“It’s a shame that he has always refused to declare himself to this girl he claims to be in love with,” I said. Francis and Constance exchanged a glance, but didn’t say anything. So did Aunt Roz and Christopher, ditto.
I added, “We don’t know her, of course. She could be worse than Laetitia. But if he loves her, at least he’d be happier than he would be with Laetitia, and we’re going to be dealing with a shrew either way.”
No one said anything, and I concluded, “If we could find her, and convince her to talk to him, perhaps he would throw Laetitia over.”
“The Marsdens would bring a breach-of-promise suit,” Uncle Herbert said, “and Harold would force Crispin to go through with the marriage after all.”
“Besides,” Aunt Roz added, with a glance at Christopher and one at Francis, “if he hasn’t told her himself yet, it isn’t our place to interfere.”
“He’s a grown man,” Uncle Herbert added, “and I assume he knows his own mind?—”
I snorted, because how could he, if he’d rather marry a woman he didn’t love than risk being rejected by one he did?
“Perhaps if you talked to him, Pipsqueak,” Francis began, and I shook my head.
“I’m the last person he wants a lecture from right now. Besides, it’s not as if I haven’t spoken to him about this before now. Every time we’ve had this conversation, I’ve told him that living in squalor on the Continent might not be so bad. My mother seemed to enjoy it.”
It hadn’t been squalor, of course. Not the Parisian garret with no heat or running water that Crispin imagined. We had lived in a small flat in Heidelberg, and it had been neat and clean, and we had had everything we needed. It wasn’t aSchlossin Bavaria, of course, or for that matter a manor house in Wiltshire, but there was no reason why Crispin and his lady-love couldn’t do the same and be perfectly comfortable.
Aunt Roz’s expression softened. “I know, Pippa. Annabelle was happy with your father.”
“And there’s no reason why St George couldn’t do the same.” As long as someone found the girl and convinced her to cooperate. I narrowed my eyes. “Christopher…”
“No,” Christopher said.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean no,” Christopher said. “He told me in confidence, and I won’t go behind his back. If he wants to confess his feelings, he’ll do so. Or not, now.” He made a face. “But either way, no. He made it clear what would happen if I said anything to anyone. Especially you.”
Oh, especially me, was it?
“And what was it that would happen, Kit?” Francis wanted to know, eyes twinkling.
Christopher sighed. “Disembowelment featured largely. So did defenestration.”
“Before or after the disembowelment?”
“Who knows?” Christopher said. “Does it matter, really? Whether I have my intestines removed before or after I’m thrown out the window makes very little difference to me.”
He shook his head. “I promised him I wouldn’t talk about it. The rest of you can speculate all you want, and I don’t doubt that most of you could make an accurate guess, but we’re not going to do it out loud. And as for you, Pippa?—”
He pinned me with a stare, “—if he had wanted you to know, he would have told you himself.”
He had certainly had plenty of opportunity to do so. If he hadn’t done, then Christopher was most likely right and Crispin didn’t want me to know. Afraid I would mock him, no doubt. Or worse, interfere.
“Fine.” I folded my arms over my chest and stuck my bottom lip out.
“Thank you, Pippa.”
“But if you do know who she is, you might just whisper a suggestion in her ear that St George is carrying a torch, and perhaps?—”
“No,” Christopher said. “Disembowelment and defenestration, remember?”
“Lady Laetitia Marsden,” I shot back. “A life sentence.”
“One he signed himself up for.” He shook his head. “Sorry, Pippa. But he is a fully functioning adult who made up his own mind to do this. I know you feel like it was your fault?—”
I made a face.
