Page 60 of Evil at the Essex House

“Graf.” He gave the barest of nods before he turned his attention back to me, with an insolent up-and-down motion of his eyes along the length of his nose. “Is that a new frock, Darling?”

Beside me, Wolfgang growled.

I ignored it, just as I ignored what I knew was going to be some sort of snide remark about it. “As a matter of fact it is.”

Crispin nodded. And said nothing.

“What?” I demanded.

His lips twitched. “I didn’t say anything, Darling.”

I removed my hand from Wolfgang’s arm and put it on my hip, along with my other hand on the other side. “I know you didn’t. What I want to know is why.”

“Why what, Darling?”

“Why didn’t you? Don’t you have anything to say? Don’t you want to tell me that I look like a peach, or a salmon, or an apricot, or something?”

His lips twitched again. “I don’t know why you would assume that, Darling.”

“You never have anything nice to say,” I told him.

“Is that so?” This time the lips twitched into a smirk, and he took his feet off the table and unwound, sinuously, into a sitting position, without ever taking his eyes off me. “Would you like me to tell you that you look lovely, Darling?”

His voice was so smooth it was practically a caress, or would have been without the distinctly malicious undertone.

“No,” I said petulantly. “I just don’t want you to tell me that I look like a vegetable.”

His eyebrow rose. “Vegetable?”

“You know what I mean. You always tell me that I look like a fruit or vegetable. Like a… a…” I cast about for something else that was vaguely salmon-colored. “A stalk of rhubarb or something.”

The smirk widened. “If you think you look like a stalk of rhubarb, I don’t know why you’d buy the frock, Darling.”

“I don’t think I look like a stalk of rhubarb,” I growled, while my hands clenched into fists. It was only the fact that we were standing—and sitting—in the Savoy lobby that kept me from smacking the smug expression right off his face. “You always find something less than complimentary to say about what I wear.”

Or something that sounds like a compliment but is, indeed, the opposite. Like the next thing that came out of his mouth.

“Not this time, Darling. The frock is very becoming. And that color looks good on you.”

His eyes flicked from the dress up to my flaming cheeks and back.

I narrowed my eyes. “I hate you, St George.”

He nodded. “I know, Darling. The feeling is mutual, I assure you. Are you ready to go?”

“I suppose so.” I turned to Wolfgang with the best smile I could muster while I was still vibrating with anger. “Thank you for supper. It was delightful to see you again.”

“We will do it again soon.”

He snatched up my hand and bowed over it, for far longer than necessary. This time, I’m fairly certain I heard a growl from Crispin, although it might have been just a scraping of the chair legs as he got to his feet.

“I will contact you,” Wolfgang told me, after he finally took his lips off the back of my hand and could use them to speak again.

I simpered. “I’ll look forward to it.”

And because I knew it would annoy Crispin, I held the hand Wolfgang had kissed against my breast while he turned to click his heels and bow to the others. “HerrAstley. Lord St George.”

“Good evening,” Christopher said politely, while Crispin said something I couldn’t make out, although it certainly wasn’t wishes for a good night.