Page 6 of Evil at the Essex House
He shook his head. “I’m just going to run down to the public call box for a minute.”
I tilted my head the other way. “Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”
He smiled. “Of course, Pippa. Just a quick ring for Crispin.”
“St George? What does Tom want with him?”
And why hadn’t he just contacted Crispin himself, instead of involving Christopher? Tom knew where to find St George.
After a second I added, suspiciously, “He’s not coming up to Town, is he? Remember what happened the last time one of us went somewhere with him.”
(In a word, murder. Or in a few more: driving around London with a dead body in the back of the motorcar, and almost getting caught in a police raid, before leaving said body under a tree in Hyde Park. It’s a long story.)
His lips twitched. “That was your fault, Pippa. You were the one who convinced him to put on a gown and crash a drag ball. None of that was his fault. Or mine, either.”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s the one who wanted to go out and celebrate his birthday. And we wouldn’t have been there in the first place if not for you.”
Although seeing the most eligible bachelor in England, heir to the Sutherland dukedom, in a beaded evening gown and makeup had almost been worth what came later.
Almost.
“At any rate,” Christopher said, “I’m going to run down the street to the call box. I’ll be up in five or ten minutes.”
I nodded. “Give him my?—”
He smirked, and I made a face. “Regards, Christopher. Give him my regards. I have no love to spare where St George is concerned, and you know it. Stop trying to pretend something is going on when you know there isn’t.”
“Yes, Pippa.” But he was still smirking when he turned for the door.
“You’d better not, Christopher,” I told his back threateningly. “If I find out that you’ve been telling St George that I’m sending him love, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
“Yes, Pippa.” He ducked through the door and out. I huffed and turned back to Evans.
“I’ll take the telegram up to Miss Schlomsky, Evans. Any message?”
Evans shook his head. “No, Miss Darling. You were here when it was delivered. You know as much as I do.”
Of course. “I’ll see you later, then, Evans.”
I headed for the lift.
Miss Florence Schlomskyhas been a neighbor of Christopher’s and mine in the Essex House Mansions since we moved in early in the year. At that point, I believe she had been in London just a few months herself. We never have gotten on well, as she’s everything I particularly abhor in a woman. Or practically everything, anyway. Since meeting Flossie, I have met a few other specimens that have actually been worse, but she’s still not one of my favorite persons.
She’s American, for one thing. And while being an American doesn’t necessarily indicate that someone is vulgar, Flossie is definitely vulgar. She’s brash, and loud, and approximately as delicate as sandpaper. She also has the personality of a steam roller, and she doesn’t slow down for anyone or anything. She latched onto Christopher as soon as she realized that he was the grandson of a duke, and I had to spend time making certain that she wasn’t terrorizing him. And then, a few months later, she made Crispin’s acquaintance, and while she—thankfully—turned her attentions to him instead of Christopher, that didn’t endear her to me any further.
She is also a gold-digger.
Or perhaps that’s not fair. Flossie has plenty of gold of her own. Her father is a big deal in America, somewhere she calls Toledo. Florence is the Toledo dime store heiress. So while she’s definitely mercenary, she’s not actually looking to marry for money. She is looking to trade her father’s money for a British title instead, or so it seems. She might have settled for Christopher, had he been interested. Heisthe grandson of the Duke of Sutherland—or was at the time—and he’s both young and handsome, something which isn’t necessarily true of all the unmarried gentlemen in England.
But then, of course, she met Crispin, and decided she’d rather have him instead.
And Crispin, being Crispin, was disinclined to discourage her. So the last time he’d been to the flat—on the aforementioned occasion when we’d gotten involved in the murder—I had had to take him away from her. In this very lift, in fact. She had had him backed into the corner by the button panel, and was busy assaulting his mouth (and possibly other parts of his person) when the lift arrived on our floor. I had had to physically remove him from her, and I doubt he had ever been able to remove her lipstick from his collar.
All of which is to say that Florence Schlomsky and I will never be bosom buddies. She is, however, a neighbor, and a very friendly sort, and I don’t think she actually minds that I do my best to remove both Christopher and Crispin from her clutches when she gets her hands on either one of them. When she pulled the door to her flat open, she gave me a big smile. “Hullo, Pippa!”
“Hello, Florence,” I said.
Christopher’s nickname for Flossie is ‘the American manhunter with the teeth,’ and it’s not inaccurate. We’ve all got teeth, of course, but Florence has more than the usual number, all very white and straight. And she’s not a bad-looking girl, for all that she is, again, a bit vulgar. She has bouncy, brown curls, and pink apple cheeks, and she loves anything that flutters, or sparkles, or shines. Tonight’s evening dress was a delicate shell pink, with a scalloped hem and sparkling beads in a fish-scale pattern all over the skirt. It must have cost a fortune, and I’ll admit to giving it an admiring glance or two before I told myself firmly that it was all the wrong color for me—shell pink makes me look washed out—and stuck my hand out.
