I flicked him a glance. “Don’t you mean that he’s not as immoral as your cousin?”
“No,” Christopher said. “I said what I meant, and I meant what I said.”
“Rivers is dead,” I pointed out. “You shouldn’t speak about him that way.”
“Dead, schmed,” Christopher said. “He was a dope dealer. He got Ronnie Blanton hooked on cocaine, and I hold him at least partially responsible for that mess we found ourselves in during Crispin’s birthday in June. The fact that he’s dead now too, doesn’t change what he was.”
I supposed it didn’t. “Nice company we keep.”
He snorted. “Isn’t it just?”
“Have you spoken to St George? His father was chewing him out earlier, and I can’t imagine that this day has been particularly easy for him, with two of his friends dead.”
“I haven’t.” He flicked me a look. “He’s over there, with Laetitia and her parents and Uncle Harold. He looks intact from here, although you could go over and inquire as to his health. I would pay money to see that.”
I made a face. “No, thank you. He made that bed. Better let him get used to lying in it.”
“Cold,” Christopher opined.
I shrugged. “That’s going to be his family for the rest of his life. I can’t spend the rest of mine trying to rescue him from himself.”
Wolfgang had been looking from one to the other of us during this exchange. Now he said, “You spend a lot of time worrying about your cousin.”
“He’s not my cousin,” I said, at the same time as Christopher said, “With good reason.”
“Can the young man not take care of himself?”
“Of course he can. But that doesn’t mean we don’t worry.”
“What’s to worry about?” Wolfgang wanted to know, eyes on the table where Crispin sat, looking cross, surrounded by his father, his fiancée, and his future parents-in-law. Laetitia was gesticulating with the hand that sported the obscenely opulent Sutherland ring, and it caught the light and flashed it around the room.
“He’s engaged to a beautiful woman with a wealthy, titled family,” Wolfgang added, “one who is young enough to give him many children and lovely enough to assure that they are attractive…”
Christopher made a face. I did, too, but probably not for the same reason. “We’re more concerned with his future happiness than his progeny,” Christopher explained.
Wolfgang looked nonplussed. Perhaps he didn’t understand why a beautiful wife and lots of pretty children wouldn’t be enough for any man to be happy, and if he couldn’t, I didn’t think I could explain it to him.
But it didn’t matter anyway, because before I could say anything further, there was the sound of a motor outside, and a moment later, the long, sleek silhouette of the black mortuary car moved past the windows. It came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, followed a moment later by a standard police issue Crossley Tender.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I should have known what—orrather who—was coming. Of course I should have. I’m chagrined to say that the idea hadn’t even crossed my mind. When Tom appeared in the door to the drawing room, in a natty tweed suit and with his Homburg in hand, my mouth dropped open. Christopher’s eyes lit up, and I knew it was only the necessity for proper behavior that kept him in his seat instead of hurtling across the floor.
“Let me guess,” I said when I had got my voice back. “This is your doing?”
He removed his eyes from Tom to spare me a glance. “I rang him up, yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? We even discussed how we both wished Tom was here.” He didn’t answer, and I added, “Was it before or after Cecily died?”
“After,” Christopher said. “Although that wasn’t why. I simply thought he might want to know that someone had shot at us.”
Well, yes, of course he would want to know that. He has spent months ensuring that nothing bad happens to Christopher, including yanking him bodily out of questionable nightclubs before police raids begin. Police raids Tom only knows aboutbecause he’s a police officer. I’m certain there’s some sort of misconduct associated with that.
Not that I’m about to complain when it keeps Christopher safe, of course.
But yes, when I thought about it, it was not surprising at all that Tom seemed to have dropped whatever he was doing in London on a Saturday morning, to jump in the Crossley and motor to Dorset at breakneck speed. Of course he would do that if it was possible.
His first look once he stepped through the doorway had been for Christopher, of course. Tom’s hazel eyes had lingered for long enough to assure himself that nothing was wrong. I got the next look, and so did Wolfgang, surely only because he was sitting on the other side of Christopher.
