Page 31 of Murder in a Mayfair Flat
There was nothing warm about His Grace’s eyes at the moment, however. Nor about his voice. “Where is my son?”
“St George?” It was a stupid question. Uncle Harold had no other sons, at least none he acknowledged. I suppose I was trying to gain time before the inevitable row, since Uncle Harold’s demeanor suggested that one was in the offing. “He’s still in bed.”
If possible, Uncle Harold’s eyes got even more frosty. “I don’t know what he promised you—” he began, which made no sense whatsoever.
“He didn’t promise me anything. He showed up last night, thoroughly pickled. and I put him to bed rather than let him go off in the Hispano-Suiza and get in a motorcar accident again.”
Best not to say anything at all about the interlude, I decided. The less Uncle Harold knew about the events of the previous night, the less irate he was likely to be.
“I would have thought you’d be happy that I kept him here instead of letting him go off and perhaps kill himself,” I added.
If Uncle Harold was happy, he showed no sign of it.
“Where is he?” He peered over my shoulder into the foyer. St George wasn’t there, of course, so I did the only thing I could do, and stepped back.
“Would you like to come in? He’s still asleep. My bedroom is?—”
Uncle Harold had brushed past me by now, but at the sound of this, he did an abrupt stop and then a turn. “Your bedroom?”
“The Chesterfield in the sitting room is rather narrow,” I said, irritated, “and I thought he’d be more comfortable in a proper bed. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll go fetch him.”
I scooped my own pillow and blanket off the sofa so Uncle Harold could sit down—he watched me down the length of his nose the entire time—and then I wandered into the hallway, where I applied my toes to the door to my bedroom. “St George! Wake up. You have company.”
There was a grumble and the sound of bedsprings from inside the room, and I shifted the burden of blankets and pillows to one arm so I could reach for the knob with the other. “I’m coming in.”
“No!”
I paid no attention, of course—it was my room, after all—and opened the door to the sight of the future Duke of Sutherland scrambling upright in bed—my bed—with the blankets—my blankets—clutched to his naked chest and his hair sticking up every which way. His cheeks were pink—so was the chest, if it came to that—and his eyes managed to be both sleepy and annoyed. “Damn you, Darling, what part of ‘no’ didn’t you understand?”
“You have company,” I told him, as I walked over and dumped the extra pillow and blankets on the bottom of the bed next to him. “Your father’s here.”
“My…?” He shook his head, apparently to clear it. “I’m sorry, Darling, I must have misheard. Who is here?”
“Your father,” I said. “His Grace, Harold, Duke of Sutherland. He’s in the sitting room waiting to see you.”
“My…” He sounded as if he might have lost his breath for a moment. “My father’s here, and I’m… you’re… my father?”
I nodded. “I would put some clothes on, if I were you. Who knows how long he’ll be willing to kick his heels in the sitting room before he decides it’s been long enough?”
“All I have is yesterday’s dinner suit,” Crispin said.
“I’m sure that’ll be fine. Or I can go into Christopher’s room and find something else, if you’d prefer.”
“Not a frock,” Crispin said.
I gave him a crushing look over my shoulder. “In front of your father? Don’t be absurd.”
Besides, it wasn’t as if Christopher owned anything of that nature that was suitable for day wear. The only time he dresses up is for balls, and sparkling gowns arede rigueurfor those occasions. But he didn’t walk around the flat in skirts and stockings the rest of the time.
“Then yes, Darling. Please. I’d be grateful for something else to wear.”
“I’ll be right back,” I told him. “You might want to run next door to the lavatory while you can. I assume you’d like to face your father with fresh breath.”
He grimaced. “I wouldn’t mind if I could do that.”
“Then come along. And don’t bother covering up.” He was eyeing the blankets as if he thought about wrapping one around himself. “I promise I won’t turn around and look at you as you skulk along behind me. Besides, if I’ve seen Christopher in his pants—and I have—I’ve practically seen you in yours, too.”
“It’s not the same,” Crispin grumbled, but he didn’t argue. “Very well, Darling. Gather me up some of Kit’s clothes and knock on the door with them. I’ll dress in there; that way you can come in here and make your owntoilette. I’m sure those pyjamas didn’t do you any favors at all with my father.”
