Page 1 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
CHAPTERONE
My cousin Francisproposed to Miss Constance Peckham on the 5thof July, 1926, two months to the day after they first met. That might have seemed rash, as if they had something to hide—I’m sure I don’t have to spell out what, as we’re all familiar with babies being born ‘early’—although in justice to them, I don’t think that was the case. Constance had been living at Beckwith Place with Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert, Francis’s parents, for most of those two months, so opportunities to misbehave had been few and far between. I didn’t think Francis was the type, anyway. Certainly not with Constance. It had been, as the saying goes, love at first sight, and we had all seen this coming for the past month and a half.
For me personally, the 5thwas memorable for another reason. It was the day I finally saw the girl with the baby.
The words ought perhaps to be capitalized. The Girl with the Baby, like an impressionist painting or the title of a lurid crime novel. That was more or less how I thought of her, or of them.
I had first heard of the pair at the end of April, during that fatal weekend at Sutherland Hall during which Duke Henry, his valet, and Lady Charlotte, the Duke’s daughter-in-law, had all met their ends by various means. At that point, she was just a story that Grimsby the valet told, one of many he had dug up about everyone in the family. The girl had made her appearance at Sutherland House, the Town seat of the Astleys, a month or two earlier, with a baby she claimed belonged to someone in the family. Upon being presented to the then-Honorable Crispin Astley—now the Viscount St George since his grandfather’s death, and no more Honorable now, in spite of the title—he had declaimed any knowledge of her.
Naturally, no one believed him. Crispin was a card-carrying member of the Society for Bright Young Persons, with a reputation for fast living and a penchant for seducing anything in a skirt. Sutherland House had been pressed into service as his bachelor pad and love nest during his weekends in Town. There was no reason to think he wasn’t as guilty as sin. Ergo, he must be lying, or he had been too drunk to remember, or he had bedded so many women that this one had simply slipped his mind… the excuses were plentiful, and all quite reasonable.
He was adamant, however—to me, to Christopher, to anyone who would listen—that the baby wasn’t his, and upon further investigation, I decided that it was just possible that he might be telling the truth. Rogers, Sutherland House’s butler, told me that the girl had asked for the Duke’s grandson when she knocked on the door that day, and not for Crispin specifically. He’s quite well known around London—Crispin, I mean; not Rogers—and he features often in the gossip rags. If he had bedded her, I would have expected her to know his name.
But all that is by the by. In the late afternoon of Monday the 5thof July, while Francis might have been down on one knee in front of Constance somewhere in the wilds of Wiltshire, Evans the doorman called up to let me know that my cousin and flat-mate Christopher Astley had a visitor.
“What kind of visitor?” I wanted to know.
“A young woman, Miss Darling.”
“A woman?” I wrinkled my nose.
Unlike his cousin Crispin (or for that matter his brother Francis), Christopher’s affections don’t incline towards young women. Not in a romantic sense. That doesn’t mean that young women don’t pursue him, of course. He might only be fourth in line for the title, but he’s young and handsome and reasonably wealthy, and he has a strong connection to the Sutherland lands and title. He also has no stomach for chasing off women on his own, which is where I usually come in.
“Yes, Miss Darling,” Evans said. “A young woman with a baby.”
My heart skipped a beat. The words ‘woman’ and ‘baby’ in the same sentence tended to do that to me these days. “Send her…”
No, wait. Did I want her in mine and Christopher’s space?
He wasn’t at home, or I would be having this conversation with him. I was alone in the flat, and perhaps I didn’t want to open it up to someone I didn’t know. I’m a friendly sort, but not that friendly.
On the other hand, if I went downstairs to meet her, we’d have to have our confrontation in front of Evans, or alternatively on the street outside, and I wasn’t so keen on either of those options, either. The revelations were certain to be sensitive, and I’d rather not have them in front of an audience, even if it was an audience of people I didn’t know and who didn’t know me.
Evans waited patiently while I weighed my options and made a decision. “I’ll be down to fetch her, Evans. Tell her to wait.”
This way, I could at least get a look at her before I decided one way or the other.
“Yes, Miss Darling.” Evans disconnected.
Christopher and I share a two-bed service flat in the Essex House Mansions in London. It’s not overly ostentatious—we’re not talking about the Albert Hall Mansions here—but it’s quite a nice place for all that. At the moment, it looked as if no one had cleaned it in a while. A pair of Christopher’s evening gloves were draped over the back of the sofa—don’t ask—and there were stacks of books everywhere, as well as two teacups and saucers with crumbs on the coffee table.
I eyed the mess, and decided it wasn’t worth doing anything about. The young woman wasn’t likely to stay long. If she was here to confront me with the idea that Christopher had got her with child—hewasa grandson of the late Duke, after all—I’d soon disabuse her of that notion, and the dust bunnies under the Chesterfield wouldn’t stop me.
So I headed for the lift with my head high and my steps steady, only to be met with the glad cry of, “Hullo, Pippa!” as soon as I made it into the hallway.
I managed to bite back the bad word that had come to my mouth, but only just. “Good afternoon, Florence,” I said instead, politely, as I made my way towards her and the door to the lift. “Going out for tea? That’s a lovely frock.”
It was, in fact, quite lovely, at least if you like flounces and ruffles and flourishes.
Like most of Florence Schlomsky’s frocks, it was pink, the better to bring out the healthy roses in her cheeks, undiminished by months in the heart of London, and it was girlishly fluttery. Florence likes her chiffon panels. She also likes beads, and tassels, and fringe. You might think the heiress and only daughter of an American business magnate would show better taste, but you’d be wrong. Florence’s tastes are delightfully base—in fact, it was just a month ago that she’d had St George backed into a corner of this very lift, and if that isn’t stunningly base, I don’t know what would be.
“This old thing?” She brushed the compliment off with a swish of her hand and bared all her teeth in a wide smile. While I know it’s physically impossible, I swear she has more than the usual number, all blindingly white and straight. “Say, Pippa…”
I managed to avoid rolling my eyes, but just barely.
“—where’s that cousin of yours holed up these days?”
“Christopher’s out with a friend,” I said.
