Page 22 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
She was leaning in, swaying towards him, as if she wouldn’t be close enough until she were in his lap.
Which she certainly wasn’t going to be on the terrasse in the middle of the afternoon.
“It doesn’t appear as if he minds, Pippa,” Constance said softly.
Well, no. It didn’t. But?—
“Two months ago, he told her flat out that he didn’t want to marry her. I heard him. She was trying to cajole him into it, telling him how much they have in common and how much fun they’d have, and he made it clear that he didn’t want to.”
Nicely, I’ll admit—he’d told Laetitia that she deserved a husband who was in love with her, not a husband who was in love with someone else—but it had been direct and unmistakable.
“I thought she’d given up,” I said, “but it doesn’t look that way, does it?”
We all contemplated the table, and the way Laetitia had her hand on Crispin’s arm and was leaning close, eyes sparkling.
“No,” Aunt Roz said, while Francis chuckled. “That looks like a woman with matrimony on her mind.”
“Someone should have a word with him.”
“He’s not stupid, Pipsqueak,” Francis said. “If he didn’t want to be there, he wouldn’t be.”
“I’m not so sure. He has a bad habit of listening to Uncle Harold, and Uncle Harold has a bad habit ofnotlistening to St George.”
“That’s their business,” Aunt Roz said, “although I share your concern, Pippa. But if he won’t stand up for himself, the rest of us can’t stand up with him.”
I suppose not. And it was none of my affair who St George ended up with, anyway. If he was idiotic enough to let himself be drawn in by Lady Laetitia again, and she was idiotic enough to pursue him after being told why he didn’t want to marry her, then I supposed they deserved each other.
“What happened out here while I was inside?” I asked instead.
Constance and Francis looked at one another, and Francis nodded for Constance to go first.
“Not much. At first, there was a lot of whispering. Laetitia and her mother had their heads together, and His Grace, Duke Harold, looked like he was about to have an apoplexy…”
“Probably thinks she’s Crispin’s,” Francis sniggered.
We all glanced at little Bess, who peered back at us with those big, blue Astley eyes. Yes, I’m sure we all thought she might be Crispin’s. “And then?”
“Eventually, everyone but you and Lord St George came back,” Constance said. “Laetitia made a fuss about it until Roslyn reminded her that she had sent Lord St George for the doctor and that while you were with the body, the two of you were not together.”
“She isn’t dead, Constance,” Aunt Roz reminded her, bouncing the baby on her knee. Bess looked perfectly comfortable and perfectly at home, gurgling and cooing. “Not quite a body yet.”
Constance flushed. “Of course not. My apologies.”
“No apologies needed,” I told her. “She looked dead. Christopher had to carry her out to the car when the doctor took her away. Wilkins turned as pale as a ghost when he saw us coming. For a second, I think he thought he’d be asked to get rid of a dead body.”
Which sounded uncomfortably like the situation we had found ourselves in last month, in London, and it took me a moment to shove the memory down. “Anyway,” I managed brightly, “St George and I were certainly not making eyes at one another over the not-dead body of his maybe-mistress while Lady Laetitia was sitting out here.”
Francis smothered a chuckle.
“But the doctor said she’d be all right. He agreed with Aunt Roz that it was just exhaustion and heat and malnutrition and something else, and rest and food would set her right.”
“Poor thing,” Aunt Roz murmured, cradling the baby a little closer, protectively.
“Don’t get attached, Mum,” Francis advised her. “You can’t keep her, you know. She isn’t Dad’s.”
Aunt Roz gave him a crushing look. “I know that, Francis. She isn’t Christopher’s, either, and I hope she isn’t yours…”
“Of course not,” Francis said.
