Page 13 of Evil at the Essex House
“To ruin my enjoyment of my new dress?”
“For you to think about him every time you put it on,” Christopher said. “Or at least every time someone pays you a compliment when you’re wearing it.”
I shook my head, and he hissed in annoyance. “Do that again, and you’ll end up with stripes.”
“Sorry. But you know St George doesn’t care about my opinion of him.”
“Sometimes, Pippa,” Christopher told me with a sigh, “for being such a smart woman, you can be very thick.”
“Excuse me?”
“Dense, darling.”
“I told you?—”
“You’re being stupid,” Christopher said bluntly. “And what’s more, I suspect you’re being stupid on purpose.”
I opened my mouth, and then closed it again when he went on. “Of course Crispin cares about your opinion. We all care about your opinion. Although that’s not at all what this is about.”
“What is it about, then?”
“The fact that my cousin would dearly love for you to spend twenty-four hours every single day thinking about him. He would like nothing better.”
He took a step back and eyed me critically.
“I knew it,” I said. “He’s trying to ruin my life.”
Christopher sighed. “Yes, Pippa. That’s what he’s trying to do. Ruin your life.”
He gestured. “Up you go. You’re as lovely as I can make you.”
I got to my feet and peered at myself in the mirror. “Well done, Christopher. You made me quite lovely indeed.”
“I had a good canvas to work on,” Christopher said as he started to put away the various pots and brushes he had used. “So you won’t go anywhere with him after supper. You’ll let one of the doormen at the Savoy put you into a Hackney, and you’ll come home alone.”
I nodded. “As discussed.”
Call me paranoidal—call both of us paranoidal—but neither of us knew theGrafwell, and we had no idea what his motives were for wanting to spend time with me. Hopefully they were innocent, and I would simply have a nice meal with someone who remembered me from my previous life and perhaps wanted to get to know me better, but Christopher had been adamant that I be careful.
In fact, he had threatened to lurk in the lobby of the Savoy all evening, to make sure nothing untoward happened to me. I had told him that that was unnecessary—nothing was likely to happen during supper at the Savoy, of all places—but he was still worried.
“And you’ll be careful about what you eat and drink,” he told me, not for the first time. “Don’t leave your glass unattended so he can put anything in it.”
I shook my head. “I think we’ve both learned that lesson.”
Back in May, Christopher had unintentionally imbibed a glass full of Veronal that someone had hoped would kill me, and he hadn’t woken up for days. It was lucky he had several stone on me, since I probably wouldn’t have woken up at all, had I been the one to drink it.
“Say it,” he told me sternly.
I sighed. “I promise. I’ll keep an eye on my glass at all times, and I won’t let anyone but the waiter put anything into it. The food from the kitchen should be safe, don’t you think?”
“It should be,” Christopher said grudgingly. “Look out for needles—don’t let him jab you with anything?—”
“Of course not.”
“And don’t let him share your cab. If he offers to, say no. I don’t care if he’s offended.”
I didn’t care, either. If it’s between offending someone, especially someone I didn’t yet care about, and being safe, I’ll choose safe every time.
