Page 101 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“Be a dear and go fetch your uncle, Pippa.”
I got to my feet, a bit reluctantly. “Which uncle do you want? Herbert or Harold?”
“Better make it both,” Tom said, “actually.”
“Really?” If this was about Uncle Herbert’s illegitimate child, or children, was that something Uncle Harold needed to hear?
He might already know, of course. Duke Henry might have shared it with him, as his successor to the title. Or Uncle Herbert might have done the same, brother to brother. But if not, did Tom really want to let that particular cat out of the bag?
I tried to convey all those thoughts with the power of my mind, without opening my mouth, and?—
“On second thought,” Tom acquiesced, “perhaps just Lord Herbert for now.”
I nodded and headed for the door. Only to be brought up short by his voice behind me.
“And see if you can make Lord St George follow you out of the room, Pippa.”
“Excuse me?” I stopped in the doorway and turned around.
Tom smirked. “I need Lord St George for a moment. Try to make it look natural.”
I eyed him down my nose. It was made easier—made possible—by the fact that he was sitting and I was standing. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, but I suppose simply asking him to accompany me is out of the question?”
“You can go ahead and ask. Just make it look like you want him personally and not for me.”
I sniffed. “That’ll be difficult to feign, but I’ll do my best.”
“Do your best, Pippa.” He waved me off. “Close the door behind you.”
I did, and then eyed it resentfully. Clearly part of the purpose of this errand was to get me out of the way while he brought Sammy up to date on things I wasn’t supposed to hear. I contemplated staying where I was and putting my ear to the door instead of fetching Uncle Herbert from the sitting room, but if I did, and didn’t produce him and Crispin in a timely manner, Tom would likely guess what I had done, and I didn’t particularly want to end up on the wrong side of Tom Gardiner. So I stuck my tongue out at the door, but buzzed off past the cellar steps and into the foyer.
“Uncle Herbert? You’re wanted in the study.”
In my absence, most of the tea tray had been demolished, and everyone looked a bit more genial. Constance and Francis were cuddled up together in one of the oversized armchairs, while Euphemia Marsden had lost most of the pinched look. She was watching her daughter use her wiles on Crispin with a benevolent expression on her face. Little Bess had fallen asleep, and was tucked into a corner of the Chesterfield next to Aunt Roz, her pink rosebud lips parted and her tiny chest rising and falling under her embroidered blanket. Her wispy fair hair stuck straight up from her small head.
“St George,” I added, dragging my eyes from the baby and over to where he was sitting, perched on the arm of Laetitia’s chair. “May I have a moment of your time?”
He blinked. I’m not usually so polite when I want his attention, I suppose. Laetitia’s eyes narrowed and Uncle Herbert shot me a quick glance on his way past.
“Good luck,” I told him, and he nodded and headed for the door to the back of the house. Crispin, meanwhile, clearly needed more time to decide whether he wanted to oblige me or not. So much for Tom’s inference that he’d follow me if I just crooked my finger at him. All he did was eye me with calculation from across the room, as if trying to figure out what my angle might be.
“You know what, St George?” I said, annoyed. “Forget I asked. It’s obviously an imposition.”
Laetitia’s lips curved up, pleased.
“I’ll just ask someone else for help. And the next time I need assistance?—”
By the time I was halfway through the sentence, Crispin was up from the chair and on his way across the floor. “Stop being manipulative, Darling, and tell me what you want.”
He grabbed my elbow as he moved past, and tugged me along into the foyer.
“You, St George,” I told him sweetly, just before we disappeared through the door into the back. Hopefully my voice was loud enough that Laetitia heard it. “I should have thought that was obvious.”
Then the door shut behind us, and he dropped my arm like it had burned him, and pushed the next door open in front of us. “A likely story, Darling. What do you really want?”
“You, as I said. But I’m just the messenger. Tom needs you for something. He just didn’t want to make it obvious.”
I gestured to the now-closed door to the study. Crispin looked at it, and looked at me, and then gave the door a brisk knock. He turned the knob and walked inside without waiting for an invitation. When I tried to follow, he shut the door in my face. I rocked back on my heels, my mouth open in outrage.
