I came back to myself and to the present in time to hear Lady Laetitia say, “I wish you’d get over this idea that you have to marry for love, Crispin. We could have so much fun, you and I.”
Something in her tone made my nose wrinkle involuntarily, and while I couldn’t see into the room, I was absolutely certain that she was touching him. It was the sort of tone that went along with touching. The sort of tone—and touch—someone might use when they were trying to convince someone else to go along with what they wanted.
Coaxing, or cajoling. Cooing. Caressing.
“I’m sure your father would approve,” Laetitia added, invitingly. “He won’t let you marryher—” and there was a wealth of disdain in that one word, from which I gathered that she knew exactly who Crispin’s penniless, foreign, common-as-mud beloved was, and she didn’t like the idea any better than Uncle Harold did, “—but he’d let you marryme. And I’m certain I could make you happy…”
She trailed off, enticingly.
There was a moment’s silence, during which I wondered whether Crispin had given in to whatever it was she was doing. I thought about turning around and tiptoeing back down the stairs to give them the privacy I assumed they needed to continue what they were doing. But then—
“My father won’t live forever,” Crispin said coolly.
I arched my brows. Uncle Harold was only in his late fifties, so he could certainly live for quite a long time yet. His father, the late Duke Henry, had been almost ninety when he died, and that had been murder, not natural causes. The Sutherlands tended to be long-lived when left to their own devices.
Laetitia’s voice changed from wheedling to annoyed, so she must agree with me. “Are you really going to sit around and wait thirty years for him to die before you can marry the woman you want? What’s to stop her from marrying someone else in the meantime?”
“Nothing at all,” Crispin said, “and I’m sure she’ll do just that one of these days. There’s nothing I can do about it. Without Father’s permission, I have nothing to offer her. And I’ll be damned if I do what he suggested and ask her to be my mistress while I marry someone else.”
“I doubt she’d agree anyway,” Laetitia said.
“She absolutely wouldn’t. Nor would I want her to. But I’m not marrying you just because I can’t have her. I know you think we’d get on well, and you’re probably right, but you deserve better than a husband who’s in love with someone else.”
She didn’t protest that, at any rate. “I just worry that you’re going to end up sad and alone, darling.”
Crispin snorted. “I’m hardly alone, Laetitia. I have plenty of company. You should know that better than anyone.”
I imagined him shaking his head, dislodging the whole conversation, before he told her, his voice lighter, “Go on down to breakfast. I can smell the bacon from up here. And if you see Philippa, tell her to get herself upstairs, because I’m starving.”
“I’ll absolutely tell her that,” Laetitia promised, and there was a smirk in her voice too now.
“Not like that, for God’s sake. I told you that was all play-acting. I need her to come sit with Christopher so I can go eat something. Let her know if you see her.”
Laetitia promised she would, and I heard her footsteps come towards the door.
I glanced around the landing, looking for a way out, but as there was nowhere to go, I put the best face I could on it, and—when she appeared in the doorway looking like her usual vision, this time in an elegant black and white day-dress with white cuffs and a white collar—I smiled sweetly. “Good morning, Lady Laetitia.”
She looked me up and down. “Miss Darling.”
“I was just coming up to relieve Crispin,” I said. “If you’ll give me a moment, you can take him down to breakfast.”
She didn’t say anything, just nodded. I walked past her and into the room. “St George.”
“Darling.” He was still sitting on Christopher’s bedside, and still looked the same as he’d done when I left. Whatever the conversation with Lady Laetitia had been, it hadn’t had any visible effect on him.
“Dawson’s started serving breakfast,” I said. “I thought you might be hungry.”
He got to his feet. “Starving.”
“I’ll stay with Christopher for a while. Anything I should know?”
He shook his head. “He’s still asleep. Still breathing. Everything looks normal. I think it’ll just take time.”
“Then go get yourself some food before you waste away.” I turned toward the bed.
“Thanks, Darling. I’ll be up later.”
“Take your time,” I said. “I don’t imagine we’ll be able to leave before they track down Gilbert Peckham, anyway. It’s going to be a long day of doing nothing, if I have my guess.”
