Page 29 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
I shook my head. “I can’t imagine what there might be about that, that would be objectionable to anyone, especially to Crispin’s father. Of everyone, he should be most invested in Crispin having a legitimate heir.”
Constance nodded.
“It was probably just his tone. I frequently feel inspired to violence when St George opens his mouth, too.” Especially when it’s accompanied by a sneer, which it so often is.
“But you don’t do anything about it,” Constance said.
No, I don’t. I might feel like it would be a nice thing to smack the pratty expression off Crispin’s face, but I don’t actually hit him. We’re civilized people, after all, and besides, I’m not entirely certain he wouldn’t hit back. He’s done it before, after all. And yes, he has been told that it’s wrong to hit girls, but when the girl hits first, he can hardly be blamed for retaliating in kind.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” I said, although between you, me, and Constance, I wasn’t as certain as I would have liked to have been. Although I couldn’t very well ask him about it, not without owning up to having eavesdropped on the conversation, so there was very little I could do about the whole thing.
“I hear a motor,” Constance said.
I dragged my thoughts out of the quagmire they were circling and paid attention. And heard it, too. “This must be them.”
We both turned our attention to the road, in time to see the front of Uncle Harold’s Crossley come around the hedge and proceed majestically up the driveway towards us. We stepped out of the way and watched as Wilkins… no, asChristopherpulled the motorcar to a stop between the Bentley and the Marsdens’ Daimler. Wilkins was in the passenger seat, chauffeur cap pulled low over his face as if he were trying to avoid being recognized.
I turned a chuckle into clearing my throat. “Wilkins, if you don’t mind…”
He slanted a look my way.
“Do you suppose you could go and move Lord St George’s H6 away from the door? I offered to do it earlier, and he told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was to go nowhere near his precious. But I assume he can’t object toyoudoing it.”
Wilkins nodded. “Right away, Miss Darling.”
He walked away. The early evening sun reflected in the polished, knee-high boots that went with his spiffy uniform, and burnished the sandy hair peeking out from below the peaked chauffeur’s cap.
I waited until he had vanished from sight before I grinned at Christopher. “Talked him into letting you drive the motorcar home, did you? Or did you have to resort to bribery or blackmail to be allowed?”
“Do you know something blackmail-worthy about Wilkins?” Christopher wanted to know, but continued before I could answer. “It took bribery. Although that’s an ugly interpretation of an exchange of coins for favors. Naturally he was concerned about what Uncle Harold might say.”
“Of course he was.” I rolled my eyes. “Uncle Harold is in a foul mood, actually, so it’s just as well that he didn’t see you. But I might know something blackmailable about Wilkins.”
Christopher perked up. “What’s that? And why do you say you might, and not that you do?”
“It was over that horrible weekend back in April. Tom told me that Wilkins has—or had back then—a habit of taking the Crossley to Southampton to visit family.”
“Not sure that’s much of a blackmailable offense,” Christopher said, disappointed. “Grandfather might have known all about it, and so might Uncle Harold.”
“That’s why I said that I might know something, and not that I do for certain. Wilkins might have had your grandfather’s permission. He seemed to treat the staff better than he did his own family, at least judging by Grimsby. Although I doubt Uncle Harold would put up with the chauffeur taking off on personal errands whenever he felt like it.”
I had never had a high opinion of the old Duke’s personality—stingy, hard-necked old man that he was—but over the past few months, I had developed an even lower one of his successor.
And Christopher could tell by the sound of my voice that something had happened, I assume, because he asked, “What’s he done now?” in a resigned sort of tone.
“How do you know that he’s done something?”
“I know you,” Christopher said, which was certainly true. “You only get this way when someone does something you deem unfair or unjust.”
“Well, your uncle abused your cousin again.”
Christopher’s brows lowered. “How do you know that?”
“Followed them inside and eavesdropped,” I said. “Uncle Harold kept grabbing St George and knocking him into the wall. Or at least that’s what it sounded like from where I was standing.”
“What did Crispin do to deserve it?”
I gave him a look. “Do you think anyone deserves being knocked about by their father?”
