A rather unpleasant thought, that. “Do you know who’s expected?”
Constance rattled off a string of names and titles. Interestingly, they included several Bright Young Persons whose names I knew. Lady Violet Cummings and the Honorable Cecily Fletcher had both received invitations, and in addition to being friends of Laetitia’s—or so I assumed—they were also prior dalliances of Crispin’s.
“Why on earth would Laetitia want to invite her new fiancé’s former conquests to their engagement party?” I inquired, baffled.
“I imagine she wants to gloat,” Constance answered. “She’s the one who managed to tie him down, after all. I’m sure the others must have tried, or at least hoped for that outcome. Small wonder if she wants to rub it in their faces that she succeeded where they failed.”
Well, yes. Getting herself permanently stuck to the future Duke of Sutherland was reason enough to gloat, I supposed, and it did sound like something Laetitia would do. Still, it seemed stupid. Why go out of her way to remind Crispin of that which he could no longer have now that he was engaged to her?
Although perhaps she hadn’t considered that angle. Perhaps rubbing her good fortune in her friends’ faces had been enough of an incentive, and she hadn’t reasoned past it.
“Did either of them dally with Geoffrey?” I wanted to know, and Constance made a face.
“I don’t know, Pippa. I never spent much time in those circles, and Geoffrey, believe it or not, doesn’t brag about his conquests. At least not to me. You’re probably more likely to know the answer to that than I am.”
“I never spent much time with them, either,” I said. “Most of what I know is because of Crispin’s involvement.” And that only because of Grimsby the valet’s blackmail dossier. Crispin doesn’t brag, either. Or at least he doesn’t to me, nor do I think to Christopher.
“I suppose we’ll see before supper,” Constance said and got to her feet. “Will you help me with my toilette, Pippa? Otherwise, Francis might look at the other women and change his mind about marrying me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I told her. “Francis isn’t shallow. He loves you. And he won’t care what anyone else looks like. All he’ll see is you.”
The weekend party at the Dower House when they had first fallen in love was proof positive of that. Lady Laetitia had been there, and so had Lady Peckham’s ward, an absolutely stunning Dutch beauty by the name of Johanna de Vos, and Francis hadn’t had eyes for anyone but Constance. That wasn’t likely to have changed.
“Fine,” Constance said. “Perhaps I just want to look good enough that nobody will wonder why he’s marrying me.”
“No one who knows either of you wonders about that. But I’ll be happy to help you dress. Although—” I glanced around, taking in the walls of the Primrose Room and beyond them, the rest of Marsden Manor, “aren’t there maids here that’ll do that?”
“Aunt Effie has a maid,” Constance nodded, “as does Laetitia, of course. I’m sure either of them would be happy to help. But I’d rather have you.”
“I’d be happy to help you get ready,” I assured her. “And if you’d like, we can have Christopher do your face. He’s better with makeup than I am.”
Constance opened her mouth, presumably to decline, and I added, “I plan to have him do my face. The competition will be fierce this weekend. Both Violet Cummings and Cecily Fletcher are lovely, and so is Laetitia, and I’m not about to look like the poor country cousin by comparison. And if he’s doing my face, he might as well do yours, too.”
Constance thought about it and closed her mouth, and so it was that when we entered the Marsden Manor ballroom an hour and a half later—Constance on Francis’s arm, and I on Christopher’s—we both looked as good as we ever had.
Constance was in her rose-colored frock, which brought out that British roses-and-cream complexion and the flush in her cheeks, while Christopher had talked me into an ivory silk crepe gown on our shopping expedition the week before. It was deceptively simple, with beaded embroidery along the square neckline and at the dropped waist, and a fluttery handkerchief hem that danced around my knees when I walked. Francis took one look at me and let out a whoop of laughter.
“What?” I sniffed.
His lips twitched. “You’re determined to kill him, aren’t you?”
“I beg your pardon? Christopher talked me into this frock, I’ll have you know.”
“Of course he did.” Francis turned to his brother. “He’s going to murder you, Kit. You know that, don’t you?”
Christopher hummed, but didn’t respond beyond that. Nor did he look at either of us, just kept his attention fixed on the ceiling.
“Who’s going to murder Christopher?” I wanted to know, glancing from one to the other of them. “And for what reason?”
“St George,” Francis said.
I scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. St George adores Christopher. He’d never hurt him. And what’s wrong with my frock, pray tell?”
“Nothing at all,” Francis said, giving it another once-over. “You look lovely, Pipsqueak. Just like a bride on her wedding day.” His lips twitched again.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s only to the wedding itself that one is not supposed to wear white, Francis. This is an engagement party, and white—or ivory; this is ivory, I’ll have you know—ivory is fair game. The bride-to-be will likely be wearing black.”
Constance made a face. “Surely not for her own engagement party?”
