Page 19 of Evil at the Essex House
“He didn’t. I was coming up to London anyway.”
“That’s not what you said earlier.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps I told a small fib.”
“Of course you did.” I made a face. “Let me guess. The lovely Lady Laetitia Marsden is in Town from Dorset?”
His mouth curved. “She might be.”
“Well, thanks for nothing, then, St George. You cad.” I stuck my bottom lip out.
He sniggered. “Dear me, Darling. Did you want me to drive here from Wiltshire for you?”
“I didn’t want you to drive here from Wiltshire for Laetitia Marsden,” I said. “You know my feelings on the subject, St George. You’ll regret it if you marry her. You might have fun with her?—”
As she had told him once, on one of the occasions I had overheard her try to talk him into accepting her; the words still made my face pucker when I repeated them, if I’m honest, “—but you don’t love her, and all the fun in the world isn’t going to make you happy in the long run. If fun is what you want?—”
Because it wasn’t as if I didn’t know what she meant by that reference, was it? “—you can have it without being married. You’ve had plenty of fun so far, and entirely without a wife. There’s no reason why you can’t simply continue to do what you’re already doing.”
“There’s my father,” Crispin said.
“Blast your father. If he’d rather have you married and miserable, he doesn’t deserve your consideration. Damn him.”
He didn’t answer, and we drove the rest of the way to the Essex House Mansions—just a few blocks by then—in silence. Crispin pulled the motorcar up in front of the front door. “Here we are.”
“Indeed.”
I waited for him to turn off the engine and come around the car to open the door for me, but when he didn’t, I added, “I suppose she’s waiting for you? You don’t want to come up and see Christopher?”
“I’ve already seen Kit,” Crispin said, “and had my weekly dose of Miss Schlomsky, too.”
So hehadstopped by and talked to Christopher before he went to the Savoy.
“I don’t see any lipstick stains on your collar,” I remarked, with a searching glance.
“She seemed distracted,” Crispin answered. His eyes twinkled, as if he found my examination amusing. “She took the time to back me into a corner of the lift to have her way with me, certainly, but her heart didn’t seem to be in it.”
“That must have been disappointing for you.”
“Indeed.” He smirked. “My goal in coming here is always to provoke some young lady to passion.”
“If that remark is intended for me—” I subsided when his smirk broadened.
“Oh, indubitably, Darling. You turn so gloriously incandescent when you want to murder me. Such a thrill.”
“Hmph,” I said. “I don’t suppose she said anything to you, did she?”
“What do you mean, ‘anything’? She said,” and here his voice climbed into the range of Flossie’s strident alto, “‘Oh, Lord St George, aren’t you just the cutest thing?—’”
And then it dropped back down to his regular smooth tenor before he added, “But other than that, no, Darling. She didn’t.”
I flicked a glance over his black jacket, white waistcoat, and perfectly knotted bowtie. Cute? “That’s rather uninspired.”
“It’s Florence Schlomsky,” Crispin said. “Of course it was uninspired.”
Of course. “I’m sure Laetitia will do a better job of complimenting you when you see her.”
He flicked me a look. “You could do a better job of it too, you know.”
