“I’m not worth enough,” I said. “Nor am I a Sutherland. I’m sure she’s planning to have Gilbert woo Lady Laetitia Marsden this weekend.”
“That should be interesting. Isn’t she an old flame of Crispin’s?”
He glanced over at his cousin, who was contemplating his own plate with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm. He was seated on the other side of the table and down a bit; far enough away, and distracted enough, that I didn’t think we had to worry about him overhearing what we were saying.
“She was on the list of women Grimsby compiled,” I nodded. “And he mention her to me once.”
“She might be reluctant to let him go.”
“I suspect he’s already let her go,” I told him, “not that I think it was serious to begin with. He doesn’t appear to hang on to any of them for long. Given the number of women he’s amused himself with in the past few years, I doubt she was under any illusions about keeping him.”
“Still.” Christopher contemplated his cousin silently for a moment. “If she sees someone else go after him, she might decide to keep her own hand in.”
I suppose she might. “Your mother used the words ‘pitched battle.’ I suppose it could turn out to be amusing.”
“As long as they attack each other and not him,” Christopher said.
“I wouldn’t mind if they attacked him. If anyone needs to have some sense smacked into him, it’s St George.”
He heard that, at any rate, because his eyes lifted from the plate and turned our way. They were bloodshot, like he hadn’t got much sleep last night, but the sneer was as beautifully executed as always. “Plotting, Darling?”
“Not me,” I said. “I’m just looking forward to seeing which of your many girlfriends goes for your throat first.”
Christopher smothered a chuckle. Crispin looked at him for a moment before he turned back to me. “You really should endeavor to curb these violent tendencies, Darling.”
“And you should eat some of your food. You’ll need your strength if you plan to keep juggling several women this weekend.”
He glanced down at the plate. And back up at me. And then he picked up a halved, cooked mushroom—with his fingers—and popped it in his mouth. And chewed it, slowly and thoroughly, while very deliberately keeping his eyes on mine.
“St George!” Uncle Harold barked, shocked, and Crispin swallowed, a pink flush on his cheekbones.
“Sorry, Father.”
It was my turn to smother a laugh, which netted me a fuming look. “Just wait, Darling. One of these days…”
“I’ll look forward to it, St George,” I told him, and went back to moving the remains of my own breakfast around my plate, but not before I had shared an amused look with Christopher.
After the meal,we all gathered in the courtyard for the drive to the Dower House. Crispin had the Hispano-Suiza pulled out, of course, and was planning to make the drive himself, while Gilbert Peckham was negotiating with his mother how they’d handle their own motorcar, and the chauffeur who had come with it.
“If St George takes the two Astleys and Miss Darling with him, I can drive the Crossley back with Johanna and Constance.”
He clearly planned to put Johanna next to himself in the front seat, while Constance would be languishing in the back by herself. And the chauffeur, I assumed, would be twiddling his thumbs in Wiltshire until Gilbert saw fit to come back and fetch him and his mother.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Gilbert,” Lady Peckham said. “You can’t drive all that way by yourself.”
Which was a ridiculous statement, when she’d had no qualms whatsoever about having the chauffeur do it. It wasn’t like he was made of different material than Gilbert Peckham. Besides, it wasn’t much of a drive at all. Crispin regularly drove from Wiltshire to London by himself, and that was much farther. The Dower House were just an hour or so southwest of us, into Dorset.
“I don’t know that I feel good about leaving the children alone by themselves for the weekend,” Aunt Roz said, which of course resulted in us all telling her that we weren’t children anymore, we were all adults, and we certainly didn’t need chaperones. “One of us should be there. What if something goes wrong?”
“The servants—” Lady Peckham began, but she stopped without finishing the sentence when Aunt Roz looked at her. I’ve been on the receiving end of Aunt Roz’s looks, so I knew exactly why Lady P had stopped talking. Most people do, when Aunt Roz looks at them like that.
“Francis can chaperone,” I said, tilting my head onto his shoulder for a moment. “He’s practically Father Time. Aren’t you, Francis?”
“Be careful with the epithets, Pipsqueak,” Francis told me, but without heat. “I’m still on the right side of thirty, I’ll have you know.”
He stole a glance at Constance, perhaps to see how she’d react to this evidence of his advanced age. If it bothered her at all, she showed no signs of it.
“For two whole months,” I jeered. “And I did say practically!”
