Page 16 of Evil at the Essex House
“It’s no trouble?—”
But that was as far as he got before a motorcar swept up behind me, close enough that I could almost feel its front fender brush the backs of my legs.
Or if not that, I could at least feel the passage of air as the fender passed within three inches or so of my calves.
I squealed and jumped, and Wolfgang pulled me towards him with a guttural growl, no doubt a German curse I hadn’t had the pleasure of hearing before I left Heidelberg.
His hands were hard on my arms, and I could feel his breath flutter the hair at the top of my head. His heart beat strongly inside the chest I was leaning on.
It took me a moment to gather myself enough to pull away. And when I swung on my heel, it came as no surprise to see the blue Hispano-Suiza idling behind me in the Savoy’s drop-off and pick-up lane, and to see Crispin Astley smirking at me from behind the wheel. “Hello, Darling.”
Wolfgang’s eyes narrowed into slits, and so did mine. “What’s the big idea, St George? You normally manage to refrain from out and out attempting to murder me.”
The smirk turned into something more like a sneer. “Let’s not exaggerate, Darling. If I wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t have missed.”
“Says you,” I retorted. “Perhaps I simply got out of the way faster than you had anticipated, and you weren’t quick enough to hit me.”
He inclined his head politely, or it might have looked like politesse to someone who didn’t know him the way I did. “Yes, Darling, that must be it. Because if I wanted to kill you, I’d certainly do it in front of the Savoy, in full view of at least a hundred people who know exactly who I am.”
He had a point. Wolfgang was staring, of course, but so was everyone else. And if there weren’t a hundred of them, there were a lot. Crispin and his motorcar are well known all over London. I’m sure the doormen at the Savoy knew him—and it—by sight.
“What are you doing here anyway?” I wanted to know. “Did you slip your leash and run away from home?”
It wasn’t even a weekend, although perhaps that had made it easier to escape.
“Father had business out of the house this evening,” Crispin answered, civilly enough, “so I thought I’d take the opportunity to run up to Town for some entertainment.”
“It’s rather a long drive just for an evening’s debauchery, isn’t it? Won’t you have to be back in your own bed by the time your father gets up tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll manage,” Crispin said. “It won’t be the first time I’ve stayed up all day and night and the following day, too.”
“I’m sure it won’t be. Don’t let me keep you.”
I flapped my hand at him. He smirked. “You’re not keeping me, Darling. As always, I’m exulting in your company. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“I’m sure you already know all about him,” I said sourly. Christopher would have told him everything he needed to know on the phone last night, no doubt. Or on the phone this morning, perhaps, if he had rung up again, which I rather thought he must have done, for Crispin to be here now. Or perhaps they had discussed it in person when Crispin arrived in London, if they had seen each other at the flat before Crispin made his way here.
I glanced around, discreetly. There was no sign of Christopher anywhere. That probably meant that if Wolfgang really had seen one of them earlier—and he probably had—it had probably been Crispin. He wouldn’t be the first person to get the two of them mixed up on short acquaintance.
Crispin’s smirk widened. “Indubitably, Darling. But if you’d prefer that I do the honors myself…”
“No,” I said. Definitely not. Best not to let Crispin do anything whatsoever himself. He can’t be trusted. There was no knowing what he’d say if I gave him free rein.
I turned back to theGraf. “Wolfgang, this is Crispin Astley, the Right Honorable Viscount St George. Christopher’s cousin. Crispin, theGraf von und zuNatterdorff.”
Wolfgang smacked his heels together with a noticeable click and inclined from the waist. “Mein Herr.”
This time it was Crispin’s eyes which narrowed. “Grafvon Natterdorff”
A quick primer for those of you who don’t know the intricacies: aGraf, as Christopher had pointed out yesterday, is the equivalent of a count. There are no counts in the British noble ranks. There are, however, countesses. Lady Laetitia Marsden’s parents, Lord Maurice and Lady Euphemia, are the Earl and Countess of Marsden. Thus, Wolfgang was the equivalent of an earl. And an earl ranks above a viscount in the hierarchy.
Now, once Uncle Harold kicked the bucket and Crispin became Duke of Sutherland, then he’d rank above the earls and marquesses. Dukes are at the top of the social ladder, only just below royalty. But for now, Crispin was a step below Wolfgang on the nobility scale, and I could see it grate. Especially since Wolfgang had addressed him as if he were an inferior, something the Viscount St George is definitely not used to. His jaw clenched and fury flashed in his eyes.
I’m sure it didn’t help, either, that Wolfgang was taller, and older, and—it had to be said—better-looking. Or more classically handsome, at any rate.
Not that Crispin is ugly. Not at all, in fact. He quite lovely to look at. So is Christopher. They both have heart-shaped faces with big eyes and long lashes and cupid’s bow lips and high cheekbones and slightly pointy chins: a bit elfin, if you want to be fanciful. But at twenty-three—and a fairly new-minted twenty-three in Crispin’s case; his birthday had been just two months ago—they both look boyishly charming, soft and a bit pretty, while Wolfgang was a man.
An exceptionally handsome man. Of higher rank than a viscount. And with that dashing scar on his cheek.
