Page 57 of Evil at the Essex House
“I’ll be back.” He gave Wolfgang another nod, less formal this time. “Have a nice time. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Wolfgang nodded solemnly, but I’m sure he had no idea what he had agreed to. Not only is Christopher not interested in girls in general, and so not inclined to misbehave around them, but he considers me to be the next thing to a sister, and wouldn’t do anything untoward in my presence whatsoever. It didn’t leave Wolfgang with very many options for flirtation.
Naturally I didn’t say so, just let him escort me into the dining room, where he deposited me tenderly in a chair. The waiter snagged the serviette from the table and flicked it open with a snap before draping it across my lap. He stood at attention while Wolfgang seated himself, and then put a leather-bound menu in front of each of us.
After we had made our selections and the waiter had withdrawn, Wolfgang gave me a soulful look across the table. “I’m happy you consented to have supper with me again.”
Why wouldn’t I? “I had a lovely time in your company last time. I’m happy to do it again.” I simpered.
“I thought perhaps your cousin…” He trailed off.
“Christopher?” Why would he think Christopher would mind my going to supper with a wealthy and titled suitor? Especially after he had delivered me straight into Wolfgang’s hands a minute ago?
“Your other cousin,” Wolfgang said, lowering his brows. “The annoying popinjay in the flashy car.”
Oh, him. “He’s not my cousin,” I said. “And while I agree that he’s annoying, he’s hardly a concern. He has no sway over what I do or don’t do.”
“He would like to have,” Wolfgang said.
“He’s just trying to prevent me from having any fun,” I answered. As if Crispin had any room to complain about what I do. With the shenanigans he gets up to, he’s in no position to lecture me on proper behavior, the cad.
“He wants you for himself,” Wolfgang said sullenly.
As if. “No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t like me any better than I like him. It’s always been that way.”
Wolfgang scowled. “Then why?—?”
“He’s Christopher’s cousin, and we did grow up together.” And he had had to take me away from a gentleman who had me crowded into the corner of a Chesterfield a few months ago. “It would be surprising if there wasn’t some level of protective instinct there.”
Wolfgang stuck out his bottom lip.
“He’s not something you need worry about,” I told him. “He’s harmless, and no threat whatsoever to... I mean…”
I stopped myself before I went any further, both with the babbling and the possibly rash statements. I had no real evidence that he was interested in me romantically, after all, and probably oughtn’t to assume. Yes, he had invited me to supper twice. That’s usually a good sign of a man’s interest in a young lady. But beyond that, he hadn’t made his feelings clear in any verbal or physical way. Everything between us had been quite prim and proper.
Wolfgang smiled, a bit like the cat with the saucer of cream. But before either of us could say any more, the waiter arrived with the bottle of wine Wolfgang had chosen—German and red—and he got busy sniffing the cork and swirling the wine around the glass to let it breathe. Once he had declared it acceptable and the waiter had withdrawn after filling both our glasses, the moment had passed.
“I hope you like a robust red,” Wolfgang said, fingers around the stem of the glass. “This is aSpätburgunderfrom Baden. The best Germany has to offer.”
He sounded proud, as if he had fermented the grapes personally. I smiled politely. “It’s lovely, thank you.”
I’m fonder of cocktails than I am of wine, but I wanted to upset him less than I wanted my drink of choice, so I kept my preferences to myself and sipped on theSpätburgunder. As wines go, it was quite tasty, so it could have been worse.
“What have you been up to in the past two days?” I asked next, on the assumption that most men like to talk about themselves.
Wolfgang seemed to be the exception. He said something vague about business interests and meetings, and then he turned the question around. “And you?”
I thought about it. The past few days had been taken up by very little except worry about Flossie Schlomsky and attempts to find out what had happened to her. It was difficult to imagine that Wolfgang wouldn’t be interested—kidnappings and ransom demands would excite most people, I imagine—but a crime had been committed, involving someone else’s family, and it wasn’t really my place to tell total strangers about it.
So I told him about Tom’s visit to Bristol instead, and how my late aunt’s lady’s maid had been found dead in an alley with her head bashed in. Wolfgang found that interesting too. As would I, honestly, if I hadn’t had other, nearer, things to worry about.
“How appalling,” he said, but with the ghoulish interest of any normal person.
I nodded. “Tom—our detective friend—said they thought it was a robbery gone bad. Her purse had been searched, it seemed.”
Wolfgang nodded. “That makes sense. Unless she was—how would one say it in polite company…?”
One wouldn’t, but I let him finish anyway, since I assumed I already knew what he was going to say.
