Page 25 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“I suppose I might as well,” I said. “Although if I add in the Continent, there might actually be someone else equally annoying. A Frenchman, perhaps. The French are notoriously rude and awful.”
“Has Lord St George been rude and awful today?”
I thought about it. “No more than usual, I suppose. There was that comment about looking windswept when we first arrived…”
“You got revenge for that,” Constance said, sticking her hand through my arm as we arrived on the gravel of the driveway. “Poor boy, he looked positively overcome. Whatever was that about, Pippa?”
“The greeting? Flossie Schlomsky is a neighbor of ours at the Essex House Mansions. She made St George’s acquaintance a few months ago, and was quite taken with him. When she found out that I would be seeing him this weekend, she told me to give him her love.”
“And that was how you chose to do it? In full view of everyone?”
“I certainly wasn’t about to do it privately,” I said. “Besides, he did it to me first.”
“Did what, exactly?”
“Leaned close,” I said, demonstrating; Constance’s brown eyes widened, “and called me darling in this very low, very seductive voice. Totally different from the way he normally says it. Even his eyes changed.” I shuddered. “It was awful.”
Constance tittered. “It can’t have been that awful, surely. He’s ever so handsome.”
“He’s a menace,” I said, “and you know it. But I got him back.” I smiled in satisfaction.
“You certainly did,” Constance agreed. “For a moment there, it looked like he had forgotten how to breathe.”
“Serves him right.”
“I don’t know, Pippa.” We turned the corner of the house. “You know how Laetitia is. The more interested someone else is, the more adamant she becomes about keeping what’s hers.”
“He’s not hers,” I said.
“Tell that to Laetitia,” Constance answered, looking around. “I don’t see them.”
I didn’t, either. There was only the Daimler, and Aunt and Uncle’s Bentley, and the Peckham’s—now Constance’s—burgundy Crossley parked outside the carriage house. There was no sign of Christopher, or Wilkins, or Uncle Harold’s motorcar, or for that matter Francis.
“Let’s go this way,” I said, and headed for the boot room door. “We may as well move St George’s car back while we wait. I don’t see him escaping to take care of it any time soon.”
Constance trailed behind me as I headed for the H6. “Do you know how to drive a motorcar, Pippa?”
I glanced at her over my shoulder. “Of course I do. Uncle Herbert let me practice on the Bentley.”
“Have you driven a motorcar recently?”
I hadn’t, but— “Surely it’s like riding a bicycle, don’t you think? Once you know how, the knowledge doesn’t leave you?”
“I don’t know,” Constance said. “Mother would never let me learn. Gilbert—” She trailed off for a moment before she squared her shoulders and tried again. “Gilbert knew how, but Mother liked letting the chauffeur do the motoring. I don’t think she trusted Gilbert.”
“Was he a bad driver?” I opened the door to the Hispano-Suiza and fitted myself behind the wheel. The leather seat was cold against my back, even in the heat of the summer, and the pedals were farther away than expected. I felt around for a way to adjust the seat, but none was readily available. It probably didn’t matter, anyway, when I was only going to travel a few yards.
“Does it need a key?” Constance asked, leaning into the window and watching me look around. “Are you certain you should be doing this, Pippa? He’s rather protective of his motorcar, isn’t he?”
He was, rather. We’d had a small set-to over it back in May, on our way home from the Dower House. I had threatened to take over the motoring, and he had behaved as if I had suggested that I wear his trousers rather than merely that I drive his automobile.
“He’s on the terrasse with Laetitia,” I said. “She’s keeping him busy, never fear.”
There was a starter pedal on the floor of the car. I raised my foot, and was just about to stomp on it, when there was a wordless bellow of fury and consternation from the boot room door. I jumped, and so did poor Constance. She banged the top of her head against the top of the window and staggered back, rubbing her crown.
The bellow had sounded like Francis, but surprisingly it was Crispin himself who came rushing towards me, or more accurately, towards his precious vehicle. I guess Laetitia wasn’t keeping him busy after all. How very strange.
“Out,” he told me, flapping his hands, for all the world as if he were shooing recalcitrant chickens. “Get out. Out.”
