.”

“Wolfgang,” I smiled back, while the faint echo of Crispin’s derisive ‘Wolfie,’ sounded in the back of my head. “I’m pleased to see you.”

“Likewise, mein Schatz .” The arm around my waist squeezed a little tighter. I simpered. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Crispin had come out of his stupor and was scowling at us over Laetitia’s shoulder, while Francis was doing the same from over by the wall. Constance looked downcast, which was understandable. Francis can be difficult when he’s in a sulk—or for that matter in his cups.

I saw Christopher reach the duo by the wall, and then Wolfgang turned me and I was looking at Cecily Fletcher and Dominic Rivers again. They were talking now: anger, or perhaps distress, had broken through Cecily’s mask of ennui, while Rivers simply looked bothered. Behind them, Violet Cummings was beaming fatuously at Geoffrey Marsden.

And that was all I saw, before another couple ran into us—or rather, into Wolfgang. The impact knocked him forward a step. I, perforce, had to take a step back, and thus ended up knocking into someone else, and so it went.

“Pardon me,” a man’s voice sneered, with no apology whatsoever, followed by a woman’s titter. I peered over Wolfgang’s shoulder, into the self-satisfied face of a man—I wouldn’t want to call him a gentleman, although his mother undoubtedly did—with carrot red hair and a rabbity chin. The young lady in his arms was another bottle blonde of the young and bright variety, with perpetually plucked eyebrows that gave her a surprised look, over heavily mascaraed eyes.

Behind me, the gentleman I had backed into—Crispin, as it turned out—set me upright. “Careful, Bilge,” he told the redhead tightly. “This is supposed to be a celebration. We don’t want any injuries tonight.”

Bilge—five years older or so, and an inch or two taller—sneered down at him. But of course Crispin was Laetitia’s fiancé, and we were in Laetitia’s home, and Bilge—what sort of name was Bilge?—must have thought better of condescending to the man of the hour.

“Are you all right, Darling?” Crispin added when Bilge didn’t say anything, and I nodded.

“Thank you, St George. Sorry for stepping on your toes.”

“It’s hardly the first time, Darling, is it? What about you, Wolfie?”

Wolfgang’s eyes, a stunning midnight blue, narrowed at the familiarity. “As well as can be expected, my lord.”

Crispin smirked. “No need to be so formal, Graf . We don’t stand on ceremony here. Do we, Bilge? We’re all rich and titled, aren’t we?”

Bilge muttered something uncomplimentary before he swung his partner back into motion. Crispin grinned and turned back to me. “As you were, Darling.”

“Same to you, St George,” I told him, and let Wolfgang sweep me back into his arms and into another Foxtrot. Like Bilge, he was muttering under his breath, and I grinned, too. “My apologies for the rudeness, Wolfgang. Some people have no manners.”

“Your cousin is an impudent monkey,” Wolfgang growled.

Crispin? I had been referring to the acrimonious Bilge, but if he wanted to see Crispin as the problem, I supposed he could. “He’s right, you know. We really don’t stand on ceremony much. Everyone here is from a good family, half the people have titles and money, and the rest are connected to the first half.”

Like me. And like Christopher and Francis and Constance. The children of younger sons and daughters and assorted hangers-on.

Wolfgang grunted, and I added, “Aside from Dominic Rivers, I suppose. He knows everyone, and everyone knows him, but according to St George, he grew up in Southwark. But when you’re peddling something everyone wants, I guess your background doesn’t much matter.”

“Pardon me?”

“Dominic Rivers. Over there, the young man with the black hair and olive skin.”

Wolfgang eyed him.

“He’s a dope merchant. From what I know, he supplies the entire Bright Young Set with dope. Someone must have asked him to bring something, I suppose, and he’s here to deliver.”

Crispin had made it clear with his reaction that he hadn’t invited Rivers, so perhaps Laetitia was the culprit. Although I couldn’t imagine what reason she might have had to want to get high. She was already on cloud nine over the engagement, and wouldn’t be looking to forget anything.

No, it was more likely that one of the other guests had contacted Rivers with a request for some sort of dope, and Rivers had arranged to meet him or her here. That was how it usually worked: you didn’t go to Rivers, he came to you.

My eyes flicked to Francis, who was still standing by the wall, sullenly clutching a glass. It was more than half full, so it had been refilled since the last time I had seen him toss the contents back. Constance stood on one side of him, teeth sunk into her bottom lip and eyes worried, while Christopher stood on the other. From his expression, and the way his hands flew, he was doing his best to reason with his brother, but from Francis’s face—brows lowered and jaw clenched—Christopher wasn’t making much headway.

Did Francis know who Dominic Rivers was, I wondered?

Francis has spent most of the eight years since the War blunting the shellshock with any kind of dope he can get his hands on. I’ve seen him strung out on opium and practically catatonic from high levels of Veronal. I didn’t think his supplier had ever been Dominic Rivers—Francis is thirty, and deals with a rougher, more adult crowd—but if Dom was here, and had what Francis wanted, I wouldn’t put it past Francis to make use of that opportunity. Not in his current state of mind, at any rate. I hoped Christopher had realized the danger and was taking steps to prevent it.

“Nice company your cousin keeps,” Wolfgang remarked snidely, and I returned my attention to him.

“St George? He’s not my cousin. And he wasn’t the one who invited Rivers here. I don’t know who did, but he made it clear that he hadn’t.”

“Hmm.” Wolfgang eyed the dope dealer. He had switched from dancing with the Honorable Cecily Fletcher to dancing with Lady Violet Cummings now, and Cecily was the one in Geoffrey’s arms. She looked stiff and uncomfortable, as if he were attempting to grasp her more closely than she wanted to be held. It was certainly something he would do, I thought, even if I had never had the displeasure of being forced to dance with him myself. At any rate, Cecily looked as if she were making an effort to keep her body at a distance from his.

Although he wasn’t slobbering all over her, at least. Instead, he was pointedly ignoring her in favor of watching something, or perhaps someone, on the other side of the room. I twisted my head in that direction, but saw nothing interesting. Francis, Christopher, and Constance were still holding up the wall. A maid in a neat gray uniform was approaching them with a cup of tea that she handed off to Constance, who I guessed must have had her fill of sherry already. Not much of a party animal, my future cousin-in-law. Although in justice to her, with the way Francis was knocking back the heavy liquor, perhaps she thought that one of them had better stay sober, and perhaps she was right. Francis would become more and more of a cross to bear the more he drank, I imagined.

Then Wolfgang turned me around again, and I was looking at Crispin and Laetitia, still revolving around the floor together. Being newly engaged, they probably weren’t expected to dance with anyone else tonight, or perhaps it was simply a choice on Laetitia’s part, to not let Crispin out of her grasp.

“They make for a handsome couple,” Wolfgang commented, and I made a face.

“I suppose.”

My tendency, since I dislike them both, is to disregard that particular fact. Or rather, I’m well aware that Laetitia is lovely. I just don’t like to acknowledge it. As for Crispin… he looks practically identical to Christopher, and Christopher is quite cute, so of course I’m aware, on a purely esthetic level, that Crispin is good-looking. It’s not something I usually think about, however. You won’t find me gawking at him with stars in my eyes the way Laetitia was doing.

Wolfgang smirked. “They’ll make beautiful babies.”

“Ugh,” I said.

He chuckled and spun me around. “Not ready for that step?”

“Not ready for them to take it, certainly. Nor are they, I imagine.”

Or at least Crispin wasn’t. Aunt Roz had dumped a baby in his arms a few months ago—a baby that looked enough like him to be his own, and a baby that everyone had, in fact, believed to be his—and he had looked like a rabbit in the headlamps of an oncoming motorcar.

No, definitely not ready for fatherhood.

“I saw in the Times that the wedding is to take place in December,” Wolfgang remarked. “In German society, that would be cause for gossip.”

Yes, no doubt it was cause for gossip here, too. Crispin had assured me that Laetitia wasn’t in the family way—if she had been, it wouldn’t have taken my involvement to make Crispin propose; between Uncle Harold and Laetitia herself, they would have forced him to do the right thing—but there was no question that people would be, and probably already were, talking.

“She’s just eager,” I said. “Not expecting.”

He squinted at me. “You’re certain of this?”

“As certain as I can be. St George said so. And as far as I know, the last time they shared a bed was in January.”

“He told you this?” Wolfgang sounded shocked.

“Not in so many words.” I had learned it from Grimsby the valet’s dossier of misdemeanors. “Although he has never bothered to deny it.”

Wolfgang muttered something in German. It was uncomplimentary. I could tell from the tone, even if the words themselves were new to me.

“Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “It’s all moot now anyway.”

He scowled. “He shouldn’t be speaking to you about such things.”

Perhaps not. It was a tad inappropriate, perhaps, when we weren’t related and weren’t romantically involved. “He doesn’t, mostly. And from now on, I’m sure Laetitia will stop him from speaking to me about anything at all.”

“Good,” Wolfgang said decisively and twirled me around so the skirt of my—virginal, white—frock fluttered.