Page 41 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“Drunk out of his mind,” Christopher panted, stepping through the doorway first and dragging his brother in behind him, “but not hurt otherwise. He must have refrained from picking a fight at the pub, at any rate.”
“Does he often pick fights in pubs?” Constance managed, staggering through the doorway behind them.
Christopher shot her a glance over Francis’s bowed head. “It’s been known to happen. Not much lately.”
“More when the war had just ended and he was trying to adjust to civilian life,” I added, as I slipped past Crispin and into the house behind them. “Thank you, St George.”
“Don’t mention it, Darling.”
He shut the door behind the rest of us and followed me down the hallway as Christopher and Constance navigated Francis through the door into the library. “Someone should fetch a bucket,” he added dispassionately from behind me.
I eyed him over my shoulder. “Do you think he’ll need it?”
He gave me a look. “Better safe than sorry, I’d say.”
True. “I’ll check the kitchen.” I moved down the hallway while the others passed through the door into the library.
By the time I came back with one of Cook’s enameled buckets, Francis had been lowered onto one of the library sofas, and was resting with his head on an embroidered pillow. His eyes were closed and his breathing slow and even.
“I’ll stay with him,” Constance said, and sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs with her hands folded in her lap, quite as if she planned to spend the rest of the night there.
“At least go get yourself a blanket,” I told her. “And change into something comfortable. If you’re going to spend the night in a chair, you don’t have to do it in a beaded gown.”
“Someone ought to tell Mum and Dad, too,” Christopher added. He was standing next to the sofa with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on Francis. “I’m sure Mum’s worried. She’s got other things on her mind, but she’ll want to know that Francis is all right.”
“You go ahead,” I told him. “Constance, you go on upstairs and get ready. Bring a blanket for Francis, too. I’ll stay with him until you get back. And then we’ll all leave the two of you alone.”
Constance nodded, and headed out, followed by Christopher. I perched on the chair and told Crispin, “Take a look at him, St George, if you don’t mind.”
He arched a brow, but squatted next to the sofa, the better to peer at Francis’s face. “What am I looking for?”
“Anything to indicate that he isn’t all right.”
He shot me a quick look over his shoulder. “No, Darling. He’s perfectly fine. Marinated to the gills, but otherwise in tip-top shape.”
“No sign of anything else?” Anything other than alcohol, I meant. Veronal, opium, cocaine… all the other things that Francis had been known to indulge in to keep the darkness at bay.
Crispin shook his head. “Not that I can see.”
“His brat, is it?” Geoffrey asked genially, while Crispin rose to his feet.
I fixed him with a stare. Lord Geoffrey, I mean. Crispin had actually been helpful, so there was no point in glaring at him. “If you had been paying attention, you’d know that we don’t know whose baby it is. At this point, it could be anybody’s.”
“Anybody in the family,” Geoffrey clarified.
“Obviously. Unless you’d like to confess. She has blue eyes. So do you.”
He sniggered. “Not it.”
No, that would be too easy. I’d positively adore it if Handsy Geoffrey were to blame for Abigail’s predicament, but blue eyes aside, that fair Sutherland hair was hard to dismiss.
“Crispin…” Laetitia whined and reached out. I rolled my eyes, but he moved obediently in her direction and allowed himself to be gathered in. When she had a tight grip on his arm, she turned to me. By now, her voice was crisp and cool. “What do you think, Miss Darling?”
I thought she was a horrible cow who ought to be taken outside and… well, no. Not shot. But I thought she was a horrible cow. That was not, however, likely to be what she meant.
“I think we don’t know enough to make a determination. After all, anyone can say they’re the grandson of the Duke of Sutherland, can’t they?”
“Is that what happened?” Geoffrey asked. He looked like he was thinking deeply. I hoped I wasn’t giving him ideas.
