As I sat there in the twill skirt and jumper I had put on in preparation for lawn croquet, I felt very much like a little girl, outdone and outclassed by the grown women.
Really, I had no designs on St George, but if I had had, how is one supposed to compete with someone who looks like that?
She descended on him with cries of greeting and gladness, and although she didn’t go to the lengths to which she had gone upon first setting eyes on him yesterday afternoon—the logistics may have been too difficult, with him sitting at table in the wrong position for a passionate kiss—she did lean down and buss his cheek.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
She kept a hand on his shoulder while she straightened, quite as if she had already laid claim to him. Crispin looked mildly uncomfortable, and it only got worse when I arched my brows at him across the table. There was a smear of lipstick on his cheek, that same hot pink color as yesterday, and I eyed it for long enough that he noticed, because he snatched up his napkin and rubbed his cheek vigorously.
“Getting a late start,” Geoffrey chided his sister jovially, just as Gilbert had nettled Constance earlier.
Laetitia tossed her head so the sharp points of her bob swung at her cheeks. “Not as late as some.”
When none of us said anything in response, she added, “It doesn’t look like Johanna is down yet, either.”
Doesn’t look like…?
“Don’t you share a room?” I asked.
She looked at me blankly, as if one of the pieces of furniture had spoken up. It went on for long enough that Marsden finally prompted, “Letty?”
She turned to him, with another flip of her hair. “She didn’t come to bed last night. Other plans, I assume.”
The very possessive hand on Crispin’s shoulder made it look like fear that the plans had been with him, and she was hoping he would assure her otherwise.
When he didn’t, I asked, “Does anyone know where she is?”
No one did, or at least they didn’t admit to it.
“Did anyone see her after the party broke up last night?”
No one had, at least not anyone who wanted to admit to it.
“St George?” I prompted, since I knew for a fact that he’d seen her outside in the garden.
He shook his head. “I spent the night with Kit and Francis. You can ask them.”
Christopher nodded. “I was still awake when he came in.”
“If she’s not in her own room,” I said, “and she’s not in St George’s bed, can anyone think of anywhere else she might be?”
“Darling…” Crispin sounded pained. “Must you?”
“Clearly, St George. Why would you assume otherwise?”
He didn’t answer, and there was a pause. “Out walking?” Marsden suggested.
Johanna was hardly the type to indulge in a bracing walk the morning after a party—not that it was early anymore: it was almost noon—but no one pointed out the obvious.
“If she’s not walking?” Were there horses? Bicycles? Or did she know how to drive a motorcar, so she might have taken one of them out?
“I hardly think it’s a matter for concern,” Laetitia said impatiently. It was clear that she didn’t like for the conversation to be about her rival and not herself. Her hand was still on Crispin’s shoulder and he still looked a bit uncomfortable over the blatant display of ownership. “It’s not as if anything’s likely to have happened to her. She’s probably just off somewhere, sulking.”
After what I’d seen through the window last night, it didn’t seem as if she’d have any reason to sulk, but what did I know?
“So no one here has seen her since last night,” I said. “Dawson?”
The butler shook his head. “No, Miss Darling.”
