Page 43 of Peril in Piccadilly
“Off you go,” I flapped my hand at Tom. “You know where to find us.”
He nodded, before putting the motorcar into gear and rolling off. We stood on the pavement and waited for the Crossley Tender to move out of the way, before we looked right and left and right again. “Need a hand?” I asked Christopher.
He smirked. “No, Pippa. I’m perfectly capable of walking in heels.”
He stepped from the pavement down into the street and turned to me. “In fact, you look like you’re having a bigger problem than I am.”
I was, in fact, teetering on the edge of the pavement and not looking forward to bending my knees to make the step down. It’s amazing how such a little thing as scabs can make it difficult to navigate daily life.
“I’ll be all right,” I said, and Christopher snorted.
“Of course you’d say that. Take my arm, Pippa. There’s no shame in needing help.”
I sniffed, but did it. “I made it home on my own last night, you’ll recall.”
He braced himself as I leaned on his arm, and then relaxed again when I was safely off the pavement. “I recall. With blood running down both your legs and hands. Come along.”
He put a hand against my lower back and headed across the street.
“Vehicle coming,” I said.
He nodded. “I see it. We’ll be all right.”
“It’s not slowing down.”
“The driver sees us,” Christopher said, and he—or perhaps she—must do, because the light from the headlamps had hit us by now, and while I didn’t stand out particularly well in my dark skirt and jacket, Christopher—in his pale pink frock and bare white arms and shoulders—ought to be as visible as a lamp himself. Nonetheless, the motorcar didn’t slow down, but instead seemed to speed up as it approached us.
“Something’s wrong,” I said, as I hobbled as fast as I could across the street.
“We’ll be all right,” Christopher repeated, although this time there was a tense undertone to his voice that hadn’t been there before. His hand on my back had gone from being a supportive guide to actively pushing me forward as I crossed the street. “Come on.”
“I’m coming.” I put on a burst of speed, ignoring the protests from my knees. We reached the opposite side of the street with room to spare, and climbed the curb onto the pavement while the motorcar was still a couple of car-lengths away. At that point, I assumed it was safe to stop and breathe… and that was when the vehicle shot forward, jumped the curb, and came straight for us.
ChapterTen
For a second,all I saw was headlamps. I’m fairly certain I saw my life flash before my eyes, too. Then Christopher gave me a yank and a push, both at the same time, and I tumbled into a heap on the pavement. So did he, with a thud and a grunt. The tires passed us both with inches to spare, and a cloud of exhaust enveloped us as the motorcar jumped back down into the roadway and sped off. From somewhere nearby, but not too near, I could hear a wordless bellow of consternation, and then rapid footsteps. Evans, I assumed, finally noticing what was going on outside the lobby.
My hands were bleeding again, and so, I was sure, were my knees. Christopher, too, was rather the worse for wear. His pretty pink gown was dirty and torn, although his elbow-length opera gloves had spared his hands from getting torn up too badly. The gloves were a lost cause, of course, the palms shredded. The fact that he had escaped mostly unscathed, didn’t stop him from sitting up and spitting out a string of words that would have been more at home in Francis’s mouth.
“Christopher!” I said, shocked.
He turned to me. “We’re lucky to be alive, Pippa.”
I supposed we were, at that. A head-on collision with the front of a motorcar would have sent us both flying. We could have broken our necks, or our skulls. We would certainly have broken other bones. We were indeed lucky.
And then Evans was there, puffing, and the conversation between us was over for now.
“Miss Darling.” He stared at me, eyes wide. “Mr…. um.”
“We’re all right, Evans,” I said and extended a hand. “A bit of help, if you don’t mind?”
“Of course, Miss Darling.” He took my hand and hoisted me to my feet. We both ended up staring at our bloody palms in consternation for a moment while Christopher got up.
“Pippa is right, Evans. We’re all right. A few scratches, is all.”
He swept the wig off his head, exposing his usual sunny blond hair, slicked back against his skull.
Evans nodded. “Yes, sir.” It wasn’t the first time he had seen Christopher dressed up as Kitty—it couldn’t possibly have been—but it was obvious that he didn’t know how to address him.
