Page 28 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“Don’t you dare call me an idiot!” Crispin retorted angrily, and unlike his father, he took no particular care to keep his voice down. “I amnotstupid, I?—”
He stopped talking as something hit a wall nearby with athumpthat made the door vibrate. I jumped, and almost let go of it, and caught myself at the last moment, eyes wide. Had Uncle Harold shoved Crispin into the wall? Surely Crispin hadn’t pushed his father? Or perhaps he had simply taken his frustrations out with a swing of his fist into it?
“Then stop behaving like it,” Uncle Harold hissed. If anyone had been slammed into the wall, it didn’t sound like it had been him. “You’re damned lucky the Marsdens are still willing to consider you as a suitor for their daughter’s hand?—”
“I don’t want Laetitia’s hand!” Crispin said shrilly.
“You should have thought of that before you ruined her,” Uncle Harold snarled. “And furthermore?—”
“I didn’t ruin her,” Crispin retorted, “you imbecile. I didn’t even seduce her.Sheseducedme! And?—”
“That’s hardly something to brag about,” Uncle Harold told him, viciously, and there was anotherthumpas something else—or, at a guess, Crispin’s back—hit the wall. Again. “And don’t you call me an imbecile, you insolent brat?—!”
“Get your hands off me,” Crispin said breathlessly. I could hear scuffling beyond the door. “Let go, damn you. Bloody hell, that hurt!”
I winced. Into the silence that followed, I could hear small sounds, like the rustling of fabric—Crispin straightening his clothes, where his father had grabbed him?—and the shuffling of feet. One of them getting away from the other, presumably.
Then—
“I’ll hear no more about it,” Uncle Harold said. “Stay away from Miss Darling and leave your cousin’s fiancée alone. Spend your time with Lady Laetitia instead. And for God’s sake, try to convince her that the bastard isn’t yours. We can deal with?—”
“The bastard,” Crispin said, his voice just as vicious as Uncle Harold’s had been earlier, and ice cold, “is, in fact, not mine. I’m many things, Father, but I’m not a liar. When I have a child, it will be born in wedlock, to a woman who’s my lawfully wedded wife, and who I won’t have to worry is sneaking around behind my back to sleep with my?—”
But before I could find out whether he was going to say groom, or chauffeur, or perhaps cousin, there was yet anotherthumpof something hitting the wall, this one accompanied by a sharp exclamation of pain.
I jumped, and accidentally let go of the door. And because I had, I moved as quickly as I could in the other direction. Hopefully they had both been too preoccupied to notice that I’d been there—had Uncle Harold really knocked Crispin’s head into the wall three times? Hard enough for him to cry out?—but just in case they hadn’t, I wanted to make tracks before they could find me.
So I scurried through the door into the hallway and from there around the corner into the boot room, and out the door to the driveway.
Nothing had changed in the time I had been gone. Constance was still standing beside the Hispano-Suiza, looking from one side to the other. Christopher and the Crossley were nowhere to be seen. And while it felt like I had been inside a long time, I didn’t think it had been more than a minute or two, perhaps three. The row had been vicious and surprisingly violent, but short-lived.
Hopefully Crispin was all right, and Uncle Harold hadn’t done permanent damage to him.
I scurried across to Constance and grabbed her by the arm. “Come on.”
“What happened?” She stumbled over a tuft of grass as she struggled to keep up with my longer legs. I was still wearing brogues from traveling, while Constance was in delicate strap shoes with higher heels. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said, and let go of her arm once I determined we were far enough away from the house not to be overheard. “I’m not so sure about St George.”
Constance lowered her voice. “What did your uncle do to him?”
Uncle Harold wasn’t actually my uncle any more than Crispin was my cousin, but now was not the time to quibble. “Knocked him into the wall. More than once.”
Constance winced.
“The first time he seemed to be fine. It knocked the wind out of him and made him shut up, which I assume was the point. The second time he complained that it hurt. The third time he cried out.”
Constance sank her teeth into her bottom lip. “That’s not right.”
I shook my head. No, it wasn’t.
“Why did he do it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “The first time, Crispin got angry and told his father not to call him an idiot. The second time,hecalled Uncle Harold an imbecile?—”
“Understandable,” Constance said.
I nodded. Understandable that Crispin would be upset with his father after being knocked into the wall, but also understandable that Uncle Harold would object to the appellation. “That’s no excuse for manhandling someone, though. And the third time…” I shook my head. “I’m not even sure. They were talking about children. Or about Bess, specifically. Uncle Harold told Crispin that he had to convince Laetitia that Bess isn’t his, and Crispin said that sheisn’this, and that when he has a child, it’ll be in wedlock, with a woman who’s his wife and who isn’t running around on him with someone else…”
