“I didn’t get the impression that either Blanton or Ogilvie were the type to notice women’s figures,” I said, “so you’d better hope they’re both snobs. And Hutchison seems the most observant of all of them—he was the one who first figured out that Montrose wasn’t looking for the toilet in Blanton’s flat the other night—so I wouldn’t be surprised if he looked past both and recognized me. Especially since I spoke to him face to face just yesterday.”
“Yes,” Tom said as Crispin pouted, “let’s not play games of that sort with Miss Darling. Although now that I think about it…”
He eyed Finchley, who eyed him back.
Crispin sighed. “Who wants to be the butler and who wants to be the footman?”
“I’m older,” Finchley said.
“I’m stouter,” Tom answered. Which wasn’t technically true—he wasn’t stout at all, but he was more muscular than Finchley, who was tall and lanky.
They eyed one another in silence for a few moments, and then Tom turned to Crispin. “Take Finchley with you and find him some sort of uniform. Not a housemaid, please. But whether he’s a butler or a footman I really don’t care about, as long as he has license to loiter in the front hall.”
“Leave it to me,” Crispin said and waved Finchley to precede him through the door.
Tom looked around, rubbing his hands together.
“If you’re putting Finchley in the front hall and Pippa behind the screen, where are you going to be?” Christopher wanted to know.
“I figure I’ll just skulk behind the door to the drawing room, you know. It worked for Miss Darling earlier.”
“You’d better hope neither of them think to check in there,” Christopher said, but Tom merely shrugged.
“I’ll have to count on the two of you to prevent that, I suppose, if it comes to it. You’re both clever boys, and St George is quite used to throwing his weight around. I’m sure I can rely on you both to keep the others in line.”
And so it was. Crispin brought Finchley back, arrayed in one of Rogers’s black suits with a red waistcoat (to set him apart from any of the guests who may be wearing white tie—not that Christopher or Crispin were) and then Rogers was given the evening off while Finchley took Rogers’s place in the foyer. He was at least twenty years younger than the venerable Rogers, and a lot less dignified, and he kept repeating the words, “May I take your coats and hats, gentlemen?” under his breath while we waited.
It was a few minutes before nine when we heard the second Morris Oxford of the day roll into the courtyard and come to a stop behind the Hispano-Suiza.
“And so it begins,” Tom said softly and vanished into the darkness of the sitting room. I headed for the screen in the corner while Christopher and Crispin stayed where they were, seemingly at their ease in a chair each, nursing an after-dinner brandy.
“Wait for the knock, Finchley,” Crispin called. “We don’t want them to think we’re improperly eager.”
“No, my lord,” Finchley’s voice floated back, and Crispin grinned.
Christopher sighed, and I ducked behind the screen and made myself comfortable in the chair beside the telephone table. In the foyer, faintly, there came the knock on the door, and then Finchley’s measured steps across the marble floor.
“Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Nigel Hutchison, Ronald Blanton, and Graham Ogilvie to see Lord St George,” Hutchison’s voice said.
“His lordship is expecting you.” I could hear the shuffling as Finchley stepped backward and the other three came inside. Finchley shut the door. “May I take your hats and coats, gentlemen?”
There was the swishing of fabric and then Finchley’s voice came back. “His lordship is in the green parlor. If you’ll follow me.”
Multiple footsteps crossed the foyer, and then came Finchley’s voice again, more distinctly now. “Your guests have arrived, my lord.”
“Show them in, Finchley,” Crispin said, and there was the sound of steps and greetings and finally, Finchley’s voice.
“Do you require anything else, my lord?”
“We’ll pour our own drinks, Finchley,” Crispin said. “Go off and polish the silver.”
“Very well, my lord.” Finchley withdrew. I heard the soft click of the door latch and a moment of silence.
“He’s new,” Hutchison said, “isn’t he?”
“New under-butler. It’s Rogers’s evening off.” If the question had disconcerted Crispin at all, it didn’t show in his voice. “You remember my cousin Kit, of course?”
