“Lousy,” I admitted, since I regretted my own part in this farce rather deeply. “Although I don’t know why I should, Christopher. When I spoke to him earlier, he was as unpleasant as ever.”
“That’s just his way,” Christopher said. “He hides everything. It doesn’t mean he isn’t upset.”
“Well, I don’t see what I can do about it. I didn’t want him to propose to Laetitia. I was just lashing out because he’d been a prat. But now that it’s done, I don’t know how I can fix it. We discussed this last night, and short of killing her, I don’t know what anyone can do to help.”
“Me either,” Christopher admitted, and gave me another twirl. “Getting rid of Laetitia Marsden would probably not be worth the trouble of going to prison for the rest of my life.”
“It wouldn’t,” I agreed. “If you were the one marrying her, or I was—not that that’s a possibility—I could have made a case for it. I’m not consigning either of us to a life of misery. But I’m not risking my freedom for St George. Especially not when he isn’t kicking up more of a fuss than he’s currently doing.”
We eyed them both in silence for a moment. Laetitia floated around the floor like everything was perfect in her world, and Crispin looked like he wanted to sink right through it.
“I suppose we’ll just keep the idea of murder in reserve,” Christopher said, “unless he brings it up himself. If he does, I might consider it. And meanwhile, we can hope that something happens so murder won’t be necessary.”
I couldn’t imagine what that might be, and told him so. But since there was nothing else we could do, we left the conversation there. Elsewhere in the room, Lady Violet Cummings was floating in Lord Geoffrey Marsden’s arms,smiling beatifically up at him while his hand rested low on her back. A bit lower than I would have been comfortable with, honestly, but perhaps Geoffrey Marsden was next in line for Violet’s affections now that Crispin was off the market. Olivia Barnsley was waltzing with the Honorable Reggie Fish, and she looked pleased, as well. So did he, as a matter of fact. Cecily Fletcher, meanwhile, was dancing with Dominic Rivers, but she appeared no happier about the situation than he did. Neither of them even looked at the other.
Over by the wall, Francis was throwing back a glass of something clear that probably wasn’t water, while Constance watched, her expression worried. And behind Christopher, a hand came out of nowhere and landed on his shoulder.
“May I cut in?” a lightly accented male voice asked.
There is no way to say no, of course. Etiquette dictates that when a rival asks to cut into a dance, the polite young gentleman steps back. (The young lady gets no say in the matter, but has to accept, with a smile, being passed from one young man to the other like a package.)
In this case, it was Wolfgang who wanted to cut in, and I had no problem dancing with him. Christopher had no problem letting me, it seemed, because he bowed. “I’ll go check on Francis,” he told me.
I nodded, and watched him step back before Wolfgang took his place and swept me into a smooth Foxtrot. As we traversed the floor, Wolfgang smiled down at me. “Philippa.”
“Wolfgang,” I smiled back, while the faint echo of Crispin’s derisive ‘Wolfie,’ sounded in the back of my head. “I’m pleased to see you.”
“Likewise,mein Schatz.” The arm around my waist squeezed a little tighter. I simpered. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Crispin had come out of his stupor and was scowling at us over Laetitia’s shoulder, while Francis was doing the samefrom over by the wall. Constance looked downcast, which was understandable. Francis can be difficult when he’s in a sulk—or for that matter in his cups.
I saw Christopher reach the duo by the wall, and then Wolfgang turned me and I was looking at Cecily Fletcher and Dominic Rivers again. They were talking now: anger, or perhaps distress, had broken through Cecily’s mask of ennui, while Rivers simply looked bothered. Behind them, Violet Cummings was beaming fatuously at Geoffrey Marsden.
And that was all I saw, before another couple ran into us—or rather, into Wolfgang. The impact knocked him forward a step. I, perforce, had to take a step back, and thus ended up knocking into someone else, and so it went.
“Pardon me,” a man’s voice sneered, with no apology whatsoever, followed by a woman’s titter. I peered over Wolfgang’s shoulder, into the self-satisfied face of a man—I wouldn’t want to call him a gentleman, although his mother undoubtedly did—with carrot red hair and a rabbity chin. The young lady in his arms was another bottle blonde of the young and bright variety, with perpetually plucked eyebrows that gave her a surprised look, over heavily mascaraed eyes.
Behind me, the gentleman I had backed into—Crispin, as it turned out—set me upright. “Careful, Bilge,” he told the redhead tightly. “This is supposed to be a celebration. We don’t want any injuries tonight.”
Bilge—five years older or so, and an inch or two taller—sneered down at him. But of course Crispin was Laetitia’s fiancé, and we were in Laetitia’s home, and Bilge—what sort of name was Bilge?—must have thought better of condescending to the man of the hour.
“Are you all right, Darling?” Crispin added when Bilge didn’t say anything, and I nodded.
“Thank you, St George. Sorry for stepping on your toes.”
“It’s hardly the first time, Darling, is it? What about you, Wolfie?”
Wolfgang’s eyes, a stunning midnight blue, narrowed at the familiarity. “As well as can be expected, my lord.”
Crispin smirked. “No need to be so formal,Graf. We don’t stand on ceremony here. Do we, Bilge? We’re all rich and titled, aren’t we?”
Bilge muttered something uncomplimentary before he swung his partner back into motion. Crispin grinned and turned back to me. “As you were, Darling.”
“Same to you, St George,” I told him, and let Wolfgang sweep me back into his arms and into another Foxtrot. Like Bilge, he was muttering under his breath, and I grinned, too. “My apologies for the rudeness, Wolfgang. Some people have no manners.”
“Your cousin is an impudent monkey,” Wolfgang growled.
Crispin? I had been referring to the acrimonious Bilge, but if he wanted to see Crispin as the problem, I supposed he could. “He’s right, you know. We really don’t stand on ceremony much. Everyone here is from a good family, half the people have titles and money, and the rest are connected to the first half.”
Like me. And like Christopher and Francis and Constance. The children of younger sons and daughters and assorted hangers-on.
