“Everyone in London knows your type, St George. And it isn’t quiet and unassuming. Those of your conquests I’m familiar with all have flashy looks and fast reputations and not much of substance between the ears.”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “Are you suggesting I like my women stupid, Darling?”
His women, were they? How deplorably chauvinistic.
I looked at him down the length of my nose. He’s a few inches taller than I am, but I tilted my head back and gave it my best. “You said it, not me. Although they’d have to be, wouldn’t they? They fall foryou, after all.”
He nodded pleasantly. “So they do. Although I don’t know whyyouwould take offense, Darling. No one would call you mousey. You’re more of a shrew, aren’t you?”
“Oh, lovely.” I put my hands together for a couple of slow claps. “You’re so clever, St George. Not a mouse, but a shrew. Imagine coming up with that. You’re brilliant, you are.”
He flushed. “Get stuffed, Darling.”
“You know,” I told him, “I think I will. Christopher?”
Christopher offered me his arm, the way any well-trained young gentleman would do when addressed in this manner, and we swept into the foyer of Sutherland Hall leaving Crispin to no doubt grit his teeth in our wake in the courtyard.
“Mr. Astley.”Tidwell the butler was waiting just inside the front door. “Miss Darling.”
“Tidwell,” I said warmly. “How lovely to see you.”
Tidwell blinked, since it’s not usual for the above-stairs to address the staff quite so exuberantly. But this was the effect Crispin had on me: after talking to him, I felt so much more fondly towards the entire rest of the world, which had, after all, the benefit of not being Crispin St George.
“You’re in your usual room in the west wing, Miss Darling,” Tidwell informed me once he’d got his countenance back, “and Mr. Astley, you’re in your usual room in the east wing. Tea will be served in the parlor at five o’clock.”
“Lovely, Tidwell.”
I must have verged on sounding maniacally friendly again, because Christopher gave me a quelling sort of look before addressing Tidwell himself.
“We missed luncheon, Tidwell. Do you suppose there’s any chance Cook could rustle up some victuals early?”
“I can ask Cook for a tray, Mr. Astley.” Tidwell bowed politely. “Do you wish a tray too, Miss Darling?”
“I’ll share Christopher’s,” I said. “Just have her send two of everything. Cups, saucers, plates…”
Tidwell nodded. “Very well, Miss Darling. To Mr. Astley’s room?”
“That’ll be fine,” I said. “Unless…”
I lowered my voice and leaned a little closer. “When was the last time Lord St George ate a solid meal, Tidwell? He looks like a ghost.”
“The last week has been hard on the young master,” Tidwell said blandly, which was surely an understatement if I’d ever heard one.
“He left before luncheon, too, didn’t he? To pick us up?”
“Yes, Miss Darling.”
“Then have Cook send enough for three,” I said, “and put it in the breakfast room or somewhere like that. Scotland Yard has finished with the breakfast room, I assume?”
The breakfast room was where Chief Inspector Pendennis and his two underlings, Detective Sergeants Finchley and Gardiner, had set up their incident room last week, after Grimsby’s murder.
Tidwell nodded. “Yes, Miss Darling. The breakfast room is currently used for breakfast.”
“Then we’ll eat there. Where we won’t disturb any preparations for tea that might be going on in the salon.”
Tidwell nodded. “Very well, Miss Darling.”
He withdrew. I turned to Christopher. “Go get your cousin before he decides to get back in the motorcar and take off again.”
