Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

I suppose I should have—or could have, at least—pretended that I hadn’t recognized him instantly. To myself, if to no one else. There were other men here with fair hair, after all. Christopher and Francis, Wolfgang, even the Honorable Reggie. I could have made a case for it being someone else.

Although Francis wasn’t going to come out of some unknown young lady’s bedchamber in the middle of the night, nor was Christopher. I certainly hoped that Wolfgang wouldn’t do. And at any rate, I had known who he was as soon as he slipped through the door, long before the light had had any chance to find his head.

He must have known I was there, too—or that someone was—because his shoulders braced before he turned to face the hallway. His eyes flickered for a second before they landed on me. I suppose I was more visible than I’d thought I was. Even tucked into the dark corner of the hallway, my ivory frock must have stood out like a beacon, much like Crispin’s head of platinum hair.

He breathed out. Relief, perhaps. “Philippa.”

He sauntered my way, and if he had been nervous earlier, there was no sign of it now.

“St George,” I retorted. Severely. Under no circumstances would I let him soften me up with my rarely-used given name.

Besides, it wasn’t as if I had any doubts as to what he had been up to. I’m not stupid. There was only one reason why the newly-engaged Viscount St George, notorious cad and philanderer, would have been in… was it Olivia Barnsley’s room? Most likely, if Lady Violet was in the garden with Geoffrey and Cecily Fletcher was entertaining Dominic Rivers—in the middle of the night.

Still, it was sobering to see the results with my own eyes. His hair was ruffled, as if someone had had her hands in it. He hadn’t bothered to do up the buttons of his shirt all the way, so there was a V of pale skin visible at the bottom of his throat where the ends of the bowtie dangled. And his neck sported what could only be a bruise. From someone’s teeth, no doubt.

I narrowed my eyes on it. “You had better do something about that before Laetitia sees it.”

He sighed. “Darling…”

“You’re vile,” I told him. My voice shook, and I hoped he knew that it was from anger and disgust, not anything else. “You’re… you’re…”

“Vile.” He nodded tiredly. “I know.”

“Betrothed!” I hissed the word at him. I was careful not to raise my voice, though. While I loathed both him and his behavior, I didn’t want to draw any more attention to his presence here than I had to. “You have a fiancée, St George. You have no business visiting other women’s bedchambers at night.”

“Laetitia’s under no illusions about this being a love match, Darling.”

“That’s beside the point! You committed yourself to her; you shouldn’t be coming out of Miss Barnsley’s room in the?—”

“Miss Fletcher’s room,” Crispin corrected.

Miss Fletcher? But she had been entertaining Dominic Rivers, hadn’t she?

Unless Nellie had got it wrong, of course, but I couldn’t imagine how anyone could have mistaken Dom Rivers for Crispin or vice versa. They looked nothing alike. They didn’t even sound the same. Rivers’s accent was a lot less elegant than Crispin’s Eton-educated vowels. Besides, Nellie ought to be able to tell the fiancé of the daughter of the house from a random party guest who looked nothing like him.

Perhaps Cecily had entertained them both.

“Ugh,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Rekindling an old flame on the eve of your engagement party, St George? Lovely behavior.”

“It’s not what you think, Darling.”

“Of course not,” I said. “If I’m wrong, why do you look like that?”

He smirked. “Like what, Darling?”

I made a face. “Like you’ve had a close encounter with a vampire. One who decided to run her fingers through your hair before she sucked your blood.”

He shook his head. “No vampire. And no one else has had her fingers in my hair.”

He sounded sincere about it, so I tilted my head and gave him another look. “Why would you do that to yourself?”

“Cecily is with child,” Crispin said.

He pronounced it so matter-of-factly that it took a second for the words to properly register. Then my jaw dropped, but before I could say anything, Crispin stiffened like a Pointer. The next second, he had wrapped his hand around the door handle and shoved my bedroom door open. A second after that, he had backed me into the room and pulled the door shut behind us.

“What on earth—” I began.

He flicked me a look. “Shhh.”

I stuck my hands on my hips. “Why should I? You have no business coming into my room. Besides, I thought you told me that you didn’t care if Laetitia found out that you were up here?”

“It’s not Laetitia I’m worried about. Now be quiet, Darling.”

It wasn’t? “Who?—?”

But he put a finger to his mouth and closed his eyes, the better to hear what was happening outside. Unless he just really didn’t want to look at me. At this point I had caught on, anyway, and I could hear what he had heard: rapid footsteps jogging up the stairs towards our level.

“Did you see who it is?” I wanted to know, although I kept my voice low. At this point I was no more keen on being found with him in my room than he was on being found with me.

Crispin shook his head. “I got us out of sight before whoever that is could see us. I didn’t get a chance to see him.”

“Him?”

“It sounds more like a man than a woman.”

I took a moment to listen, and decided that he was most likely right. The steps had entered the hallway, each one a decisive thump against the carpet runner. Not quick and light the way a woman’s steps would have been.

“It isn’t your fiancée,” I pointed out. “We don’t have to hide.”

He arched a brow. “Is that something you want, Darling? For someone else to see me come out of your room, looking like I’ve just been shagged?”

Probably not. I was grateful for the relative darkness, as it covered the flush in my cheeks. “Definitely not.”

“Then just wait until whoever is out there has gone into his room. Or into someone else’s.”

There was a moment of silence. The footsteps had stopped, but I hadn’t yet heard a knock.

“Maybe Cecily is entertaining someone else,” I said sourly.

Crispin shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised. It certainly isn’t my child she’s carrying.”

“Do you know that for a fact?”

He slanted me a look. “Yes, Darling. I haven’t laid a finger on her since February. She’d look like a zeppelin if it were mine.”

And she certainly hadn’t done earlier. The current tubular fashions are kind to any slight affluence around the middle, but if Cecily had sported anything more than a slight stomach bulge, it would have been visible.

“Why talk to you, then?”

“Why not? She spoke to everyone else.”

I supposed she had done, now that he mentioned it. Or to anyone who could possibly be involved, anyway. She had danced with most of the men in the ballroom earlier—save for Crispin, who’d been busy with Laetitia, and Francis, who’d been sulking, and Wolfgang, who was German and new to this crowd, and so, I presumed, no candidate for the father of Cecily’s baby. But I had seen her dance with Dominic Rivers and with the Honorable Reggie, and even with Christopher once, when he had been taken away from Francis and pressed into service. The odious Bilge had even abandoned his wife to take Cecily for a turn around the floor, while the lovely Serena had simpered at Dominic Rivers.

“Do you think one of them is the father?”

“Who knows?” Crispin said, and sounded like it didn’t much matter to him. And why would it, as long as he wasn’t on the hook? “I asked, but she wouldn’t tell me. Just said, when I told her she looked like a wilted tulip, that she was expecting and would I kindly keep my opinions to myself.”

Good for her. “I think I might like Cecily,” I said.

“You’d like anyone who gave me a hard time,” Crispin answered, which was certainly true. He reached for the doorknob. “It’s quiet out there. He must have gone inside his room.”

Or inside someone else’s. But either way?—

“I’m sure it’s safe to leave. Go get some sleep, St George. Tomorrow’s going to be another long day of playing the happy fiancé. Better make sure you’re rested.”

He nodded. “What are you doing out and about at this hour anyway?” He looked me up and down, and his lip curled. “Coming from your own late-night rendezvous, are you?”

“It’s certainly none of your affair if I am,” I said, “seeing whose room you just came out of. But for your information, I sat with Constance for a while after we came upstairs. She’s upset about Francis.”

He sniggered. “Drunk off his arse, is he?”

“Yes. And so would you be, I believe, if you had spent two years in a foxhole and you suddenly came face to face with a German.”

“Wolfie affects me that way even without the two years in the foxhole,” Crispin said. “I’m just glad that someone else in the family shares my opinion of the bastard. The way you and Christopher fawn over him is appalling.”

“Wolfgang,” I corrected, “and I don’t fawn. Christopher doesn’t, either. He just thinks Wolfgang is handsome. Which he is.”

Crispin sneered. “That’s why you spent the rest of the evening making cow eyes at him, I suppose.”

“Of course. And after the way you and Francis behaved, I had to make sure that he wasn’t uncomfortable.”

“Oh, I’m sure you made him very comfortable indeed,” Crispin said. The sneer had taken up permanent residence now.

There was nothing I would have liked more than to smack it off his face, but I took a breath and refrained. “With you leaving your fiancée downstairs in favor of visiting Cecily’s bedchamber at one in the morning, it’s not as if you have any room to talk, St George.”

Crispin shrugged, but it was sulky.

“I’m going to bed,” I said.

He gave me an up and down look. “I imagine you’d like me to leave?”

“If you don’t mind. I’ll share with Christopher, but not with you. Besides, you have a room of your own, don’t you?”

Crispin’s lip curled. “I do. Across the hall from Laetitia’s.”

“The better to keep an eye on you, I suppose? She warned the maid to stay away from you, you know.”

He sneered. “As if I would ever have anything to do with the maids.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” I said. “I know that, even if Laetitia doesn’t. Although I think she’s probably asleep by now, so you can get downstairs undetected. At least she didn’t stick her head out to look at me when I left Constance’s room earlier.”

He sighed. “I suppose I’d best go, then.”

I nodded. “I wish you would, St George. Go get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be another long day of shooting pheasant and playing the happy fiancé.”

He rolled his eyes. “Hunting. What fun.”

“You don’t have to ride out if you don’t want to,” I pointed out. “Your father isn’t here yet, to yell at you for deviating from the approved path. You can stay with us. I don’t plan to ride out. Christopher won’t, either. Or Constance. And I doubt Francis is interested in pointing a weapon at anything anymore.”

“Bilge Fortescue spent some time on the Front, too,” Crispin said, “although I doubt it will keep him from shooting at birds.”

“Bilge Fortescue can do whatever he wants. It’s none of our concern. Go to bed, St George.” I reached past him and turned the door handle. “Off you go. Sweet dreams and all that.”

The door opened and Crispin backed out. Right into the arms of the man standing outside in the hallway.

For a moment, I was afraid it was going to be Wolfgang and that we’d have a shouting match in the upstairs hallway. But it wasn’t, something which the next second made very clear. Just as no one would mistake Dominic Rivers for Crispin, no one—especially me—would mistake him for Wolfgang, either.

“Well, well,” he said as he set Crispin upright, “what do we have here?”

He leered at Crispin, from his ruffled hair to his open shirt, before he turned to me, and inspected me up and down, as well. I gave him a stony look in return. My hair wasn’t disheveled, my dress wasn’t wrinkled, and my makeup wasn’t smudged, so he could stare all he wanted to. And he did, until Crispin stepped in front of me. “What are you doing here, Dom?”

Rivers didn’t answer, just gave Crispin another amused look. “I could ask you the same thing, old bean, couldn’t I? The unlikeliest people popping out of rooms all over the place tonight.”

“I’m having a conversation with my cousin,” Crispin said, “if you must know.”

Rivers flicked another look at me. “But she’s not your cousin, is she? Isn’t that what you told me a few months ago?”

“Close enough for jazz,” Crispin told him. “Especially at two in the morning.”

Rivers made a little humming noise and gave him another once-over before he said, “You might want to fix your hair before Laetitia sees it.”

“Laetitia is asleep,” Crispin said.

Rivers smirked. “Are you sure of that?”

“Unless you came from there, I’m fairly certain.” Crispin eyed him. “Are you trying to blackmail me, Dom? Because if you are…”

“Would I do that?” Rivers wanted to know, spreading his hands innocently. Trying to look like someone who had nothing to hide, I guessed.

“Weren’t you one of the men in Cecily Fletcher’s room earlier this evening?” I wanted to know, and Rivers turned to me, brows rising. “Do you think you should be making threats?”

“Are you trying to insinuate something, Miss Darling?”

“Only that people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, Mr. Rivers. You’re not exactly free from controversy yourself, are you?”

He didn’t respond to that, just turned back to Crispin, who told him, “Go to bed, Dom. There’s nothing going on here, but I can’t stop you from telling Laetitia that you saw me if you decide to. I don’t think you’d be telling her anything she doesn’t already know, though.”

Rivers didn’t say anything, just contemplated him for a moment with his lips pursed. Then he gave a short nod. “Good night, St George. Miss Darling.”

I got a truncated bow before he headed off down the hallway. A few seconds later, I heard a door open and close. Crispin turned to me. “Sleep well, Darling.”

“The same to you,” I told him, and pulled my head inside the room and shut the door. If he turned around at the top of the stairs, the last thing I wanted was for him to see me standing there, watching him walk away. Knowing him, it would undoubtedly give him ideas.

Inside the room, I did my usual evening toilette: Pulled the dress over my head and hung it on a hanger to air out, rolled down my stockings, and shimmied out of my unmentionables and into my pyjamas. That done, I fetched my toiletries bag and wandered next door to the lavatory. The hallway was empty when I entered it, although there were rustling sounds to be heard from inside a few of the rooms. Dominic Rivers must be getting situated for bed, for I could hear someone moving around in his and Reginald’s shared room, and there was also a murmur of voices from inside, so he must have woken the Honorable Reggie when he walked in. Likewise, there was the sound of movement from inside one of the rooms on the other side of the hall. Cecily’s again, or perhaps Lady Violet’s or Olivia Barnsley’s.

But that was none of my concern, so I shut the door to the loo and went about the business of getting ready for bed. Cold-cream on my face to remove the makeup, toothpaste on the brush to clean my teeth. After it was all said and done, I opened the door to the hallway again, only to find myself face to face with the expectant mother herself.

“Oh.” I took an involuntary step back. Cecily Fletcher took that as an invitation, and brushed past me into the lavatory, where she fell to her knees in front of the commode and proceeded to empty her stomach. Loudly.

I winced. I’ll sit beside Christopher while he attempts to turn his guts inside out, but only because I love him. I had no love for Cecily Fletcher. The noises she made were obscene, and the smell was indescribable.

At the same time, I didn’t feel as if I could simply walk away and leave her to suffer alone. I may be cold, but I’m not callous. And she was so clearly suffering. I had gotten a good look at her when she brushed past me—a look I hadn’t achieved down in the ballroom earlier—and without the red lipstick and rouged cheeks, she was deathly pale, with dark rings under her eyes.

So I made a face, but the only decision I could live with. I left my toiletries bag on the side of the sink and went over to Cecily.

One good thing about the newly bobbed hairstyles is that there were no long braids to keep out of the way of the toilet. I did put my hand on her forehead, and it was clammy and cold. Her bangs were wispy and wet with sweat as they brushed the back of my hand.

She flinched when she felt me take hold of her, but she didn’t protest, and then another bout of sickness made that impossible, anyway. I wrinkled my nose, but stuck with it.

Once the new spasm was over, I left her to lean drunkenly on the toilet bowl, whimpering, and went to the sink. She hadn’t brought a flannel, and there were none sitting around, so I used my own. Once it was wet, I took it back over to Cecily and used it to wipe her forehead and cheeks and the back of her neck. She was trembling, and the hand that wasn’t clutching the toilet bowl was lying across her stomach, fingers spread.

“How often does this happen?” I wanted to know. “I thought it was called ‘morning sickness’ for a reason.”

She shot me a look. “Of course he told you.”

“There’s no reason why he wouldn’t,” I said. “Although I won’t spread it around any further. It’s none of my affair.”

Not as long as Crispin—or Christopher or Francis—weren’t involved.

She nodded. “For your information, this happens at any time of the day. It’s usually worse when I get up from lying down, but sometimes it comes on for no reason, as well. I had a cup of peppermint tea earlier, but it didn’t seem to help.”

Clearly not. “Do you feel well enough for me to help you back to your room? Or is it likely to happen again so you want to stay here?”

She wasn’t actively vomiting anymore, and a touch of color was coming back into her cheeks.

“I think I’m done for now.” She gave the toilet bowl a scowl. “I’m not sure there’s anything left to throw up. Not that that always means I won’t.”

“Why don’t we see if you can stand?” I suggested, and held out a hand. Hers was ice cold and limp as a dead fish. I braced myself and hauled her to her feet. “I’ll find some sort of container for you, and that way, if it happens again, you’ll have something beside your bed.”

She staggered as she gained her feet, and I reached out automatically to support her. I ended up half dragging, half carrying her into the hallway, with one arm around her waist. “Would you like for me to knock up Rivers or the Honorable Reggie,” I asked, breathlessly, “so you don’t have to suffer the indignity of me trying to drag you into your bedchamber? One of them would be able to carry you, no doubt.”

She shuddered. “No, thank you. It’s very kind of you to help.”

Very well, then. If she wanted to be manhandled by me, I would simply carry on with the handling. We staggered across the landing and towards the door to her room. It was standing halfway open, but the room inside was dark. She must have been in bed and been woken up, or perhaps hadn’t fallen asleep yet, but her eyes had been accustomed enough to the dark that she hadn’t needed to turn on a lamp as she ran for the lavatory.

I staggered to a stop a few steps in, so as not to run into any of the furniture. Cecily, perforce, stopped too.

“The bed is this way.” Her voice sounded strained, as if she were in pain, so when she moved to the left, I followed. A few seconds later, she reached the bed and collapsed down on the edge of it with a sound halfway between a groan and a grunt.

I tucked my hands behind my back, feeling awkward. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“You can keep this to yourself,” Cecily said, and I could hear the rustling as she swung her legs up onto the mattress and pulled the covers over herself.

“Of course. It’s not as if a pregnant woman puking is anything newsworthy.” Nor was it as if Cecily’s getting in the family way was anything I should be gossiping about. Unless— “St George did tell me the truth, didn’t he? It’s not his problem?”

“I haven’t had anything to do with Crispin since last winter,” Cecily confirmed. After a second’s pause, she added, tiredly, “If you feel that way about him, why is he marrying Laetitia and not you?”

“I don’t feel that way about him. He’s family, that’s all. The cousin of my cousin is my cousin, and all that. And he’s marrying Laetitia because that’s what he chose to do.”

Aside from which, Uncle Harold would never approve of him marrying me. Nor would I ever, unlike Laetitia, agree to marry a man whom I knew was in love with someone else. Laetitia was welcome to him, or would have been, had I not actually cared about the fact that she was a horrible cow who would make him unhappy and he should have known better than to propose.

But it was neither here nor there. “Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?”

I glanced around, my eyes a bit more used to the dim light now, and spotted a chamber pot and matching slop jar tucked away in a corner. “Would you like me to…?”

“No,” Cecily said with a shudder, “thank you. I think that would only make the experience worse. I’d rather run across to the loo again.”

“Would you like me to stay with you? In case you need help?”

She shook her head. “That’s not necessary. But thank you for offering.”

Very well, then. “I’m across the hall and to the right of the lavatory if you need help. Feel free to knock on my door. And if you can’t make it, yell loudly and I’m sure I’ll hear you. I’m not a particularly heavy sleeper.”

“Thank you, Miss Darling. You’ve been more than kind.”

“Call me Pippa,” I said. “And it seems the least I can do. I hope you get to sleep. I’ll put this—” I lifted the teacup and saucer from the side table, “—outside the door. That way, perhaps the maids will leave you alone tomorrow morning and you can stay in bed a bit.”

She nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Pippa.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, “Cecily.”

With nothing more said, I took myself and the empty teacup out the door, which I closed carefully behind me. There was still an inch or so of brown liquid at the bottom of the cup, smelling strongly of mint, although to me, it was more spearmint than the peppermint Cecily had mentioned.

I took it across the hallway to the bathroom, where I poured the dregs of the tea down the drain. No sense in leaving a half-full cup of tea on the floor for someone to kick, after all. That done, I gathered up my flannel and my toiletries bag, before finally heading back to my own room for some peace and quiet.