Page 37 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
Uncle Harold harrumphed, but let her read through to the end before he said, “St George’s eyes are gray. And his motorcar is blue.”
Aunt Roz nodded. “My boys both have blue eyes. But I imagine gray might look a lot like blue in the dark. And—forgive me, Harold—Crispin would have had access to his grandfather’s motorcar.”
“The Ballot was black,” I added. Uncle Harold gave me a look of concentrated dislike, but he didn’t say anything.
Uncle Herbert cleared his throat. “Do we have any idea when…?”
“There’s an embroidered blanket in there,” I said, indicating the bag; Aunt Roz dove in, “with a name and a date on it. If it’s accurate—and I don’t see any reason why it wouldn’t be—Elizabeth Anne was born in January of this year.”
“That would put their meeting sometime in April of last year,” Aunt Roz said, peering at the blanket, “if the baby was born at term. This is lovely.”
She stroked the soft blanket and embroidery.
“I’ve been to the Hammersmith Palais de Danse,” Christopher said, “although I didn’t go anywhere near this girl. But I don’t suppose my word is good enough for anyone.”
“It’s good enough for us, Christopher,” Aunt Roz said, with a glance at Uncle Herbert. “We know you’d never…”
Uncle Harold harrumphed. “But I suppose you’ll say that Crispin?—”
“Your son does have a habit of tom-catting around, Harold,” Aunt Roz said apologetically. Uncle Herbert winced. “You heard what Euphemia said…”
I hadn’t heard what Laetitia’s mother had said, but I could guess. “He isn’t the aggressor in that relationship,” I said. “She seduced him, not the other way around.”
All three of them looked at me. Four, including Christopher. Uncle Harold’s gaze was particularly piercing, and I fought back a wince. It occurred to me, a moment too late, that I had just paraphrased what Crispin himself had told his father earlier.
Now Uncle Harold probably suspected that I had listened in on their argument.
“Sorry,” I added. For form, not because I actually felt sorry. “But I watched them together for a full weekend at the Dower House in May, you know, and she’s relentless. Ruthless, too. At one point she smacked him across the face with her fan because he wasn’t quick enough to cross the room to her.”
There was a moment’s silence. “Might be just what he needs,” Uncle Harold muttered. “A wife who will keep him in his place.”
My eyes narrowed, and so did Aunt Roz’s. Uncle Herbert’s jaw tightened. “With all due respect, Harold?—”
“The boy is out of control,” Uncle Harold said. “Someone has to rein him in. If Laetitia Marsden can do it, more power to her.”
He put his glass on the table with a sharp click, got to his feet, and stalked towards the door.
“He’s not a boy,” I told his back. “He’s a grown man. You can’t make his decisions for him.”
He swung around in the doorway to glare at me. “If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll do as he’s told. And so will you, Miss Darling.”
He vanished from sight, and we could hear his footsteps slap against the wood on his way across the sitting room and foyer and up the stairs.
Christopher didn’t breathe out until there was silence in the room, punctuated by the slamming of a door from upstairs. Bess made an inquiring sort of sound from the floor. “That went well,” Christopher said sarcastically.
“Did you expect it to?” Aunt Roz turned to me. “What on earth was that about, Pippa?”
“I overheard him talking to Crispin earlier,” I said. “I’m fairly certain he knocked him into the wall a couple of times. Crispin sounded like it hurt.”
Uncle Herbert winced again. He’s never been the kind of father who disciplined his children with corporeal punishment. “Is he all right?”
“I asked him about his head outside, and he made it sound as if nothing was wrong, so I assume so. I’m still not happy about it.”
“And about Lady Laetitia…”
“Harold and Pippa are both right,” Aunt Roz said. “Crispin is grown and should be allowed to make his own decisions. But heisrunning wild, and it’s understandable that Harold would support anything that would force Crispin to calm down.”
“Not anything,” I answered, a bit ungrammatically. “St George would settle down if his father allowed him to marry who he wants to marry. Until Uncle Harold does, I think he’s fighting a losing battle.”
