Uncle Harold’s eyes narrowed. “Much as I would enjoy the opportunity to air my concerns regarding Christopher and Miss Darling, I’ll leave that to my brother. You, however, St George?—”
“I haven’t done anything!” Crispin protested.
His father drew in a breath and swelled up.
“Why are you here, Uncle Harold?” Christopher interjected. As his uncle let his breath out again, Christopher continued, “I mean, what made you think Crispin would be here? He doesn’t usually visit us when he’s in Town. Normally, he spends the night in Sutherland House.”
He used to, certainly. But perhaps the realization that the staff at Sutherland House had gossiped uninhibitedly to Grimsby the blackmailing valet about all his moral crimes and misdemeanors, had disenchanted St George of the idea of taking refuge there. Why go somewhere you know people will take note of everything you do and report every little transgression back to your father and, in the past, your grandfather?
“Did Rogers phone you when I didn’t come in last night?” Crispin wanted to know. He sounded both outraged and hurt. “Have you instructed the servants to spy on me, Father?”
“They always did,” Uncle Harold said coolly. “It wasn’t until your grandfather’s manservant came home with an itemized list of your indiscretions that we realized how bad things had gotten, however.”
He let that sink in for a moment before he added, “When you left the Hall yesterday, I notified Rogers to expect you, that you were driving up to London. When you hadn’t shown yourself at Sutherland House by six this morning, Rogers phoned the Hall to let me know.”
“And you roused Wilkins and drove up to find me.” Crispin sounded bitter.
“I waited until a decent hour,” his father informed him, “before I woke the chauffeur, but yes, essentially that is what happened.
“And here I find you,” Uncle Harold continued, “in Miss Darling’s bed.”
His tone was bland to the point of offense, and Crispin flushed. Christopher’s jaw tightened. Before either of them could speak, I said, “I resent that,” since I did, in fact, resent it.
Uncle Harold turned his attention from his son and nephew to me. His eyebrows were elevated, and he looked vaguely surprised, as if I were a piece ofobjet d’artor furniture that had spoken up. In his world, perhaps women were a lower form of life that didn’t talk back unless expressly spoken to. Aunt Charlotte had been quite ladylike and quiet, now that I thought about it.
I, however, was raised by my mother, adventurous enough to leave her own country and settle down in another, and then by my mother’s sister, and Aunt Roz isn’t quiet at all, even if she is in every respect a lady.
Besides, this was 1926, and we no longer held to the mores of a bygone era. Young women are thoroughly modern and forward these days.
So for good measure I added, “It’s not as if I were in there with him, you know. If you’re worried about who your son and heir shares his bed with, I’m not the one you should be looking at. Unlike certain other women I could mention, I’ll lend St George my bed, but I won’t share it with him.”
I sneered at Crispin. He sneered back.
Uncle Harold’s lip curled in a smirk. “She’s got your number, doesn’t she, boy?”
“Yes, sir,” Crispin said. And then he directed a resentful look my way, as if it were my fault that his father talked to him like he were still in short trousers.
Uncle Harold chuckled. “Serves you right, boy. Sowing your wild oats all over the place?—”
“Yes,” Crispin interrupted loudly, “thank you, Father. So you thought I might be here. Has something happened, that you came running to find me? Or did you plan to rescue me from Darling’s non-existent wiles?”
“I resent that, St George,” I said, stung at this dig to my charms. “I’ll have you know that?—”
He sighed. “Yes, yes, Darling. I misspoke. I didn’t mean to suggest that you don’t have wiles. Just that you’re not wasting them on me.”
“Ah.” I waved my hand. “In that case, carry on.”
“Thank you, Darling.” He gave me a truncated bow before turning back to his father. “Is something wrong?”
Uncle Harold flapped his hand dismissively. “Nothing at all, boy.”
“So I don’t have to drive home to Wiltshire this exact moment?”
“I think it would be a very good idea if you went home to Wiltshire,” Uncle Harold said, “but it doesn’t have to be this moment. If you would like some time to say goodbye to your cousin and his…”
There was a pause.
“Cousin?” I suggested.
