Page 34 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“Let us not return to Wilkins, St George. Wilkins is none of our affair. Although, since we’re on the subject of Wilkins and of returning, I had him move the H6 back in front of the carriage house for you. You’re welcome.”
He squinted at me. “Did you talk him into letting you drive?”
Christopher sniggered. I said, “No, St George. I said I wouldn’t, and I didn’t. Your precious is safe from my clutches. How’s your head?”
“My head?” He sounded sincerely confused, which was nice—if something had been wrong with it, surely he would have said so.
On the other hand, it was surprising that he didn’t catch on to the reason I was asking. He’s usually quicker than that, so maybe something was wrong after all. “What are you implying, Darling?”
“Nothing whatsoever,” I said. “Carry on. We’ll take the bag to Aunt Roz.”
He nodded, looking past me out to the lawn. “Croquet in the morning, I assume?”
“First thing after breakfast.” Beckwith Place has an actual, honest-to-goodness, dedicated croquet lawn, which should tell you how much we all enjoy playing. Or enjoy beating one another, at any rate. As far as I could recall, Crispin had beaten me the last time we’d played each other, and I was eager for my revenge. “Make sure you’re rested, St George.”
“Of course, Darling.” He glanced at Christopher. “You’ll be at supper, won’t you?”
Christopher nodded. “Pippa’s just getting ahead of herself. Looking forward to rubbing your nose in your defeat, no doubt.”
“Unquestionably,” Crispin agreed. “As I recall, I beat you last time, Darling.”
“I know you did,” I said. “I’m looking forward to returning the favor.” I turned to his companion. “Do you play, Lady Laetitia?”
She looked at me as if I had uttered an obscenity. “Lawn croquet at dawn?”
I smirked. Not, then. “We’ll see you at supper, St George. In the meantime, don’t do anything Christopher wouldn’t do.”
“You’re awful, Darling,” Crispin said. “You realize that that leaves me at loose ends?”
“You could help Aunt Roz with the baby. Get some practice in for the future.”
He paled. “I’m not certain I like what you’re implying, Darling.”
I was quite certain he didn’t. Whether that implication was that he’d be responsible for little Bess soon, or that he’d be expected to provide Laetitia with a son and heir shortly.
She didn’t like it, either. She gave me a narrow look, and then gave him one. “Crispin? Didn’t you tell me…?”
“I did, Laetitia.” He flicked her a glance. “Darling’s just having some fun.”
I smirked. “Whatever you say, St George. See you at supper.”
I flounced away, up the stairs to the terrasse with Christopher and Constance trailing in my wake. Constance was wide-eyed and silent, Christopher sputtered like a tea kettle in his effort not to laugh out loud.
“You’re evil, Pippa,” he told me when we were far enough away that Crispin and Laetitia wouldn’t hear him. “You know as well as I do that he’s supposed to convince Laetitia the baby isn’t his.”
Of course I knew. However— “That’s his problem. Mine is to keep her from becoming part of the family.”
Constance nodded fervently.
“If Uncle Harold is determined to make it happen,” I added, “and Crispin won’t stand up for himself, someone has to ensure it doesn’t come off.”
By now, we were inside the house, making our way down the hallway past the kitchen, with no one to hear my outburst except Hughes, who was clattering about with the remains of tea.
I slowed to a stop. “Good evening, Hughes. What’s going on with Miss Morrison, if you don’t mind my asking?”
She straightened, face blank. “Miss Morrison, Miss Darling?”
“I heard you ask Lady Marsden about her earlier,” I said. “Lydia Morrison, Lady Peckham’s maid.”
