Page 17 of Evil at the Essex House
It took a few seconds, but then Crispin pried his jaws apart to do the right thing. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
He has lovely manners when he bothers to make use of them. Of course, he couldn’t make it sound like he meant it, but the sentiment was nicely appropriate.
There was a curve to Wolfgang’s lips that suggested that he was well aware of the effort it had taken Crispin to get the words out. Thankfully, he didn’t see the need to rub it in, which wouldn’t have gone over well. Instead, he simply nodded, as if the response had been his right and there was no need, nay, indeed any reason for him to reciprocate the compliment. I saw Crispin’s eyes turn flinty, but he refrained from letting his mouth run away with him. I could tell he wanted to—had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have bothered to restrain himself—but instead, he turned back to me. “May I offer you a lift, Darling?”
“You may offer,” I said dubiously, and he smirked.
“Let me rephrase. Hop in and I’ll take you home.”
“FreuleinDarling can make her own way home,” Wolfgang said stiffly, and Crispin shot him a look.
“Of course she can, old chap. Does it every day, doesn’t she?”
He turned his attention back to me. “But I’m here, and the motorcar is at your disposal, Darling, and so am I, of course; entirely at your disposal?—”
He blinked innocently as he turned back to Wolfgang, “—and it occurs to me that you probably don’t have a motorcar at the ready,Grafvon Natterdorff…”
My eyes narrowed. “You’re horrid, St George.”
He sniggered. “Of course, Darling. But after I made the drive all the way from Wiltshire to ensure you get back to Kit safely, would you really deprive me of the pleasure of your company?”
“Horrid,” I repeated. “You lie like a rug, St George. Like a flatfish. Like a cheap watch. You certainly did not drive here all the way from Wiltshire just to?—”
He raised his voice. “Darling.”
In fairness to him, he had to, because once I get going, it can be difficult to derail me.
“Yes?” I said.
“Get in the motorcar.”
I sighed. “Stop ordering me about, St George. You know it doesn’t work.”
He sighed back. “Yes, Darling. But you know what they say. Hope springs eternal.”
“Of course.” I turned back to Wolfgang, who was looking from one to the other of us with his brows lowered. “I’m sorry. But he’s right, I should let him drive me home. He’s here, and it makes sense to go with him rather than paying for a Hackney.”
“I would be happy to pay for the Hackney,” Wolfgang said.
“It’s not the money.” I could pay for my own Hackney. It’s not like I’m destitute. Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert keep Christopher and me in more-than-adequate pocket money. “But he’s here, and he’s offering, and I know that he knows where he’s going, and that I’ll be safe with him…”
A corner of Crispin’s mouth curved up. Wolfgang withdrew his attention from him to look at me. A second passed, then two. Then he nodded. “Of course.”
“I had a lovely time tonight. Thank you for inviting me.”
I extended my hand, a bit hesitantly. Crispin’s appearance may have destroyed all the goodwill that had developed over dinner, and if so, it would be hard to blame Wolfgang. St George is difficult to stomach under the best of circumstances, and these weren’t those. I could hardly hold it against Wolfgang if he never wanted to see me again, if only so it would ensure that he’d never have to deal with Crispin again.
The latter, of course, watched our exchange like a hawk. Wolfgang seemed to hesitate for a moment, too, before he took my hand in his and gazed deeply into my eyes. “Perhaps I may impose on you for supper again sometime?”
“I would be delighted,” I said, with a lot more feeling than Crispin had been able to manage. I could hear him snort behind me. Thankfully, it was soft enough that Wolfgang didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, it was soft enough that he could pretend to ignore it.
“I shall send another note,” he informed me.
“Please do.” I simpered.
He clicked his heels together and bowed over my hand. This time he raised it all the way to his lips, and let his mouth linger on my knuckles for a long moment before he brushed his thumb over the spot where they had been. It was a classic Crispin-move—I had seen him employ it before, and had seen young women titter and blush when he did it, too.
I tittered, and I probably blushed. Wolfgang smirked. “Let me assist you into the motorcar.”
