Page 83 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
I eyed it. “What’s the matter, St George? Won’t Laetitia let you smoke in public anymore, so you have to hide to get your fix?”
“Of course not, Darling.” He dropped what was left of the fag to the dirt and ground it under his shoe. After blowing out the last mouthful of smoke, he added, “Laetitia smokes quite as much as I do. She doesn’t mind.”
“Why are you over here skulking, then?”
“Needed some fresh air,” Crispin said, which was ridiculous, considering that he’d been sucking in lungfuls of smoke.
I sniggered. “Fed up with the adoration, are you?”
He gave me a look. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Darling.”
“No, I’m sure you don’t.” I leaned against the opposite car, which happened to be Constance’s burgundy Crossley, and folded my arms across my chest. “You don’t have to put up with it, you know.”
“Unbridled devotion is hardly a burden, Darling.”
“No? The constant cooing isn’t a bit much?” He didn’t react, and I added, “I could understand if you were in love with her, but we both know you’re not.”
I waited another moment, but when he didn’t say anything, I continued, “What happened to the girl you said you were in love with? Have you given up on that?”
“She doesn’t want me,” Crispin said sulkily, without meeting my eyes.
“How do you know?” I nudged the toe of his shoe with mine to get him to look at me. He did, but only for a second. “Have you told her? And not just in your usual nonchalant fashion? You know, sincerely, with some actual feelings behind it?”
“No.” He moved his foot out of the way of mine, and addressed the ground between his feet rather than me. “I told you. I have nothing to offer. Father would never approve, so we would have to run away and live in squalor on the Continent, because I’d have to renounce the title and estates and become a pauper.”
I giggled. “At least you’re able to properly articulate ‘renounce’ this time. Last time you mangled it.”
Last time had been a month ago, when he’d showed up at my and Christopher’s flat and tried to talk me into going out to celebrate his birthday with him. He had used almost exactly the same words then.
He scowled. “It’s not funny, Darling.”
“Of course it is. If that’s how you propose to all your women—” Three sheets to the wind and with the delivery (and sincerity) of a musical comedy actor?—
“It’s not.”
“—it’s no wonder they don’t take you seriously.”
He glared at me. “I didn’t intend for you to take me seriously. Although I suppose you’d insist that I get down on one knee, wouldn’t you? The heir to the Sutherlands, tractable and obedient and kneeling at your feet, offering up the Sutherland parure in the hopes that you’d have me? Is that the kind of husband you’re looking for, Darling?”
“Not at all,” I said with a shudder. “The Sutherland parure is hideous, and certainly no incentive to marriage. Besides, I gave you my answer last month, St George. Don’t you dare.”
I could just imagine the scene that would ensue if Laetitia, or Sammy Entwistle, or—God forbid—Uncle Harold came outside and found him down on one knee in front of me, mock-proposing.
He nodded blandly. “I remember, Darling. ‘Keep the title and fortune,’ wasn’t it? Followed by, ‘I don’t want them—or you?’”
It was. Or had been. That was pretty much word for word what I’d told him, as a matter of fact. Although I was surprised that he remembered it so clearly, because he had been thoroughly potted at the time. “If she loves you,” I said carefully, “she’ll live in squalor on the Continent with you.”
“I don’t want her to!” Crispin retorted angrily. “Besides, I told you. You just?—”
—don’t listen, I assumed. He stopped before he could finish the sentence, and said instead, more calmly, “She doesn’t want me.”
“Crispin…”
He looked up, and for a second his eyes were the clear gray of water, open and completely transparent, and so sad that my chest clutched.
Until the shutters slammed down and the corner of his mouth curved up. It took only a moment. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Darling. I don’t want your pity, and I certainly have no reason to whinge. I can marry Laetitia next week if I want to, and if it isn’t love, it’s close enough.”
No, it wasn’t. “Just because your father thinks it’s time you settle down and stop running wild?—”
