Page 12 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
The drawing roomtakes up the entire ground floor of the new, hundred-year-old addition. It’s a lovely room, open and airy, with tall ceilings, walk-out windows on two walls—the front and side of the house—and a dainty fireplace with a gray tile surround on the third. A picture rail two feet from the ceiling holds landscapes and family portraits in gold frames—one of them of my mother and Aunt Roz as children—while elegant rugs cover the wood floors.
It’s also the biggest room in the house, and with everyone gathered there—except Francis, until he came back downstairs—that was useful, since we had quite a crowd.
The first person I saw when I came through the door was Laetitia Marsden. She was dressed in her usual black, and looked stunning.
She’s an exceptionally pretty woman, I’m not going to deny that. Tall and slender, with jet black hair cut into a sleek pageboy, and bright blue eyes outlined with kohl. Her dress was a black crepe de chine with a ring of rosebuds embroidered around the neckline, and a scalloped edge circling her hips, while the skirt below fell to her knees in tiny pleats. She was wearing elegant T-strap shoes and pearls in her ears and around her neck, and her pink lips were curved in a self-satisfied little simper.
The reason for that was sitting next to her, perched on the arm of her chair, looking across at me—at us—with his usual supercilious smirk. “Afternoon, Darling. Kit. My, don’t you both look windswept?”
It was probably supposed to be some sort of innuendo. What sort I have no idea, since everyone here, with the possible exception of the Marsdens, knew very well that Christopher and I hadn’t stopped off in a hedgerow somewhere between Salisbury and Beckwith Place to do inappropriate things to one another. Crispin certainly knew it. If my hair was disordered, it wasn’t because Christopher had had his fingers in it.
I resisted the temptation to smooth it down, which had probably been his aim. Some display of self-consciousness on my part. Instead I smirked back. “St George. How lovely to see you. Florence sends her love.”
I crossed the floor towards him as I spoke, and had the pleasure of seeing apprehension flicker across his face.
“She asked me to pass it on personally,” I added sweetly, as I stopped in front of him and lifted my hand.
He flinched. Perhaps he thought I was about to give him that slap he’s been begging for with every word out of his mouth for the past twelve years, or perhaps he assumed Florence thought he was due one. Either way, it’s disconcerting when someone flinches when you lift your hand around them.
I tucked the reaction away in the back of my head and did what I had intended to do all along: cupped my palm against his cheek gently. His eyes widened as I leaned in, and his lips parted. I have no doubt that the whole thing looked terribly intimate, especially since that was the impression I was going for. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Laetitia’s eyes narrow into slits.
And that was when I halted two inches from his nose, and smirked at him. “But I’ve seen what Florence’s love looks like, St George, and frankly, I wouldn’t lower myself to put my lips anywhere where hers have been. So you’re going to have to be satisfied with this, I’m afraid. Flossie says hello.”
I distributed a brisk pat to his cheek before I straightened. And smiled at Lady Laetitia over his shoulder. “Pardon my imposition. He’s all yours.”
Behind me, Uncle Herbert let out a bark of laughter. Crispin didn’t move for a second, just sat there, barely breathing. Until someone—I think it may have been his father—cleared his throat, and then his cheeks turned pink. “You’re awful, Darling,” he told me, with something that was perilously close to a pout.
Behind me, Christopher sniggered. “Serves you right, Crispin. Turnabout is fair play.”
He snagged my elbow. “Come along, Pippa. That’s enough excitement for both of you for one afternoon.”
He towed me towards an empty chair and pushed me down on it, before he draped himself across the arm next to me. I scowled at him, but before I could protest, Aunt Roz had opened her mouth.
“What’s this about turnabout, dear?”
She was sitting on one of the Chesterfields next to Constance, and like her husband, she looked rather amused by the whole episode.
“St George decided to practice his wiles on me last month,” I told her, with a look at him. “He leaned close and looked deeply into my eyes and breathed my name in this very significant manner…” I shuddered exaggeratedly. “It was horrid.”
Uncle Herbert smothered another bark of laughter. “Losing your touch, boy?”
Crispin flicked me a glance before he answered. “Just because Philippa can’t appreciate my charms, Uncle, doesn’t mean other women can’t.”
“St George,” Uncle Harold rumbled, and Crispin’s face closed.
“Sorry, sir.”
Uncle Harold looked mollified, and Her Grace, Countess Marsden, tittered. “I can see why you have your hands full with that one, Harold.”
Laetitia smirked. Uncle Harold gave his son and heir a look of displeasure. Crispin dropped his eyes to his lap while his lips tightened. I squashed a stab of guilt for putting him into a position where his father was unhappy with him, and surveyed the rest of the room.
This was my first experience with Laetitia’s and Geoffrey’s parents. They hadn’t stopped by during the weekend we had spent at the Dower House, and while Uncle Harold and Aunt Charlotte may have hosted them before, Uncle Herbert and Aunt Roz hadn’t.
The Countess looked like an older version of her daughter. Her face was a little more angular and her cheekbones sharper, the skin softer and less dewy. But she retained the same clear, blue eyes and black hair, in the Countess’s case leavened with white streaks at each temple. Unlike her daughter—and the rest of us—she’d kept it long and swept back from her face into an elegant chignon at the back of her head. It wasn’ta la mode, but there was no question that it suited her.
Laetitia and Geoffrey had both gotten their beauty from her, because the Earl was nothing to look at. Shorter than his wife, even while sitting down, he was a portly man with a white walrus mustache and calculating eyes. They flicked between me and Crispin and Lady Laetitia as if weighing us all.
“Miss Darling,” Lord Geoffrey drawled. “Mr. Astley.”
