“Kit, Pippa, and I did,” Crispin nodded. “Gladys stayed on in Blanton’s flat. Or at least she was still there when the three of us left.”
Uncle Harold nodded, but before he could ask any more questions, there was yet one more knock on the door. I exchanged a glance with Christopher—our flat was beginning to look like Victoria Station—and turned to Gladys. “Did you come alone, Miss Long, or is one or more of your friends outside?”
“I came alone,” Gladys said, with a slightly fearful glance at the door. Hopefully, that meant that at least we didn’t have to worry about it being Dominic Rivers.
I started to push to my feet again, but Christopher put a hand on my shoulder to keep me down. “I’ll go.”
He uncoiled himself from the arm of the chair. Like me, he probably expected our most recent visitor to be Tom Gardiner, and he wanted a moment alone with him before ushering him into the sitting room.
It was perfectly understandable, so I nodded and sat back. Crispin had been hovering behind us, perhaps keeping the chair, and Christopher and me, as a buffer between himself and Gladys, but now he came around to take Christopher’s spot. His father watched him do it, eyes flicking from Crispin to me and back, but he didn’t comment, although it looked as if he thought about doing so.
Instead, he turned back to Gladys with a benign smile. “And how are your parents, Miss Long?”
Gladys said that her parents were fine—“Thank you very much, Your Grace,”—and continued on to her father’s bulldogs and her mother’s embroidery. I let it fade into the background while I strained my ears for noises from the foyer.
There were Christopher’s footsteps across the parquet, and there was the key turning in the lock. The slight squeak of the hinges as the door opened—we’d have to oil those—and then…
“Now, don’t you give me that look, Mr. Astley,” said Flossie Schlomsky’s voice. “You know you’re happy to see me!”
Crispin choked on his Gin Rickey. The only reason I didn’t, was because I hadn’t taken a sip.
“St George!” Uncle Harold exclaimed, shocked, and Gladys squeaked nervously.
“Would you like me to thump you on the back, St George?” I inquired solicitously, while out in the foyer, Flossie Schlomsky continued, “Say, Mr. Astley, is your cousin around?”
Crispin shook his head violently and warded me off with a raised hand.
“Pippa?” Christopher’s voice said faintly. “Yes, she’s inside?—”
“No, silly boy!” From the archness of Flossie’s voice, she had smacked him on the arm with her gloves in some revolting parody of the ever-popular Jane Austen. Flossie probably thought it was how we all behaved here in Merry Olde England.
“Your cousin St George,” she continued merrily. “I had a little petting party with him in the elevator last night, until Pippa came along and interrupted, and I was hoping…”
For more, no doubt.
Next to me, Crispin was wiping gin and tonic off his face with a serviette, while out in the foyer, it was Christopher’s turn for a coughing fit. It must have concerned Flossie, who inquired, “Gosh, Mr. Astley, are you okay?”
“Fine,” Christopher managed. “Yes, Crispin’s still here. So is his father.”
If he had thought that that piece of news might deter Flossie—I’m sure he hoped it would—he couldn’t have been more wrong. She clapped her hands together. “The Duke is here? Oh, I have to meet him! Please, Mr. Astley, won’t you introduce us?”
There was nothing Christopher could say to that except, “Yes, of course, Miss Schlomsky,” so he said it.
Next to me, Crispin quivered, like a racehorse at the gate.
“No,” I told him, and even went so far as to put a hand on his knee to keep him in place. He froze. “This is your own fault. You should have told her no yesterday. If you insist on spreading your favors around indiscriminately, you’ll have to learn to deal with the consequences. Now you have to stay here and take your medicine like a good little gent.”
“Have I told you lately that you’re vile, Darling?” He didn’t wait for me to answer, just got to his feet as Christopher escorted Flossie through the door to the sitting room. “Miss Schlomsky. What a delight to see you again.”
Gladys, in the other chair, eyed Flossie up and down and sniffed. This time the sniff was definitely condescending.
“Oh, let’s not stand on ceremony,” Flossie said merrily. “I told you yesterday to call me Flossie.”
“Of course you did.” Crispin managed a polite bow. “May I present my father, the Duke of Sutherland? You know Darling and Kit, of course, and this is the Honorable Miss Gladys Long.”
Flossie noticed Gladys for the first time, and the two of them stared, narrow-eyed, at one another. Until Uncle Harold cleared his throat, and then they both jumped.
“Florence,” I said sweetly, since I couldn’t bring myself to use the sickeningly sweet diminutive. “Uncle Harold just stopped by to order—I mean, to request that Lord St George return home to Wiltshire. You’re just in time to say goodbye.”
