Page 9 of Evil at the Essex House
“I didn’t get the impression that her parents or Uncle Harold would mind if they did,” Christopher said dryly. “At any rate, the solitude at the Hall is chafing at him. You know how he gets.”
I did. The Viscount St George enjoys excitement. When he’s kept from it, he wilts, the poor, delicate flower. “But nothing’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “Nothing aside from his being bored and alone. I’m more interested in Flossie Schlomsky right now. What on earth was in that telegram, Pippa?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “I tried to get a look at it, but between reading upside down and the flimsiness of the paper—” not to mention Flossie’s hand shaking, “—all I caught was the first word.Surprise. She turned as white as a sheet, though, so I don’t imagine it could have been good news.”
“It didn’t look like it,” Christopher agreed, and took another sip of his Gin Rickey. “She swept through the lobby just as I was on my way back inside. I held the door for her, and she barely took the time to say thank you—no smile, no, ‘Hello, Mr. Astley?—’”
He delivered the last three words in Florence’s saucy alto, “—before she was out the door and on her way up the pavement.”
“She must have run out almost as soon as she shut the door in my face,” I said.
He arched his brows. “Did she really?”
I nodded. “I didn’t say anything about it, because I could see that she was shaken, but it was quite rude. Even for her.”
There was a moment’s pause while we both sipped our drinks. Then?—
“I hope she’s all right,” Christopher said.
It was my turn to snigger. “Why, Christopher. I didn’t know you cared.”
He sent me a dark look. “I don’t, Pippa. But I don’t wish ill on anyone.”
“I do,” I said. “Quite a few people, as a matter of fact.”
“Name one.”
“Uncle Harold,” I said. Christopher arched his brows, and I continued, “I don’t like the way he treats Crispin. He’s a bully, and he needs to keep his hands to himself. I was sincerely concerned that he had given Crispin a concussion last month at Beckwith Place.”
Christopher grimaced, but didn’t protest.
“And Laetitia Marsden, as well. Flossie is an irritant, and I would hate to have to look at her across the Christmas goose for the next forty years, but there is no chance that he’ll want to marry her, and I don’t think I’ll have to worry about him being forced into it against his will, either. Lady Laetitia, on the other hand…”
Christopher nodded. “She definitely has designs on Crispin, as well as Uncle Harold’s blessing to get him to propose by any means necessary. And she would kill you as soon as look at you if you got in her way, so you’d better be careful if that’s your plan.”
I rolled my eyes. “If he’s willing to let himself be pushed into proposing to a woman he doesn’t love simply because he lacks the backbone to say no, that’s his problem. I’m just listing off people I would enjoy seeing with a painful and embarrassing rash.”
“And you would like to see Laetitia with one of those?”
“I would be delighted,” I said. “Flossie, on the other hand… Well, I don’t suppose a rash would hurt her, either. But I wouldn’t rejoice in it, I don’t think. And as for anything worse… Well, I hope you’re right, and nothing terrible is wrong.”
Christopher nodded and raised his glass. “To Flossie.”
I raised mine, too. “If you insist.”
ChapterThree
“You really haveno idea what the telegram was about?”
I shook my head and put the glass on the table. “None. As I told you, all I saw was the first word. And that didn’t appear like bad news, but she certainly behaved as if it was.”
“Well, it’s too late now to follow her,” Christopher said. “She’s long gone.”
I nodded. “None of our concern, either, really. Unless she asks for help, anyway.”
“Of course. But it’s interesting. It’s been an interesting day all around.”
