Page 30 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“Of course not, Pippa. But you have to admit he can be quite trying.”
I grimaced. “He shot his mouth off. You know how he is. But that’s no excuse, Christopher.”
“Of course it isn’t,” Christopher said. “What do you want me to do about it?”
It was an actual question, not the rhetorical kind that implied that I shouldn’t expect him to do anything at all, and I could have kissed him for it.
However— “I don’t think there’s anything you can do,” I admitted. “Crispin’s supposed to devote himself to Laetitia, and to making sure she knows that the bastard—direct quote from your uncle—isn’t his.”
Christopher rolled his eyes.
“See if you can get a look at his eyes, at least.”
“His eyes,” Christopher said blankly. “I’ll admit they’re pretty, Pippa, but you want me to stare deeply into Crispin’s eyes? Why?”
Constance let out a titter, and then flushed when we both glanced at her.
“I’d do it myself if I could,” I said. “And don’t look at me that way, you know what I mean. But Uncle Harold warned him away from having anything to do with me, or with Constance. Laetitia only.”
“Yes,” Christopher repeated, “but why?”
“Because if Uncle Harold kept knocking his head into the wall, he could be concussed. He said it hurt.”
Christopher pressed his lips together, but nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
We all three looked up as the front of the Hispano-Suiza, with the stork emblem and the name in ornate script across the grille, rolled slowly up the driveway towards us.
“We’d better move out of the way,” Christopher said. He grabbed me by the wrist and Constance, a bit more politely, by the elbow, and moved us aside as Wilkins slotted the H6 into place next to the Daimler.
“Thank you, Wilkins,” I told him as he exited the car and shut the door behind him.
“No problem, Miss Darling.” He tugged on the brim of his cap before disappearing into the carriage house with long strides.
I tucked my hand through Christopher’s arm. “Enough about St George. Did anything interesting happen in the village?”
Christopher offered Constance his other arm, and she put her hand on it, too.
“Not aside from what you might expect. She didn’t wake up on the drive. I held onto her as best I could. Wilkins carried her into the infirmary. He’s a strapping lad, isn’t he?”
He was, and no lad, either. Older than Francis by at least a year or two, and with the same broad shoulders and muscular arms, most likely honed on the Continent during the war. A decade older than Christopher, I’d say.
He was certainly attractive, if one happened to like the type. And Christopher might. Although Wilkins wasn’t the sort to appreciate Christopher’s charms, I thought.
The latter shook his head when I said so. “Certainly not. Nor was that why I brought it up. I had to haul her out to the car, you know, and for all that she’s small and skinny, it’s no easy task. But Wilkins scooped her up like she weighed nothing. He even got a little grunt out of her, and I think her eyes opened, but if she woke up, it was only for a second. Once he’d put her on the cot in the infirmary, she was out cold again.”
“Did Doctor White say anything interesting?”
Christopher shook his head. “Just that he’d take care of her, and let us know when there’s a change. He said we’ll probably hear from him tomorrow morning.”
I nodded. “Nothing to do but wait, then.”
“I suppose not.” He looked around, at the bushes and trees and the croquet lawn where Abigail had swooned earlier. “I wonder how she made it here from London.”
“I imagine she must have taken the train to Salisbury,” I said, “like we did, and either walked or hired a car from there. Perhaps begged a ride with someone part of the way. A young woman on foot carrying a baby might appeal to someone’s better instincts. And I don’t imagine she was flush, really.” Not judging by the out-of-date frock and the fact that she couldn’t have been eating well lately.
“Seems a long way to come without some sort of luggage. Or a bag with extra nappies for the baby, if nothing else.”
