Cris sat, minding his posture and trying desperately to sit still, while Mrs Bagley scowled affectionately and made room for them both.
Bertie plonked down next to Cris, cactus on his lap.
“Crispy, my dear fellow, you do look peaky. You must be terribly worn down. The funeral was ghastly, I suspect?”
“Utterly. All of my sisters were there. All of them.” Cris shuddered to recall his trying morning. “They enjoyed themselves tremendously, of course. Wept a great deal, even wailed once in a while. London now has a decided surfeit of damp handkerchiefs.” He’d not seen the like since his brother’s funeral, when they’d all been much younger, with more excuses for pejorative histrionics. One might hope sisters would have grown out of such things. Or at least cry less for a lesser man. Apparently not.
Bertie looked imploringly at his housekeeper. “Might we have tea, please, Eudora my dove? I ask not for me, of course, but for my dear bereaved friend.”
Mrs Bagley rolled her eyes and left the conservatory without comment.
Bertie turned back to Cris. “Are the sisters still trying to marry you off?”
“Desperately. They even brought prospects to the funeral.” Cris rolled his shoulders back and assumed a falsetto voice. “Oh Crispin, darling, have you met my husband’s second cousin Patricia? She’s doing very interesting things with cross-stitching these days. Or Eugenia – have you met Eugenia? Eugenia collects pen nibs, I’ll have you know.”
Bertie grimaced. “You poor fellow. It’s one of my great joys in life that I was never saddled with sisters.”
“Count those blessings, Bertie, do.”
Bertie’s expression turned suddenly serious. Certainly more serious than a funeral warranted. “You don’t owe the world for what he was, old fellow. You know that, don’t you? You can’t fix the sins of your father. None of us can. ’Specially when the bounder’s dead.”
But Crispin did owe the world and he would try. Because his father had been a rat bastard, squeezing and taking and abusing, and Crispin had built his whole life around being something that wasn’t that. It was part of the reason he worked for the War Office.
He fiddled with a sherd of flowerpot. “Best thing the blighter’s ever done, die. Now, if we might get on? What exactly am I doing here? Not that I don’t enjoy a visit. But even you can’t have simply invited me ’round to show off your latest prickly acquisition. Well, I mean you can have, but even you rarely stoop so low on the day of a family funeral. Please tell me you have some useful employment for me? How may I serve my country today?”
“Actually, I do have something for you, Crispy.” There was a set to Bertie’s eyebrows that suggested Cris wasn’t going to like the next bit. He wracked his brain to think who might be back from a mission and ready to go out into the fray again.
“Oh no. Not Sparkles.” He pointed the bit of broken flowerpot at Bertie, accusingly.
Bertie coughed. “I’m afraid so, old chap. We’ve activated the Honey Bee Initiative.”
“Oh no, Bertie, please say you didn’t. Not after I just spent all day with my sisters.” Cris hopped up and started pacing. The Honey Bee called for pacing.
“She’s really very good. I don’t know why she frustrates you so.”
“You wouldn’t. You get along with everyone. That’s why you’re so good at your job. But honestly, she’s so much work for whoever is assigned to be safety. She’s always wandering off.”
“That’s your complaint?”
Cris thumped back on the bench and slouched, tilting his head to look up and out the vaulted glass ceiling of Bertie’s conservatory. He intended this to show Bertie the depths of his frustration. He could see the occasional dirigible bobbing by. He knew there were stars beyond, but London was so bright at night in these times of ready gaslight, it was near impossible to see them. Cris missed the stars.
Honey Bee. Of course it would be.
She was one of the best the War Office had on retainer, for the gentler jobs. Trained at the greatest Finishing School ever to float. Exactly the right combination of pretty, charming, and evasive. (Although not particularly bloodthirsty, thank heavens. He got the impression that the Honey Bee didn’t enjoy actually hurting people. This was regarded as a minor failing by the uppity-ups, which is why they so often paired her with a soldier like Cris. Soldiers could kill if necessary.)
Sir Crispin found her sweet enough to be difficult, chattery enough to be annoying, and jolly enough to affect even his unflappable demeanor. Even knowing she was capable, Cris worried about her constantly when they were on a mission together. This was, of course, one of her skills – convincing others that she needed looking after.
Silence had stretched while Bertie stared at him.
“There is also her hair to consider.” Cris tried to defend his position. He’d lost sleep over that hair.
“Her hair? What on earth’s wrong with it?”
Cris shrugged, realizing he’d made a gaffe. “There’s a lot of it, that’s all.” It was sort of buttery and curly and a little wild. He wanted to run his fingers through it, press his cheek into it. He was going to add something about her skin too, which was creamy and probably petal soft, but that would surely put him in danger of discovery. The Honey Bee was prone to driving his fancies into places only his bounder of a father would understand. Cris didn’t want to take advantage of Sparkles, never that.
Except that of course he did want, wanted so very much to corrupt her in the worst way, and therein lay a massive, creamy-skinned, honey-haired mess of a problem.
Bertie was looking at him oddly, but fortunately, Mrs Bagley came in carrying a generous tea tray, which she set down with a clatter.
Cris stood to help her settle it – it looked a bit heavy.
Bertie’s expression was all excitement. “Are those roly-poly puddings? Delightful! Thank you, Eudora.”
Mrs Bagley glared at her employer. “You aren’t abusing poor Sir Crispin, are you, Mr Luckinbill?”
“Only in the line of duty.”
“No more roly-poly for you then. Savor these, for they will be your last.” At which she whirled and departed.
Bertie looked after her with soft eyes. “Hard-hearted female.”
“Nice to know she’s on my side,” said Cris, shifting forwards and trying to show a little enthusiasm for the kindness in the offer of tea, if not for the tea itself.
“Women usually are.” Bertie gave him the same look he’d been giving him since Eton.
“All except Sparkles,” replied Cris. Because she was remarkably resistant to his charms.
“All except her.” Bertie, clearly pleased about this, poured them both tea, adding sugar to his and milk to Crispin’s without having to ask. “Why is that, do you feel?”
Cris took the teacup, but set it down without drinking any. He was already sloshing from a day spent commiserating with the bereaved – no need to exacerbate the situation. “She took me in instant dislike, apparently. And she reminds me of my sisters. It allows us to eschew any formality of manner, not to mention prospective affection.”