Page 33 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“Done,” Christopher said. “Come on, Pippa. Let’s get this to Mum before the baby needs a change.”
He handed the bag to Constance, who looked dubious but took it.
“Coming,” I said, with a last look at Wilkins. “How much did he take you for, anyway?”
“Who?” Christopher glanced at him, too. “Oh, just a few shillings. Not much.”
He shook his head. “It must be terribly boring, just waiting around for my uncle to require the car again. Especially when we all know that he won’t need it until it’s time to go back to Sutherland on Sunday. What is Wilkins supposed to do with all this time?”
“I imagine he’ll retire to his room in the village once dinner starts. Uncle Harold isn’t likely to need him after that.”
“Uncle Harold isn’t likely to need him at all,” Christopher said, and moved aside the branches between me and the croquet lawn. “Go ahead, Pippa. Constance.”
“Thank you, Christopher.”
“Anyway,” Christopher added, “I imagine Wilkins will retire to the pub but not to his room, if I’m any connoisseur.”
“Connoisseur of what, exactly?”
“Men,” Christopher said, with a final look over his shoulder at Wilkins before he ducked through the branches after us. “It’s a pity.”
“What’s a pity?”
He grinned. “That he doesn’t incline my way. Good-looking bloke.”
“It’s just as well that he doesn’t,” I told him. “Running after the staff is just about the lowest of low tastes.”
Constance nodded fervently.
“It’s one of the few things I’ve always appreciated about St George,” I added. “At least he stays away from the servants.”
“Faint praise, Darling,” a voice drawled, close enough that I jumped.
It was St George himself, of course, tucked away in the shade of the stairs, below the terrasse, doing what Wilkins was doing: smoking a cigarette. I don’t know how he so often manages to be in a spot to overhear me when I wish he wouldn’t.
Unlike Wilkins, he had company. Lady Laetitia was enjoying her own fag through the length of a lovely ivory cigarette holder. She eyed me down the length of it, like I were some lowly caterpillar that had crawled out from the trees and onto the lawn, and had the temerity to speak in her presence.
I ignored her. “St George,” I said instead, pleasantly. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Clearly.” He turned his head to blow the smoke the other way instead of straight into my face. “Who would you be running after, Darling, if he were inclined that way?”
“Oh,” I began, since he’d clearly misunderstood that part of the conversation. But before I could continue, Christopher got in before me.
“We were talking about Wilkins.” He gave Crispin a smirk that could equal one of his cousin’s own.
“Is that so?” Crispin’s eyebrow rose. “I didn’t realize you had such low tastes, Darling.”
Laetitia tittered. Constance opened her mouth, perhaps to explain the misunderstanding—it would have been nice after Christopher essentially threw me to the wolves—but before she could say anything, the latter had put out a hand and stayed her.
Crispin watched the byplay, but didn’t comment. “What’s that you’ve got?” he asked instead, eyes on the tote over Constance’s arm. “You didn’t have that earlier.”
She lifted it, but this time I got in first. “Abigail Dole’s things. We thought Aunt Roz might need fresh napkins for the baby.”
He flicked me a glance. “And where did you find Abigail Dole’s things?”
“Under the lilac bush,” I said. “She must have dropped the bag before she staggered onto the lawn earlier.”
Crispin nodded. “So to return to Wilkins…”
