“Then perhaps you should endeavor to do something worthwhile with it,” I told him. “There are lots of people less fortunate than you, you know.”
“Of course I know it, Darling. Sadly, I’m not in charge of the fortune yet. For now, that sort of thing is in my father’s hands, not mine. Perhaps you should appeal to him for a donation to your favorite charity.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “I can see that going over well. Although truth be told, he seemed rather happy with me by the time he left Christopher’s and my flat yesterday afternoon.”
“Did he really?” He was still sprawled in one of the chairs, while I had gotten to my feet to watch Christopher and Tom walk away through the window, and now he watched me from out of narrowed eyes. “Why was that?”
“I have no idea,” I said, stopping behind the chair I had been sitting on earlier, on the opposite side of the table, with my hands on its back as I peered back at him. “I believe I said something derogatory about you—something along the lines of ‘poor, little, rich boy with every woman he meets falling at his feet’—it was after you decided to turn your wiles on me, you remember, so I was a bit put out with you—but I have no idea why that should have pleased your father.”
“Indeed,” Crispin said, watching me. “But he seemed happy, did he?”
“He seemed to be.” I hesitated. “I can’t help but have noticed that the two of you don’t get on very well. I don’t think I’ve ever taken note of it before, or at least not in the same way. Is it something new?”
“Since Mother died,” Crispin said. “Or slightly before.”
He looked away for a moment before he added, “Although I don’t suppose we’ve ever had the kind of relationship that Kit has with Uncle Herbert. It doesn’t seem to matter what Kit does; Uncle Herbert and Aunt Roslyn—and you—love him in spite of it. Father’s regard has always depended on my behavior, and not whether or not I am?—”
He broke off and shook his head, and picked up the conversation again in a different spot. “I never doubted that Mother loved me, even if she was never as warm about it as Aunt Roz. She was always perfectly correct, and so was father, but it was rarely warm. Smothering at times, on Mother’s side, but not actually warm. And then came that weekend at Sutherland Hall, when Grimsby regurgitated all of the secrets he had dug up about everyone…” He made a face.
“And Uncle Harold heard yours and was appalled?” I said sympathetically.
He nodded. “Yes, Darling. He heard mine and was appalled.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Although truthfully, you know, I read your list of peccadillos, and I’m not surprised.”
He scowled. “For the last time, Darling, I don’t know the girl with the baby. I have never seen her before. She?—”
“Yes, yes,” I said, batting his protestations away. “So you’ve said. But it’s not just that, anyway. It’s all the other women. And the parties and the alcohol and the Ballot. And the fact that you have Dominic Rivers’s private direction and have bought dope from him in the past. If I were your parent, I would be appalled, too.”
“Eviscerated,” Crispin said dryly. “Bleeding.”
I snorted. “You look perfectly fine to me.”
He smirked. “Why, thank you, Darling.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I said, “as you very well know.”
The smirk broadened. “Of course, Darling.”
I rolled my eyes. “Come off it, St George. You own a mirror. You know what you look like. And even if you didn’t, all the women falling at your feet would tell you.”
“You don’t fall at my feet, Darling. Perhaps it means more, coming from you.”
“In that case,” I told him, “you’re nice to look at, St George. You look just like Christopher, don’t you? Sadly, you don’t have his personality, and yours rather ruins the effect.”
“There’s the Darling we all know and love. For a moment there, I was worried you had lost your edge.”
He pushed to his feet. “I’m going to go upstairs to my room for a bit. Mop up the blood, you know. You can do what you want. Stay here and wait for Kit, or go home. Make yourself at home in the library. Whatever you want. I have?—”
A shadow crossed his face. “I have some things to think about.”
I nodded, and watched him head for the door. He was almost there when I raised my voice. “Crispin?”
He spun on his heel, brows elevated, and I flushed. I don’t usually use his given name—it sits uncomfortably in my mouth, and I didn’t know why I had done it this time. But I pushed through. “Do you know who the killer is?”
He looked at me in silence for a moment before he gave a single shake of his head. “I don’t.”
“Do you think you may have guessed?” Was there someone he suspected, and a reason to suspect them?
