“I can’t imagine that anyone else did, either,” Christopher said. “Who would?”
It was the perfect opening to present the theory I had just worked out. But before I could get the first words out, someone else spoke first—and a good thing, too.
“Not me,” Crispin said. “What are you suggesting, Darling? That I would rendezvous with the parlor maid in the garden maze with Grandfather lying dead upstairs?”
I sniffed. “Certainly not. I would hope you’d at least offer poor Sadie the dignity of a bed if you were going to descend to that level, instead of going about it like an animal on the grass in the maze.”
The tops of Crispin’s ears grew red. “You have a truly foul imagination, Darling, and a worse mouth.”
I didn’t answer beyond an offended—and offensive—sniff, and he added, “For your information, I’m not in the habit of seducing the staff, but if I were to ‘descend to that level’—”
His tone made the quotation marks his fingers didn’t make, “—and what a horrible expression for you to employ, Darling, since we’re on the subject. Who are you, to suggest that Sadie is someone I would have to ‘descend’ to?”
I opened my mouth to snap at him that he’d clearly misunderstood what I’d been saying, because I didn’t consider Sadie to be below him at all. In fact, I would consider very few people below Crispin St George, and that included every one of the parlor maids. But before I could get any of that out, he’d gone on.
“—but I’ll have you know that when I do take the trouble to bed someone, I do it with all appropriate pomp and circumstance, which certainly includes a feather bed, and furthermore, I’ve not had any complaints about my technique, so you can just keep your vile mouth and horrid insinuations to yourself from now on!”
He walked out of the room while the air was still ringing with his final declaration. I opened my mouth and then closed it again, while his footsteps echoed across the floor of the foyer and then vanished with the punctuation of a slammed door.
“Ouch,” Christopher murmured.
I turned to him, expecting amusement or commiseration or eye-rolling orsomething, but he wasn’t even looking at me. So I opened my mouth again. “For goodness’s sake, Christopher…”
“You know, Pippa—” He flashed me a rueful glimpse of blue, “I know you don’t like Crispin, and I’ll be the first to admit he can be trying, but he was right about one thing. You really do have a foul imagination when it comes to him and all his misdeeds. And you have no compunctions about verbalizing your thoughts, either.”
I glared at him across the table. “Am I supposed to feel bad about that?”
“You’re supposed to realize,” Christopher said, “that in this case, at least, he was the one who brought up the parlor maid and the hedge maze, in the sense that he wouldn’t shag her there—”
“Don’t be vulgar, Christopher.”
“—and there was no need for you to take offense at the way he treats his—hypothetical—conquests.”
“I hardly think they’re hypothetical,” I said with a sniff. “We’ve both heard the rumors. And it’s not like he’s modest about it. ‘I’ve had no complaints,’ hah!”
“You know,” Christopher said, tilting his head to contemplate me, “someone who didn’t know your history with Crispin might listen to what you say and think there’s a reason you’re so angry about that.”
I stared at him.
“You know, as in—”
“I get it, Christopher!”
My voice had gone shrill, and I took a breath and lowered it. “I get it. Someone might think I have tender feelings for Crispin—eurgh!—and that I’m saddened and—again, eurgh!—jealous that he’s shagging his way around London—yes, I know, Christopher, I just told you not to be vulgar, and now I’m using the same word myself—but someone would be wrong then, wouldn’t they?”
“I’m sure they would,” Christopher said, his lips curved with amusement, “but you would have to excuse them for wondering, with the way you carry on.”
He shook his head. “He didn’t deserve the way you lit into him, Pippa. I know he can be annoying, but this morning he did nothing wrong. You need to go apologize to him, so the two of you can go back to your usual manner of semi-polite bickering. I can’t handle this level of animosity. I have enough unpleasantness on my mind.”
“Fine.” I pushed my chair away from the table with an impolite shriek. (The chair legs on the floor, not me.) “But if I end up slapping him, I’m blaming you.”
“Don’t slap him,” Christopher said. “Do you want me to come with you to make sure that doesn’t happen?”
I shook my head. “You being there will only make things worse. If I have to humble myself in front of St George, I’d rather do it without an audience.”
“Best of luck, then,” Christopher said, and wiggled his fingers in the direction of the foyer and the front door. “Off you go.”
I took two steps in that direction and turned around. “Any idea where I might find him? He went outside, not upstairs to his room.”
