Chapter 2 #2
He leaned forward, eyes flashing. “She’s not merely putting up with me, Darling. Laetitia is fond of me. And I’m fond of her—”
“Pshaw!” I spat. “She wants you for your title and your money. She wants to be Duchess of Sutherland. And yes, I’m sure she wants you because you’re…”
I waved a hand disparagingly over him, from platinum blond crown to the expensive silk stockings on his unshod feet, “—Crispin Astley, Viscount St George, Duke of Sutherland. Handsome, rich, titled. Blah, blah, blah. Who wouldn’t want you?”
“You, apparently,” Crispin muttered.
I stuffed my hands on my hips and stared him down. “That’s true. If I wanted a title and money, I would have gone to Germany with Wolfgang and claimed my own. I certainly wouldn’t agree to marry you for yours.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t, Darling. Now, get to the point, if you will. We all know how you feel about me.”
“The point is that we want you to be happy.” I glanced at Christopher, who nodded agreement. “And we don’t see how that’s going to work when you’re set on marrying a woman who wants you not because you’re you, but because you’re the Duke of Sutherland.”
He opened his mouth, presumably to reiterate that Laetitia was fond of him, and I continued. “Don’t you want a wife who’d want you even if you weren’t the most eligible bachelor in England? If you were, say, the butler? Or simply the youngest son of Lord Herbert Astley?”
“If I were the youngest son of Lord Herbert Astley,” Crispin pointed out, “I would be the son of the Duke of Sutherland, because my father would have died without an heir.”
And his brother would have moved into the succession. Yes, yes.
“You know what I mean. And you are the youngest son of Lord Herbert Astley. It’s just that no one knows it.”
“If you ask me,” Christopher muttered, “too many people know it.”
Crispin nodded. “Any day now, I’m afraid someone is going to put it together and it’ll be front page news.”
They exchanged a commiserative look down the length of the Chesterfield.
“Right now,” I said critically, “I’m not sure if even that would be enough to knock Agatha Christie off the front page.”
He made a face, and I added, “Although even if someone were to put it together, it’s not as if they can prove it, you know. If you want to continue to be the Duke of Sutherland, you can be. No one’s likely to take it away from you.”
Crispin squinted at me. “When you say if…?”
“I mean that you don’t have to be the Duke of Sutherland if you don’t want to be. Especially since you’re not actually the Duke of Sutherland.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m most certainly the Duke of Sutherland, Darling. I’m the late duke’s acknowledged heir, whether I’m his biological son or not. I was brought up to be the Duke of Sutherland.”
“Of course you were. But being the Duke of Sutherland is a choice. You could give up the title, and let Uncle Herbert take it. And then you’d know whether Laetitia is marrying you for you, or for the title and money.”
“That would be rather a big sacrifice for something like that,” Crispin said dryly. “Perhaps I simply don’t care whether she wants me for me or because I’m the Duke of Sutherland. Perhaps all I care about is that she’ll look good on my arm when we go out together and that we’ll make pretty babies.”
“In that case,” I told him, “I suppose you’re getting what you deserve. And may God have pity on your soul.”
Crispin rolled his eyes. Christopher looked from him to me and back. “One of these days, the two of you are going to put me into an early grave. If you’d just admit—”
“Yes, yes.” Crispin waved him off. “Never mind, Kit.”
“She’s trying to tell you something, Crispin—”
“I am not,” I said, offended.
Crispin gave me a sardonic look. “And I appreciate the concern for my wellbeing, Darling. But there really isn’t much I can do about it at this point.”
“You can tell her the wedding is off, and take your lumps—and the breach of promise suit. It’ll be expensive, but you’d be free.”
He opened his mouth, I assumed to argue, and I went on before he could do. “Or you can give up the title and money, and see whether it wouldn’t be enough to shake her loose. My bet is it would be. She might be fond of you, but not so fond that she’ll marry you if you aren’t the Duke of Sutherland.”
“Or you could elope,” Christopher said again. “If Scotland isn’t an option, and England needs the banns read, then book passage on a liner to New York and when you hit international waters, ask the captain to marry you.”
From the expression on Crispin’s face, it seemed like he might actually be considering it.
I snorted. “He might not want to marry the captain of an ocean liner, you know.”
Christopher gave me a crushing look. “That wasn’t what I meant, Pippa, and you know it. What I meant was that he should marry—”
“Yes, Christopher,” I cut him off, “I know what you meant. No need to spell it out. Just tell the truth, St George. If you don’t want to marry Laetitia, tell her so.
Give her an excuse if you have to—your father just died, and it would be in the poorest of taste to throw a lavish wedding celebration less than two weeks after putting him in the ground. ”
“Can’t argue with that,” Christopher nodded, and Crispin scoffed.
“Maybe you can’t. Laetitia is another story.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “You already tried that excuse, and she wouldn’t hear of it.”
He shrugged. “I’m all alone in the world now, don’t you know? An orphan. The sooner I start building my own family, the better.”
Christopher snorted. “What are we, then? Chopped liver?”
“You’re hardly an orphan,” I said. “Your biological father is alive and well. You have two brothers and a stepmother.” And me, a pseudo-sister.
“You know that,” Crispin said, “but Laetitia doesn’t.”
And here we were, after another conversational circuit.
“Then tell her. Tell her you’re Christopher’s brother and Uncle Herbert’s son, and not really the legitimate Duke of Sutherland at all. And watch how quickly she breaks the engagement. And voila—” I snapped my fingers, “—no fiancée and no wedding.”
He didn’t answer. I heaved a sigh. “We can tell you, St George, but if you’re not going to listen, there’s no point.
I’m going to the kitchen now. When I come back, I want to discuss something else.
Anything else. But preferably something interesting, like murder.
Bonus points if it’s Laetitia’s murder.”
Christopher’s lips twitched. Crispin nodded. “Yes, Darling. Whatever you say, Darling.”
I huffed and rose to my feet. “Just out of curiosity, did you ever finish reading Clouds of Witness?”
The most recent Lord Peter Wimsey mystery had been released earlier this year, and I had devoured it as soon as it became available.
Crispin had taken longer to get to it, but I had seen the book on his bedside table at Sutherland Hall a couple of weeks ago, and had determined at the time to do my best to spoil the ending for him.
But then Uncle Harold had died, and I had found other things to worry about.
Now seemed an opportune time to bring it back up.
Crispin sighed. “I’m not even going to ask how you know that, Darling.”
“Saw it on your bedside table,” I said. “It was quite an ingenious ending, don’t you think? How His Grace, the Duke of Denver, got off in the end because the victim—”
“Yes, Darling. I finished it.”
“Oh.” Pity. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“I didn’t say I enjoyed it, Darling. Just that I finished. Before you could ruin it for me.”
“Well,” I said crossly, as I stomped across the floor toward the kitchenette, “I’m delighted to hear it.”
“I’m sure you are.” I could hear the smirk even without looking at him.
The two of them kept up a low-voiced conversation as I arranged cucumber sandwiches and nuts and little gherkins on a plate.
Their voices were too low for me to hear what they were saying, but it was clear that Christopher was encouraging Crispin to do something, and equally clear that Crispin was resisting.
Status quo, in other words. Unless they were talking about something other than Crispin’s upcoming nuptials and the fact that he was currently in possession of a title not rightfully his own.
Then again, I mused, as I nestled crackers and cheese onto the tray, who’s to say what rightfully belongs to someone else?
Crispin was right about one thing: he was the late Duke of Sutherland’s acknowledged heir, whether he was Uncle Harold’s legitimate son or not.
And Uncle Harold knew that he wasn’t Crispin’s biological father, so no one could take the title away from him on those grounds.
The former duke had trained him for the position.
And Uncle Harold had kept on keeping on after he discovered the truth about Crispin’s parentage, so he had clearly wanted—as if the half dozen murders hadn’t been proof enough—for Crispin to become the next Duke of Sutherland.
If the fact that Crispin was Uncle Herbert’s son, and not Uncle Harold’s, hadn’t been enough to dissuade His late Grace, it oughtn’t to be enough to dissuade anyone else either.
Of course, Uncle Harold hadn’t had much of a choice, had he?
He could have chosen not to commit multiple murders to try to keep things quiet, of course—that was a choice he had had—but in truth, he had only had the choice between accepting Crispin as his heir, in spite of knowing he was Uncle Herbert’s son, or letting Herbert take the title.
Under the circumstances, perhaps accepting the status quo seemed like the lesser evil.
Crispin couldn’t help whose child he was, while Uncle Herbert had deliberately bedded Uncle Harold’s wife.
I could see why Uncle Harold wouldn’t want to reward him for it.
The rest of the world wasn’t likely to take such a sanguine view, naturally. Blood matters to a lot of people, and the Marsdens were probably among them.
Although it was possible that Laetitia wanted him—him, not the title and money—enough that she’d stick by him in spite of the scandal.
And perhaps the whole thing was moot anyway, since Crispin didn’t seem inclined to want to test her resolve.
I picked up the tray with a sigh and made my way back to the sitting room. “Let’s discuss tomorrow.”