Page 19 of Peril in Piccadilly
Laetitia made a protesting little noise, and Crispin said. “Please don’t. In fact, I’ll tell you just so you won’t coo at me. I don’t think I could survive it.”
Christopher snorted, and Crispin shot him a look, but didn’t say anything. Not to him. To me, he said, “I don’t think you know them, anyway. In addition to the Marsdens and the Cummingses, there have been the Wickstroms and the Harrimans.”
“I don’t know either of them,” I said.
“Just as well,” Crispin answered. “Now close your eyes again and let me concentrate, Darling.”
“Philippa,” I said, and closed my eyes.
It wasn’t a long drive.The Marsden Town house was located in Mayfair, just a few blocks from Sutherland House. Christopher and I can’t afford Mayfair—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Uncle Herbert can’t, since he’s the one footing the bill for our flat.
Although that’s not entirely accurate, either, because of course he could afford it if he wanted to. Or if we wanted to. The Astleys have plenty of money. We had even been offered lodging in venerable Sutherland House when we first started talking about going up to London to live. Christopher and I had agreed, however, that Mayfair wasn’t necessary, nor was it desirable, and we certainly didn’t want to live anywhere where the Duke of Sutherland might show up without notice, or where the staff answered to him. We, or perhaps more specifically Christopher, would prefer something a bit less staid and stuffy, with rather less supervision. He had, after all, gone up to London in the hope of a different life than the one Wiltshire could offer him.
Again, not that we hadn’t been perfectly comfortable at Beckwith Place with Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert and Francis. There was no question about that. But rural Wiltshire isn’t exactly Soho, and the village charm—and village morality—was chafing a bit at a young chap who wanted to spread his wings and fly.
At any rate, we had compromised on the Essex House Mansions, a short drive from Mayfair in Crispin’s H6. London had woken up while we had been inside Marsden House: the sun had risen and the streets were full of pedestrians and other motorcars. Even so, it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes or so—fifteen mostly silent minutes—before Crispin pulled up in front of the Essex House Mansions and opened his door. “Out you come.”
He extended a hand to Christopher, who let himself be pulled from the backseat of the car in the manner of a cork from a bottle. Crispin turned to me, but when Laetitia cleared her throat, he took a step back, albeit not without a small grimace.
“You had better do it, Kit. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Nobody had better do it,” I said irritably as I hauled myself from the backseat and onto the cobblestones with no help. It hurt, and the pain made me irritable enough to tackle the issue head-on, in front of Laetitia. “Although I will say, St George, if this is how you’re going to treat your female relatives from now on, I’m not looking forward to it.”
Laetitia made a face, and so did Crispin. “Don’t worry about it, Darling,” he told me. “You won’t be here to see it, will you?”
“I won’t?” This was news to me, frankly.
“Of course not.” He curled his lip in a sneer. “You’ll be a distant memory soon. That German girl who spent some time with the family before she snagged herself a German nobleman and went back to Germany to live in luxury.”
For a moment, time itself, as well as my breath, suspended. My mouth dropped open as if he had socked me in the stomach. And it wasn’t only the accusation of being a gold-digger, to be clear, although that was bad enough. But beyond that, this came very close to the argument we had had (by letter) back in August; the argument that had culminated with me telling him to go cry on Laetitia’s shoulder, because he and she deserved one another. And while he was at it, he might as well propose to her, because I certainly didn’t care what he did.
Which he had then proceeded to do, instead of taking a step back and a moment to realize that we were both angry and that, after four months of telling him not to, I probably hadn’t really changed my mind and suddenly thought it was a good idea for him to throw his life away.
And now here he was again, the absolute tosser, throwing the land of my birth in my face and ripping open those wounds that had only just started to heal.
My hands curled into fists, in spite of the abrasions on my palms. My voice was breathless—with anger, I assure you—when I told him, “Go to hell, St George. And take your fiancée with you. And don’t show your face here again. How dare you accuse me of settling for a title and money, you bastard, when you?—”
But by that point Christopher had grabbed me around the waist and had hauled me to the door of the mansion block, which Evans was holding open. His eyes were wide as he took in the spectacle of Christopher having to hold me back from throwing myself bodily at St George and throttling him.
“Is everything all right, Miss Darling?”
“Fine,” I snarled as Christopher wrestled me across the threshold into the foyer. “Stop it, Christopher. You can put me down. I won’t go after him.”
I wanted to, but I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t have done it in the first place, curled fists notwithstanding.
My feet touched the floor of the foyer and Christopher removed his hands from my person. He smoothed down his jacket while I turned to Evans. “Everything is fine. Lord St George and Lady Laetitia were just leaving. And the next time he shows up here, you have my permission—no, the absolute privilege—to tell him that we’re not in to him.”
I stalked across the lobby towards the lift while Christopher headed back outside to bid his cousin and cousin-to-be goodbye.
ChapterFive
By the timeChristopher made it upstairs—he had to wait for the lift to come back down after I had used it—I was standing in the kitchenette watching the kettle boil while I muttered darkly under my breath. Christopher placing an envelope with my name on it on the counter in front of me didn’t improve my mood.
I slanted him a fulminating stare. “Where did you get this?”
“Evans gave it to me on my way in,” Christopher said as he began to unbutton his jacket. “I imagine you went by him too fast. Or perhaps he was afraid you would take his head clean off if he attempted to interfere with you.”
Perhaps he had done. It was a not invalid concern. I had been angry enough to commit violence five minutes ago, and I wasn’t much better now. I eyed the envelope with my name written across it in Wolfgang’s snarlyKurrentschriftwith a furrowed brow. “He didn’t waste any time, did he?”
