Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
It took a few seconds. I could practically feel the reluctance wafting from under the door. But Laetitia must have realized the futility in resisting, because after a moment or two, we heard the door unlock. Then it was pulled open.
Tom stood directly in front of it, and got the effect between the eyes.
I was off to the side, and didn’t. Not that it mattered, as I had seen it before.
Laetitia in her negligee, black and lacy like everything else she owned, looking like something that had stepped off a silver screen.
Tom blinked. And then blinked again. And then he got himself under control.
“Lady Laetitia.” He inclined his head politely, as if she were not standing in front of him in a shocking state of undress.
She tittered. “Detective-Sergeant.”
It was only then that someone moved—it might have been me, or perhaps it was Christopher, whose cheeks were bright pink with embarrassment. In either case, she realized that Tom wasn’t alone. She saw Christopher first, and then me. And then, finally, she noticed Crispin.
Unlike his cousin, he was pale. Paler than usual, and with eyes that had darkened from sparkling silver to something more like lead. Something flat and heavy. His jaw was tight, and his lips were pressed together into a thin line.
Laetitia took a step back. I wasn’t surprised. Had he been looking at me like that, I would have been tempted to do the same. “Crispin.”
Her voice shook a little, I was pleased to note.
“Laetitia.” His was perfectly steady and wonderfully cool. “Would you mind if we came in?”
I’m certain she minded, but there was nothing she could do but acquiesce, so that’s what she did.
“Thank you,” Tom said politely as he brushed past her into the suite. Christopher couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes, just followed Tom with his gaze fastened on the floor. His cheeks were still pink.
“Go on, Darling,” Crispin told me.
I shook my head. “You first.”
I didn’t want to leave him as the last one out in the hallway, with Laetitia guarding the door.
I wanted him inside with the rest of us, in case she tried to do something.
I couldn’t say what I thought she might do—kiss him?
Throw herself around his neck and start bawling?
—but either way, I didn’t want to give it a chance to happen.
Crispin sighed, but went. He must have recognized the tone in my voice and decided not to bother to stand on ceremony.
“Thank you,” I told Laetitia politely as I nudged Crispin across the threshold in front of me. She nodded, but she didn’t look at me; instead, she turned to follow him with her eyes. It took a moment before she closed the door behind us and trailed us into the suite’s sitting room.
It was a lovely space, with colorful Persian rugs and elegant furniture, as well as two tall windows looking out on Albemarle Street.
Or rather, at the sky above Albemarle Street, I suppose.
I could see the rooftops of the row of townhouses opposite, and then gray clouds above that.
At least it wasn’t raining today, nor particularly foggy, either.
No one sat. Instead, we all stayed on our feet and pivoted to face Laetitia.
She managed the concentrated regard for only a few seconds before she brushed past us all over to an upholstered armchair, where she sank down and crossed one leg over the other.
I assume it was supposed to evince confidence, but instead, it made her look defiant as she looked up at all of us. “What can I do for you?”
“You’ve been missing for five days,” Crispin said, and his voice was rough.
I wondered whether Laetitia knew the difference between what his voice sounded like when he was angry versus when he was distraught.
He sounded distraught, to someone who hadn’t seen him angry as many times as I had.
And Laetitia must have thought that he was, because she smiled warmly, meltingly, and raised a hand toward him.
“Darling. I’m sorry I worried you.”
When he didn’t move closer to take it, she let her hand drop into her lap again, but not without a little sigh that was probably meant to make him feel childish.
“I haven’t been worried,” Crispin said. “Your family, on the other hand—”
Laetitia tossed her head. Her glossy Dutch Boy bob swung. “Mummy knew I was motoring up to Town.”
“And when you didn’t arrive at Marsden House in a timely manner, she contacted Scotland Yard to report you missing.”
Laetitia followed Crispin’s glance to Tom, who was waiting placidly for his moment to pounce. She might not have realized that, either, but I could tell that he was just standing by for the right time.
“My apologies, Detective-Sergeant,” Laetitia said smoothly. “I didn’t intend for anyone to worry. I’m getting married in less than a week. I only wanted some time to myself before the wedding.”
I fought back a snort, albeit perhaps not as well as I should have done, since several of the others turned to look at me. “Pardon me,” I said, as if I had sneezed.
Crispin smirked. So did Christopher. For a moment, they looked so much alike it took my breath away.
“I suppose,” Tom said blandly, “it would surprise you to hear that someone asked His Grace, the Duke of Sutherland, for a ransom for your safe return, then.”
It wasn’t a question. Laetitia could probably hear the difference, but she treated it as a revelation, nonetheless. Her eyes—limpid blue and immaculately made up—flicked to Crispin and then widened. “A ransom? For me?”
I don’t know how she could have thought that anyone would believe her. Her affectation of shock was so badly done that a child could have done better.
“Just so,” Tom said. “You must not have seen the Times this morning.”
“The Times?” Laetitia’s brows drew together delicately. She glanced at the table, where a teacup and saucer sat next to a pot and a plate with crumbs on it. There was no newspaper. “No, I haven’t. They usually bring it up with my breakfast, but not today. Has something happened?”
“You might say that.” Tom pulled that morning’s paper from his pocket, much as a conjurer produces a rabbit from a hat. “Page 3.”
He handed it over. We all waited, more or less patiently, while Laetitia opened the paper to page 3. Her hands were shaking, or at least the paper vibrated slightly.
I could tell when she saw the article, and the accompanying picture.
She stiffened, and her fingers tightened, which made the newsprint make a crinkly sound.
Tom gave her enough time to peruse the short news item—just a paragraph long—before he added, blandly, “Would you like to change your statement?”
She looked up at him, and I could see—I think we could all see—the pretense stripping itself away.
“It was his idea,” she said eventually.
Tom glanced around. His eyes lit on the sofa on the other side of the coffee table from Laetitia, and he took a seat.
It was an attempt to talk to her at her level, I assume, instead of looming over her.
I’ll refrain from making the obvious comment about Laetitia’s level; you can take it as read.
After a momentary hesitation—and a glance from Tom—Crispin seated himself beside him.
Nobody looked at Christopher and myself, so we stayed where we were, in the background, although we did drift a bit closer to one another.
Neither of us said anything, but we exchanged a look, and Christopher reached out and took my hand.
The support felt good, and I needed it. He probably felt like he did, too.
“When you say it was his idea,” Tom said, “you mean the Graf von Natterdorff?”
Laetitia nodded. “I really just planned to come up to London for a few days before the wedding. Crispin and I—” She glanced at him under her lashes, “had an appointment at the stationers. And my wedding frock is at the dressmakers. I had a fitting.”
Which Crispin wouldn’t have been invited to, of course. It’s bad luck to see the bride and her gown before the wedding. She might even have attended the fitting. No one but us had known that she was missing, or more accurately, that she had been hiding from us on the upper floor of Brown’s Hotel.
“Is the fitting the reason you left Dorset a day before you were meeting His Grace for supper and the stationers?” Tom wanted to know.
Laetitia cast another glance at Crispin before she nodded. “It was the afternoon before.”
“So the afternoon of the day you motored up from Dorset. When did you meet Natterdorff?”
“That evening,” Laetitia said, with another toss of her head. She must dislike the question, because that was a gesture she employed when she was upset or otherwise feeling angry or ill at ease.
“The two of you had been in communication?”
I saw another hair-flip coming, but she reined it in at the last moment. “Yes.” Her tone was distinctly sullen, however.
“Why?” Crispin burst out.
Tom glanced at him, but didn’t interfere, so Crispin went on. “You knew he had kidnapped Philippa, and that he hit Kit over the head, and that he murdered someone. Why would you communicate with him?”
“He contacted me,” Laetitia said sulkily. “He needed help.”
Of that I had no doubt. He was wanted by Scotland Yard by the time he made it back to England. He was probably flat broke, too, having left all his earthly possessions behind on the freighter for Tom and Finch to confiscate. He would have needed money and assistance in getting back on his feet.
The question was why on earth he would contact Laetitia, of all people. She was wealthy, yes. In her own right, and also because she was engaged to Crispin, who had the entire Sutherland fortune at his disposal now.
But Crispin loved Christopher, and Wolfgang had hurt him. Crispin loved me (or so Christopher claimed), and Wolfgang had hurt me too. What had made him assume that Crispin’s fiancée would be of any help to him?