Page 101 of Death at the Dower House

I turned back to Crispin. “You know, you’re not the only one of us who can drive a motorcar. Perhapsyoushould sit in the back with Christopher, andIshould be behind the wheel.”

He stared at me, bug-eyed, for what felt like a full minute, opening and closing his mouth. “You—” he finally managed. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, can’t I? You don’t think women can drive motorcars?”

He opened his mouth and closed it again, since clearly there was a correct answer here, and he hadn’t been about to give it.

“It’s not that…” he tried. “It’s just… you…” He flapped his hands. “You can’t!”

I snorted. “It’s not as if I’m suggesting I wear your trousers, St George. It’s a motorcar. Anyone can drive it.”

“Not you! Notmymotorcar!”

I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him throw himself in front of it, arms extended, to physically keep me away.

“Then promise me you’ll drive carefully,” I said.

“I will!” He caught himself just before folding his hands in supplication. “I promise, Darling. I will be so careful you could balance an egg on a spoon the whole way home. I won’t go above thirty the whole way. I promise!”

Behind him, Francis handed Constance into the Bentley with exquisite care, and a broad grin on his face. When he noticed me looking at him, he winked.

“Very well,” I said and opened the back door of the Hispano-Suiza. Crispin let out a breath of air that I’m sure he would have preferred for me not to hear, but which was such a sigh of relief that he just hadn’t been able to keep it in.

I gave him a look down the length of my nose—not an easy task when he’s several inches taller than I am. “Help me with Christopher, please.”

He nodded eagerly. Anything to keep me in a good humor so I wouldn’t threaten his precious motorcar further, I assumed.

Between him and Francis, they had carried Christopher down from the first floor and made him comfortable in the back seat of the Hispano-Suiza. We had taken the liberty of borrowing a pillow from the Dower House, on which Christopher’s head was resting. I wiggled myself underneath it while Crispin held Christopher’s head up, and then we eased him back down into a comfortable position with his head in my lap. Through it all, Christopher continued to sleep the sleep of the innocent—or the deeply drugged—with his face peaceful and his breath even.

“Very well,” I told Crispin, as he latched the door behind me and made sure it was secure. “Home to Sutherland, if you please, St George. Carefully.”

“Yes, Darling,” Crispin said, and headed around the motorcar to the driver’s side to start the slow drive back to Wiltshire.