Page 26 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
I didn’t get out, of course. Instead, I leaned back in the seat and sniggered as he came closer. “Goodness gracious, St George. Whatever is the matter?”
Constance stepped out of the way as Crispin yanked the door open and grabbed me by the arm. “Out, I said. You do not get to drive my motorcar, Darling. Absolutely not.”
“We were just doing a good turn,” I told him as he pulled me through the door with enough force that I staggered and had to brace myself on his shoulder so I wouldn’t fall. “Ouch. Stop it, St George, you’re hurting me. We were merely going to move your precious to the parking area for you.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Not you. Notmymotorcar.”
I dusted my hands off and took a step back so his hands fell from my upper arms. “Strong feelings from a man who destroyed his own motorcar not even a year ago.”
“That was different,” Crispin said. “I told you before, I don’t trust you behind the wheel of my car.”
“It’s a matter of a few feet! How much damage do you suppose I could do in the time it would take me to motor across the driveway?”
He squinted at me. “You weren’t planning to go into the village to look for Kit?”
“No! I told you. We were going to take it back to the carriage house with the others. Your precious tires would not have touched the road.”
“Very well, then.” He took a step back.
Very well? “You mean, you’ll let me drive?”
“Of course not, Darling.” He looked at me down the length of his nose. “Iwill movemymotorcar to the carriage house, since its presence here offends you.”
“Oh, fine. Be that way. Although you owe Constance an apology first. Your carrying on made her hit her head.”
“Did it really?” He swung on his heel. “My dear Miss Peckham…”
“She’s soon to be your cousin,” I reminded him. “I think you can probably call her by her first name.”
Crispin arched a brow. Not at me, at Constance. “Truly?”
“If you would like,” Constance said primly.
“In that case, my dear Constance—” He poured on the charm, which included kissing her knuckles and dropping his voice into that seductive register he had attempted to use on me last month, “—please let me apologize most abjectly…”
Constance blinked, her cheeks flushing.
“Any more abject, and Francis will have your hide,” I told him. “Let go of her hand, St George, and stop being a nuisance.”
“I’m merely being myself, Darling, as you know very well.” But he did let go, and took a step back. “What are you two girls doing out here? The party’s on the terrasse.”
“We’re waiting for Wilkins and Christopher,” I said. “The terrasse was becoming rather uncomfortable. I’m almost certain Lord Geoffrey and his father were telling bawdy jokes…”
Constance nodded.
“—although I suppose Aunt Roz probably put a stop to that when she went over there. But the Countess kept glaring at me, and the way Lady Laetitia was carrying on is frankly disgraceful.”
He smirked. “Jealous, Darling?”
“Frightfully,” I said dryly. “If you’re not careful, you’ll be betrothed by the end of the weekend, St George.”
He scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Darling. I made it clear back in May how I feel about the idea of marriage. You heard me.”
“I did,” I said. “And so did she. But instead of accepting your rejection, she seems to have merely withdrawn to devise a different—better—battle plan. And now she has regrouped, and has recruited her mother to help. And it looks as if they’ve roped in your father, too.”
Constance nodded, although she added, “It’s more likely that Laetitia told Aunt Euphemia what happened, and this was Aunt Effie’s idea. Although I don’t suppose it matters.”
“Not in the slightest,” I agreed, since Laetitia was clearly going along with it either way. “I think the best thing you could do for yourself is get in your motorcar and hightail it back to Sutherland Hall, St. George.”
