Chapter 15 #3
Crispin smothered a laugh. “Swiss Army instructors don’t appeal to me the way they do to you, Kit. But if you want me there, of course I’ll come.”
Christopher smiled, pleased. “It’s settled, then. We’re going to Harrods.”
He smirked at Tom, who rolled his eyes. “Just stay out of my way.”
“Of course,” I promised. “We wouldn’t dream of interfering. Would we?”
Crispin and Christopher both shook their heads, preternaturally solemn.
Tom had already been to Marsden House this morning, to update the family on last night’s botched operation, and to ascertain that Laetitia hadn’t made it there under her own steam after killing Leonid Novikov.
She hadn’t, and the duty was done, so we decided it would be acceptable for us to simply omit that particular visit.
We had nothing new to tell them, and as Crispin had pointed out, Laetitia’s parents might prefer him to stay by their side while they all waited for news of their daughter, sister, and fiancée.
I, meanwhile, wasn’t entirely certain why Christopher was so adamant about visiting Harrods.
I felt pretty comfortable saying that his voluble excitement about the Swiss skiing instructors was a means of getting Tom to show some sort of interest, perhaps even a declaration of sorts.
From everything I knew about it—and Christopher was fairly closed-mouthed—he and Tom did not have any kind of an understanding.
In fact, I wasn’t entirely certain Tom was queer, to any degree whatsoever.
Christopher was smitten; I knew that. I also knew that Tom went out of his way to come to Christopher’s rescue whenever necessary, but that didn’t necessarily prove romantic interest, either.
So I supposed the preoccupation with the dashing foreigners was simply a way to draw Tom out and perhaps to get him to admit something.
That, and of course the fact that we really were behind on Christmas shopping and hadn’t bought anything for the happy couple on their happy occasion.
“How about a cake spade?” I suggested an hour later, as we wandered about inside Harrods looking at lovely, expensive things.
“The better to dig himself out of trouble, do you mean?”
“I’d rather a nice shovel for that,” Crispin told Christopher over his shoulder, “as I doubt the cake spade would be big enough to do the job.”
“Planning to do a lot of shoveling, do you?”
Crispin shrugged, and I said, “I rather thought it would serve the purpose of digging his own grave, but I suppose either scenario works, really.”
Crispin didn’t answer, and I added, “How about a nice paperweight? Works for head-bashing as well as paperwork, and is equally useful for either spouse.”
He gave me an incredulous look. “Really, Darling? Head-bashing, after what happened to that poor chap last night?”
I huffed. “That poor chap, as you call him, scared the life out of me yesterday morning. I have no sympathy to spare for him.”
Not entirely true, of course. I didn’t want anyone to die, and to be murdered by your business associate and partner in crime must be especially galling.
“Why am I not surprised?” Crispin asked.
“I have no idea,” I told him. “I have all the sympathy in the world for you, having to marry Laetitia and spend the rest of your life with her. It’s a fate I wouldn’t wish on my own worst enemy.”
He turned around and walked backwards so he could talk to me. “I thought I was your own worst enemy?”
“You are. And I don’t wish her on you. Nobody deserves that.”
He arched that brow again and turned back around. “If I didn’t know better,” he told me over his shoulder, “I might almost believe you care.”
“It’s a good thing you know better, then.” I turned to Christopher. “I suppose you still want to see the skiing instructors, even if Tom isn’t with us to see you ogle them?”
“We’re here,” Christopher said, without showing any signs of embarrassment whatsoever, “so we may as well. Don’t you agree?”
“Of course. I never object to looking at a handsome foreigner. Where may they be found?”
“In sporting equipment,” my cousin said, “where else?”
Of course. “Shall we?”
“Might as well,” Christopher agreed, while beside him, Crispin muttered something sour.
I want to make it clear first of all that I trust my cousin.
Christopher has his moments of dishonesty and deceit, of course, just like everyone else, but it’s rare that he out and out lies, at least to me.
So it wasn’t that I hadn’t believed him when he’d told me about the snow and the Swiss Army instructors.
I had. I did. But I still wasn’t prepared to walk onto the sporting equipment floor at Harrods and see a ski slope covered in what looked like powdery snow, surrounded by pine trees, and with men and women with skis and poles moving up and down on it.
I was even less prepared to see that one of them was Lady Violet Cummings, in a pair of wool trousers and a jumper, with a knitted hat over her blond hair and a scarf wrapped around her neck.
She was clinging to a strapping specimen in a belted jacket, her cheeks were flushed red, and she was breathless with laughter.
We watched as he guided her gently to the bottom of the slope, where a salesman took her poles and helped her off with the skis. She clung to him, too, and laughed up at him.
By the time she was back in her usual shoes, she had noticed us standing there, and came running.
Her peroxide-blond bob bounced with every step, and her blue eyes sparkled.
For the first time, I thought I could see what Crispin had seen in her—unless, of course, he had merely seen a pretty face and a willing spirit.
“Crispin!” She leaned in to kiss his cheek, and in justice to her, I will say that she didn’t linger any longer than necessary. “Any word from Laetitia?”
He hesitated. Visibly. There had been words about Laetitia, of course, but none from her. No proof of life, if I could call it that.
Violet must have realized it, because she grabbed his hand and held it between both of hers, her expression deeply sympathetic. “I’m so sorry, Crispin. I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”
No, she couldn’t. None of us had told her about the kidnapping and the ransom demand and the dead body, so unless she knew about it on her own, she had no idea how bad it was.
“You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do, won’t you?” She swayed a bit closer. Her eyes were half-lidded, and she was peering up at him under lowered lashes.
Crispin, for all his vaunted expertise with women, looked uncomfortable.
I cleared my throat, and Violet froze, and then swayed back into her own space again.
A second passed while her eyes lingered on Crispin’s face, but eventually she must have realized that she was pushing her luck beyond what even she was comfortable with, and she turned to me with a practiced smile.
“Miss Darling. And Mr. Astley. How nice to see you again. Are you meeting your fiancé here?”