Chapter 7 #2
Olivia shook her head. She’s a pretty girl, too—all the ones surrounding Crispin tend to be—with glossy, mahogany curls and dimples.
“I’m afraid not. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Letty.
She’s not much for the party scene anymore—not since she settled down, you know—and I’ve been busy with Reggie.
I guess the last time I saw her was sometime in October.
We went to see Violet together, and then she pushed off for lunch. ”
“Did she say with whom?”
“I assumed Crispin,” Olivia said, with a glance at him, “but when I told her to say hello, she looked a bit peculiar, so perhaps not. Sorry.”
“Did you ask?”
She shot me a look. “That would be a bit impolite, wouldn’t it? If she had wanted me to know, she would have told me.”
So one would think. It sounded as if this was the same occasion that Violet had referenced.
“Was that the last time you saw Violet?” I wanted to know, and she gave me another look, this one incredulous.
“Of course not. I see Violet practically every day. Or every other day, anyway. Multiple times every week.”
I nodded. “I’m sure she must appreciate that.”
“She’s ever so much better now,” Olivia gushed, “and with Cecily gone and Serena married and Laetitia off doing wedding planning, it’s just the two of us left, really.”
She made a face. “I try not to let my time with Reggie interfere with the time I can spend with her. It’s really been difficult for her, you know. Between Cecily and Dom dying, and Geoffrey spending all those weeks in prison…”
“I’m sure it must have been very difficult for Violet,” I said dryly. “Thank you for your time, Miss Barnsley.”
“Say hullo to Reginald,” Crispin added. “Make sure I get an invitation to the wedding.”
He winked. She tittered. “You’ll be the first!”
She scurried off down the mews to the corner and the tube station. No motorcar for the Honorable Miss Barnsley, or perhaps it was garaged because she simply preferred to take public transport within London. Christopher and I don’t have a motorcar, either, so it’s not as if I had any room to talk.
I eyed the door she had come out of. “I don’t suppose it’s likely she has Laetitia hiding out in her flat, is it?”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Crispin said, “but we can knock. Perhaps she’ll answer.”
Whether she would or not would depend on the reason she was hiding out, I supposed. “There’s no reason she would be hiding from you, is there?”
“I can’t think of one.” He applied his knuckles to Olivia’s door. “Check the garage, Kit. Livvy doesn’t have a motorcar, so if there’s one in there, it isn’t hers.”
But the garage was empty, and if Laetitia was inside, she didn’t answer the door.
“Where to now?” Christopher wanted to know.
Crispin shrugged. “Bilge and Serena, I assume. Or Bilge, at least. We can probably find him at his club.”
“Would I be welcome at Bilge’s club?” I inquired, and they both turned to look at me.
“Perhaps not, Darling,” Crispin admitted after a moment. “My apologies. It’s so easy to forget that you’re a girl.”
Christopher snorted. I rolled my eyes. “Cheers, St George. What am I supposed to do while you’re lunching with Bilge, pray tell?
Is Bilge even going to know anything? It’s Lady Serena who’s Laetitia’s friend, isn’t it?
Wouldn’t she be more likely to know what’s going on with Laetitia than her husband? ”
“Perhaps Laetitia is meeting with her husband,” Christopher said.
It was Crispin’s turn to snort. “Are you suggesting that Laetitia is cuckolding me with Bilge Fortescue, Kit?”
“I wouldn’t expect Laetitia to be cuckolding you with anyone,” Christopher said calmly, “although you know her better than I do. If you think that’s something she’d do, I’d say Bilge is as likely a suspect as anyone else.”
“He and his wife seemed pretty tight in September,” I said, “although I don’t suppose one ever really knows. Do you think that’s what’s going on, St George?”
“That my affianced wife is being unfaithful?” If the prospect bothered him, it wasn’t evident from his tone, nor from the way he leaned languidly against the side of the Hispano-Suiza.
It was the posture of someone who hadn’t a care in the world.
“I wouldn’t have thought so, certainly. We’re newly engaged.
There hasn’t been time for her to get tired of me.
And my prospects—our prospects—are better than ever.
She betrothed herself to the Viscount St George. Now I’m the Duke of Sutherland.”
“And she hasn’t given you any idea that you’re…” I paused delicately, “falling short in any way?”
He scoffed. “Certainly not. If you’re insinuating what I think you’re insinuating—”
“I’m insinuating nothing,” I said, in spite of the fact that I was very much insinuating just what he thought.
If he could imply that I was insufficiently girlish, I could imply that he was insufficient in other areas.
“I’m simply wondering whether you’re failing to meet your fiancée’s expectations by being inadequate in some way. Lacking, if you will.”
Christopher’s lips twitched. So, after a second, did Crispin’s. “Touché, Darling. Please accept my apologies and stop retaliating.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I told him.
“It’s a legitimate question. If Laetitia finds your affections inadequate, she might be attempting to find satisfaction elsewhere.
We all know that you’re not in love with her.
Unless you’ve decided that your dream-girl isn’t your dream-girl after all, over the past couple of months? ”
He shook his head. Christopher was having a hard time keeping a straight face, although Crispin didn’t notice that.
“Then perhaps Laetitia got tired of feeling like she was second best,” I said, “and she decided to find someone who’d put her first.”
“Laetitia knew she was second best when she accepted my proposal,” Crispin answered. “It’s never bothered her before.”
“That doesn’t mean it might not be bothering her now. She’s in love with you, I suppose?”
“Of course she’s not, Darling. She wants my property and my money, and she wants to be Duchess of Sutherland, but this isn’t true love on either of our parts.”
“Then is it possible that she may have found true love elsewhere?” Christopher still looked like he found the conversation amusing, but at least he wasn’t actively trying not to laugh out loud anymore.
“With Bilge Fortescue?” Crispin’s face was a study in disdain. “Perish the thought.”
After a second he added, “Besides, Laetitia had her chance to land Bilge. She and Serena came out at the same time a couple of years before you and I came down from university. If Bilge was in the market for a wife, she could have had him had she wanted him.”
“I got the impression he was in love with his wife,” I said, “so I’m not certain you’re right about that. Then again, if Bilge is in love with Serena, he isn’t likely to be running around with Laetitia on the side, is he?”
We stood in silence a moment. “I still think we should talk to Serena, at least,” Christopher said. “She and Laetitia are friends. She might know something.”
Crispin shrugged. “The Fortescues are back in Mayfair. Hop in and we’ll head that way. I should check in with Rogers again anyway.”
He fitted himself behind the wheel while I crawled into the back seat and Christopher made himself comfortable in the front.
“It wouldn’t hurt to stop by Marsden House, too,” I said, and Crispin nodded.
“For all we know, she has rolled out of bed and is back by now.”
That wasn’t exactly how I would have put it, but certainly.
Christopher, meanwhile, was still back on trying to figure out who may have shared that bed with Laetitia. “If not Bilge Fortescue,” he said, “and I assume not Reginald Fish, if he’s lunching with Olivia Barnsley, and if Dominic Rivers is dead, who could Laetitia be seeing?”
“We don’t know that she’s seeing anyone,” Crispin said as he turned the motor on and we rattled across the cobbles toward the road up ahead.
“But if she is, it isn’t necessarily someone who was invited to the engagement party.
If I were having a dalliance, I’d keep my fiancé and my mistress on separate continents, as much as possible. ”
“I’m sure she’s not on the Continent,” Christopher said, and Crispin rolled his eyes in the rearview mirror, “but I see your point. Who else do you know, who might be a contender?”
“Hutchie is in prison,” Crispin said, “and so is Graham Ogilvie. Blanton is in rehab, and he isn’t Laetitia’s type anyway. Dom’s dead—”
“What is Laetitia’s type?” I interrupted.
He shot me a look in the mirror. “You’re looking at him, Darling.”
It was tempting to recite a list of all his worst attributes—no doubt it was what he expected—so I decided to play it straight instead, and throw him off that way. “Young, wealthy, titled, and good-looking? Not necessarily in that order?”
Wealthy, titled, good-looking, and young. Or perhaps titled, wealthy, good-looking, and young. I wasn’t in doubt about the first two, for the record.
Crispin smirked. “If you say so.”
“Well, it’s as you said, Pippa,” Christopher told me. “Crispin isn’t in love with her, so she went looking for someone who was.”
Obviously. But— “I meant aside from that. Or would that be enough? Anyone, as long as he loved her more than she loved him?”
“She does appreciate good looks,” Crispin said, and made a face when he caught my eyes in the mirror. “Yes, I know, Darling. Take it as said. She liked Dom because he was handsome. She liked going places with Geoffrey because he was handsome. She wouldn’t want to be seen with anyone ugly.”
“That takes Bilge out, then.”
“Bilge is not ugly,” Crispin said loyally.
“He’s no more than averagely attractive, and that’s for a man with money and a Mayfair house. He’s ginger and has a rabbity chin.”
Crispin shrugged. “Mine is not to judge.”
“Does that extend to the women you meet?”
He smirked. “Of course not. That’s different.”