“You’d better hide. I’ll go get rid of her.”
“Bless you, my child,” Christopher said. “I don’t mind admitting she gives me the pip.”
She didn’t give me the pip, but then I wasn’t the eligible grandson of a duke, and one who had no desire to marry.
“Just stay here and don’t come out, no matter what you hear. I’ll protect you.”
I pulled the bedroom door shut behind me, and marched across the foyer to the front door. Which I yanked open without even peering out, so sure was I that on the other side would be the American manhunter with the teeth, heiress to a dime-store dynasty somewhere she called Toledo.
As a result, when I found myself face to face with an elegant young gentleman in evening kit, I fell back a step.
“Oh!” Good Lord. “How didyouget up here?”
The young man took my involuntary recoil as an invitation to cross the threshold. Not my intention at all, I assure you. And I’m sure he knew that, but he didn’t let it stop him. Instead, he glanced around the foyer with guarded interest (and a bit of a condescending sneer) before he answered my question. “Lift, of course. You didn’t think I would climb the stairs, did you?”
Of course not. “You know that wasn’t what I meant. Why didn’t Evans ring up to announce you?”
Not that I needed to ask, really. While I had never had a problem telling Christopher and his cousin Crispin apart, the truth was that to a lot of people they looked the same, at least as long as they didn’t stand next to each other. Evans, who to my knowledge had never encountered Crispin before, would have seen him come through the front door in his tailcoat and top hat, would have assumed he was Christopher, and would have waved him through. Politely.
Crispin’s next words confirmed it. “He said, ‘Good evening, Mr. Astley,’ and went back to his newspaper. I decided not to quibble.” He smirked.
“Of course you didn’t.” I folded my arms across my chest. “What do you want, St George?”
It wasn’t technically his title yet, and wouldn’t be until his grandfather, the Duke of Sutherland, breathed his last and Crispin’s father, the current Viscount St George, moved into the duke’s shoes, but it differentiated Crispin from Christopher (and his brother Francis) when they were all Mr. Astley, so I used it. It was better than curling my tongue around the syllables of his first name. Too familiar by half, especially when he didn’t use mine.
The smirk spread. “Can’t I come to visit my favorite cousin without incurring your suspicions, Darling?”
“You absolutely cannot. And why do you insist on addressing me like I’m your mother’s lady’s maid?”
He chuckled. “Because it’s your name, Darling. Isn’t it?”
It was, in a sense. Or at least it was a close approximation of it.
It’s a long story, which goes back to the turn of the century and my late mother. She had been the younger sister of Christopher’s mother, and while Aunt Roslyn had done the expected thing and married Uncle Herbert and proceeded to give birth to Cousin Francis, Cousin Robert, and, eventually, Cousin Christopher, my mother had run off to Germany and married a commoner. My parents had been very much in love, thank you, and my childhood had been as idyllic as anyone could ask for, but of course when I was eleven, The Great War started. Life on the Continent was no longer pleasant, nor was it safe, and I had been packed off to my aunt and uncle in England for my safety. Mother refused to leave Father, who had been drafted for the war effort, so it was just me. And since German sympathies, not unexpectedly, were at an all-time low in England, Uncle Herbert and Aunt Roz determined that it would be better to turn my last name of Schatz into English. It’s German for treasure, something valuable or cherished or both, and it is also used informally as the equivalent of beloved or darling. Thus I was known as Philippa Darling from the moment I arrived on English soil.
If I had realized that I would one day have the Honorable Crispin Astley, future Viscount St George, standing in my foyer, smirking at me, calling me Darling in a way that set my teeth on edge, I would have put my foot down back then.
But there was absolutely nothing I could do about it now, so I rolled my eyes and asked him again, “What do you want, St George?”
And miracle of miracles, he stopped trying to antagonize me and came to the point. “Message from Grandfather. Kit is expected at Sutherland Hall tomorrow afternoon for tea and conversation.”
“Just Christopher? Not me?” warred with a suspicious, “Why?” in my head. I settled for the latter.
Crispin raised an elegant shoulder. “Mine is not to reason why. I was coming up to Town anyway. Grandfather said to let Kit know he has an audience with His Grace.”
“A little more notice might have been nice.” Since Christopher was on his way out and it was likely to be a late night. Lady Austin’s soirees always were.
“You’re lucky I decided to indulge the old man in the first place,” Crispin said callously. “But if you don’t like it, you could always choose not to show up and see what happens.”
Oh, yes. Brilliant idea.
“I’m sure you’d like that.” One of the main aspects of his and Christopher’s relationship has always been one of one-upmanship, the need for one of them to outdo the other. Or at least it has always seemed to be one of Crispin’s main desires to outdo Christopher. Christopher is a bit morelaissez faire, I suppose, live and let live. He’s more concerned with his own life than Crispin’s. But for Christopher not to answer his grandfather’s summons would give Crispin the upper hand, a position he dearly loves.
He smirked, but didn’t rise to the bait. “I have the H6, if you need help getting there.”
As if I would voluntarily exile myself to several hours in a closed automobile with Crispin St George. Even if the Hispano-Suiza would likely get us there in half the time it would take to travel by train, I’d take the longer trip over sharing space with Crispin. “We’ll manage on our own, thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Crispin said, and glanced over my shoulder into the rest of the flat with a bright, expectant smile.
