“Nothing at all,” I agreed, since, with the duke dead, there was no need to carry on the charade. No one else was likely to pressure us to marry. Aunt Roz certainly had no interest in losing a daughter only to gain the same person back as a daughter-in-law, and I’m sure Uncle Herbert was hoping for far better for his youngest son.
Not that he would get it, of course. Not unless he forced the issue, at any rate. Which I sincerely hoped he wouldn’t. There was no point. Francis would eventually marry and provide an heir for the secondary Sutherland line. And if he didn’t…
Well, if he didn’t, then we’d worry about that if we had to.
But for now, Christopher had no desire to marry me, or for that matter anyone else. Nor I him. So whatever Aunt Charlotte thought she had seen, it behooved us both to nip it in the bud as quickly as possible. The last thing we wanted was someone else thinking a union between the two of us would be desirable.
“Oh.” Aunt Charlotte looked disappointed. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We were just having some fun,” Christopher said. “Weren’t we, Pippa?”
I nodded. “Of course we were.”
“Well.” Aunt Charlotte looked desperately brave about it. “I’m sure your mother will be sad to hear that, Christopher.”
Christopher and I exchanged a glance. “She’ll live,” Christopher said.
I nodded. And changed the subject. “Hopefully there won’t be any problem getting the doctor to come out. Or any problem with the death certificate.”
Aunt Charlotte blinked. “Why would there be a problem with the death certificate, Miss Darling?”
“No reason,” Christopher said firmly. “Pippa has read too many detective stories, that’s all. He was an old man who spent the afternoon yelling at his family. Small wonder if his heart gave out.”
Aunt Charlotte nodded, looking grateful. “Of course, Christopher. I’m sure that’s exactly what happened. Nothing more and nothing less.”
And so itproved to be. We sat around the parlor sipping tea and making small talk—very small—while we waited for the doctor. Aunt Roz came back after a few minutes, with the information that Doctor Meadows from the village was on his way up to the Hall, and she started pouring out tea with a steady hand. A few minutes after that, Crispin came back downstairs, looking more composed than he had earlier. I didn’t want to stare, but I did examine his face surreptitiously for long enough to determine that his eyes weren’t red. Whatever he’d been doing upstairs, it didn’t appear as if he’d been crying. He accepted a cup of tea from Aunt Roz and went to sit beside his mother, with the news that there had been no answer from either Francis or Uncle Harold when he’d knocked on their doors.
Slowly, the others started to trickle in, too. Francis was first, and a little unsteady on his feet as he came through the front door and into the foyer. We could hear the unevenness of his steps as he crossed the marble floor towards the door.
“Good gracious.” He took us all in as we sat around the parlor balancing our cups. “What a collection of long faces.”
“Come in, Francis,” Aunt Roz said, in a voice that brooked no argument. “Have a seat. I’ll pour you a cup of tea.”
Francis opened his mouth—presumably to tell her that he wanted to go up to his room, or perhaps that he’d prefer something stronger than tea—but one look at her face and he must have thought better of it. “Yes, Mother.”
He pushed off from the door jamb and made his way, with a bit of listing, towards one of the empty chairs, which he dropped into rather heavily. “What’s happened?”
He looks like an older version of Christopher and Crispin, or perhaps more like a younger version of his father. Fair-haired and -complexioned, but a bit heavier in build than his younger brother. And now that I looked more closely at him, especially after a few months of not having seen him at all, I could clearly see the signs of dissipation. His skin wasn’t just pale, it was pasty, with dark circles under bloodshot eyes, and deeper lines around his nose and mouth than I remembered having seen before.
Truthfully, he didn’t look much better than the corpse upstairs, and that was saying something.
“Grandfather’s dead,” Christopher said, and it was only Aunt Roz’s hand still holding onto the teacup that kept Francis from fumbling it. He murmured an apology to his mother and took the cup from her hand, carefully, only to put it down without taking a sip, onto the small table beside the chair.
“Dead? Grandfather?”
Christopher nodded. Francis looked at him for a moment, before his eyes traversed the rest of us. When they landed on Crispin, he said, “Congratulations, St George.”
Crispin flushed, while Aunt Charlotte sucked in a breath.
“Francis!” Aunt Roz exclaimed.
“Well, it’s a step up, isn’t it?” He moved his attention back to Christopher. “You all right, little brother?”
“Fine,” Christopher said. “He was an old man. I never thought he was going to live forever.”
Francis nodded, and moved on. “Philippa.”
“Francis,” I said. “How have you been?”
