Page 32 of Evil at the Essex House

It took less than a second for my brain to catch up to my mouth, but by then it was too late. Christopher chuckled, and I made a face. “Drat.”

Crispin smirked. I could hear it all the way from Wiltshire. “Good evening, Darling.”

“Yes,” I said, “you too, St George. Damn you.”

“Now, now, Darling. We both knew it was only a matter of time before you accepted my pet-name for you. Two years is long enough, don’t you think?”

That statement truly didn’t deserve a response, so I didn’t give it one. Instead I stuck my nose in the air—Christopher saw it, even if Crispin didn’t—and told him, “Never mind that, St George. We have a question for you.”

“Do you, really?”

“Don’t play coy,” I said severely, “it doesn’t suit you.”

“Does it not? What behavior do you think suits me, Darling?”

“Stop flirting,” Christopher ordered, and I sniffed. “Serious question, Crispin.”

“Of course, old bean.”

“Evans said you left with Flossie Schlomsky yesterday evening, after we spoke.”

“Yes,” Crispin said, after a moment. “I told Philippa that. Didn’t I, Darling?”

“You told me that you’d seen her,” I said, “not that you’d gone off together.”

“Does it matter? We were going the same way, so I offered her a lift. What of it?”

“You were going to the Savoy,” Christopher said, and Crispin hummed in agreement. “Where was she going?”

“The Savoy, as well. She told me her parents were staying there, from America.”

“So you took her to the Savoy?”

“No,” Crispin said. “She asked to be left off down the road a bit. Didn’t want to risk her parents seeing her arrive in my motorcar, she said.”

He sounded disgruntled. Especially when he added, after a second’s pause, “Or perhaps it was my company she said her parents would object to.”

“Difficult to blame them for that,” I told him sweetly. “Most mothers wouldn’t want their daughters going about in your company, you know. You’re a terrible cad.”

“By all means, Darling,” Crispin said coolly. “It’s a good thing Lady Euphemia Marsden feels differently, isn’t it?”

I made a face. “Touché, St George. You win that round.”

His voice brightened. “Do I, really? Good of you to concede, Darling.”

“Don’t expect it to happen again,” I warned him. “Seriously, though… Flossie didn’t want to be seen in your company—or in your motorcar—in front of her parents?”

“That’s what she said,” Crispin confirmed. “It was a surprise, I’ll admit. It’s not as if I’m interested in Flossie Schlomsky, so it didn’t matter to me on a personal level, but it did come as a bit of a shock.”

I could well imagine. Given Flossie’s flat-out pursuit of him before, having her suddenly treat him likepersona non gratamust have… well, grated.

The thing is, one can’t really hope to find a more eligible bachelor in England these days than the Viscount St George. Crispin has a title and a fortune, not to mention good looks and nice manners. He would have charmed the bloomers right off of Mrs. Schlomsky given half a chance. If the Schlomskys wanted a son-in-law from the British aristocracy, they couldn’t have wished for better than St George. (Personality aside, of course.) So it made no sense why Flossie would have wanted to distance herself from him, especially when it would have been so easy not to.

But mine was not to reason why, so I left that whole wrinkle alone and went back to what we did know.

“So you set her down on the Strand.”

“As I said, Darling. Across the street from the Eleanor Cross, to be specific. It’s a five-minute walk to the Savoy, if that. And plenty of people out and about.”