“There’s not much to tell,” Francis said, but when he pulled away from the curb, it was at a decorous pace, quite different from the last time we’d been picked up from the railway station in Salisbury, when St George had scattered pedestrians and pigeons in a mad dash out of town in his Hispano-Suiza racing car.
Francis continued, “I timed it for two months from the first time I met her, when we came up the drive at Sutherland Hall and I saw the two of you—” he shot me a glance over his shoulder, “round the corner of the conservatory.”
I nodded. I remembered it well. Constance and her family had arrived that afternoon for the funerals of the late Duke and of Crispin’s mother, and she and I had been on our way back from a stroll through the garden maze, where we had come upon Lady Peckham’s ward, the lovely Johanna de Vos, in the process of swallowing St George (and his title and fortune) whole. It had been quite an uncomfortable interlude, and Constance, who was much nicer-minded than I am, had been battling horrified amusement over Crispin’s embarrassment, while I had been loudly and derisively sneering.
“I asked her to take a walk in the garden after tea,” Francis continued, “and then I got down on one knee and asked.”
“And she said yes.”
He nodded. “Surprised the hell out of me, honestly.”
I tilted my head. “Why did you ask, if you thought she’d say no?”
He grinned. “I thought there was a chance she’d say yes. And if she hadn’t—it’s only been two months, after all—I figured I’d simply wait a month and try again.”
“There’s no reason,” Christopher asked delicately, “other than that you want to, that you’re proposing so soon, is there?”
Francis arched his brows at him. “Are you old enough to know about such things, Kit?”
“I’m twenty-three,” Christopher huffed. “Yes, I’m old enough to know about such things. For God’s sake, Francis?—”
Francis grinned. “No, Kit. She’s not the kind of girl you take liberties with, at least not without a firm understanding of where you’re headed. There’ll be no small Astleys born early.”
Wonderful. And on that note?—
I cleared my throat. “Would the name Abigail Dole mean anything to you?”
If I had hoped to see shock—Francis’s foot slipping off one of the pedals, the motorcar veering off the road, or even his hands clenching on the steering wheel—I was disappointed.
And that’s the wrong word for it, because of course I hadn’t been hoping for any of that. I had been hoping for the opposite, which was what I got: nothing. He glanced at me in the mirror. “Should it?”
“I have no idea,” I said lightly. “Just curious.”
“Of course you are,” Francis hummed. “Who is Abigail Dole?”
I avoided Christopher’s eyes. “She showed up at the flat a week ago looking for Christopher.”
Francis glanced over at his brother, and then back at me. “And what makes you think I would know her?”
“I don’t,” I said, “specifically. But it seems that someone does. The baby she was carrying had the Sutherland hair and the Astley eyes—or vice versa—and looked enough like all three of you to?—”
“Ah.” He appeared enlightened. “This is St George’s little by-blow, is it?”
“Well…” I thought about it, “yes and no. Abigail Dole is the girl with the baby?—”
“Always the girl with the baby, Pippa.” He chortled.
“Yes,” I said, “but she showed up at the Essex House looking for Christopher. If the baby was St George’s…”
“He’s made it clear he won’t fall for the ruse,” Francis said, “hasn’t he? So she’s trying to put the screws to someone else.”
I supposed that might be a possibility. I had assumed, when Abigail and little Bess showed up at the Essex House Mansions, it was to assess Christopher as the potential father. If all she knew was that the man who had seduced her had been the grandson of the Duke of Sutherland, she might just be going down the list of grandsons in order, looking for the right man. And when Crispin hadn’t turned out to be him, she had moved on to Christopher.
But of course Francis’s explanation made sense, too. Crispin might have been lying, and Abigail was seeking out someone else in the family to put pressure on him.
And if he had seduced her, then I supposed he’d deserve it.
“She didn’t stick around long enough to answer any questions,” Christopher told Francis while I was still cogitating. “Pippa went downstairs to talk to her, and as soon as she heard I was out, she ran away.”
