Page 25 of Peril in Piccadilly
“Besides, even if we were both still single at thirty, and we did marry one another, did you really want to…?”
Christopher’s face twisted. “Bloody hell, no. No offense, Pippa, but that’s vile.”
I wouldn’t go as far as to use that particular word, but then I had precious little experience with which to reason. The idea of kissing him passionately was certainly off-putting—who wants to kiss their own brother, and that’s basically what he was to me?—but surely something like that, or worse, would be required?
“Well,” I said, “then how did you think we would manage to make an heir? Through immaculate conception?”
“I rather imagined,” Christopher said, with no shame whatsoever, “that by then Crispin would have talked you around, and I’d help you bring up his children. It’s not likely that anyone would be able to tell the difference.”
It was my turn to pucker. “If anything is vile, Christopher, that is. You’d marry me while I was carrying on with your cousin—your married cousin—and between us, we’d bring up the illegitimate children? And you thought Laetitia would accept this? Let alone that I would?”
Because that would never happen. I didn’t want Crispin in the first place, but if he wanted me, he’d damn well better be willing to give up the title and fortune for me, rather than marry Laetitia and try to talk me into his bed on the side. It seemed like the least he could do.
“I’m meeting Wolfgang for tea,” I said firmly. “And you’ll do me the favor, Christopher, of not ringing up Wiltshire and dragging St George back up here for it. He has enough to deal with without that.”
“Probably won’t end up in Wiltshire anyway,” Christopher said, and he was most likely right about that.
ChapterSix
Wolfgang was waitingat the table when I walked into the Savoy tearoom later that afternoon. He got to his feet when the maître d’ escorted me across the floor, but he didn’t circle the table to pull out my chair. Perhaps I no longer merited the courtesy of his personal attention now that I had announced my opposition to moving to Germany. Or perhaps he simply felt that we were past the stage where he had to exert himself to impress me. Either way, I wasn’t certain I liked the portent.
I didn’t make a fuss, of course, because that would have been improper. Instead, I thanked the maître d’ graciously and smiled at Wolfgang as he sank back down on his chair again. “Good afternoon.”
He smiled back. “Philippa.”
If he was upset with me, it was not immediately visible.
“I didn’t think I would hear from you again so soon,” I said.
He looked politely confused, as if he couldn’t imagine why. “Because we parted on uncertain terms yesterday, do you mean? Of course not,mein Schatz. Cold feet are normal.”
He reached for my hand across the table. When I extended it to him, he looked down upon it with every appearance of shock. “What happened to you?”
The last half a day had been so eventful that it honestly surprised me that he didn’t already know. Last night felt so long ago. But of course it had all happened in the less than twenty-four hours since I had last seen him.
“I fell,” I said. “On my way home last night.”
“My dear.” He squeezed my fingers gently before letting go again. “I hope it wasn’t a motorcar?”
God forbid. I would have looked a lot worse had that been the case.
“Not at all,” I assured him. “A mishap on the stairs into the underground.”
He eyed me. “I wish you wouldn’t take the underground by yourself at night, Philippa.”
“It’s perfectly safe,” I said. “Not to mention a lot cheaper than a Hackney.”
And while Uncle Herbert seemed happy to provide, there was no reason to squander his money unnecessarily.
“I would have been happy to escort you home,” Wolfgang said. His tone held a subtle implication that the only reason he hadn’t done, was because I had left the restaurant in a snit, but it was mostly left unsaid. Or perhaps I imagined it, and there was no subtext whatsoever.
“I know you would have done,” I said peacefully, “although you don’t have a motorcar of your own either, you know, Wolfgang. There was no point in you paying to take me home and then going back to the Savoy. I was closer to home in Piccadilly, and you were closer to the Savoy.”
“A gentleman—” Wolfgang began stiffly, surely preparatory to telling me that it was his job to see me safe home, useless female that I was. Luckily, the waiter appeared before he could tell me what a gentleman should or shouldn’t do—as if I didn’t know the answer perfectly well already—and we ordered tea and cake. The waiter withdrew, but by now Wolfgang had wound down, and didn’t seem inclined to pick up the issue again.
“How bad is it?” he inquired instead, eyeing my hands. “Is that the only damage?”
“That and my knees. Although speaking of damage… you’ll never guess what happened last night.”
