Page 47 of Peril in Piccadilly
“A lot?” I shook my head. “All he got was the ring and the earrings. Surely the tiara and necklace are worth more.”
“Of course they are. But just those few diamonds are worth plenty. And now the parure is incomplete. Uncle Harold must be having a fit.”
“Enough of one to drive up to London and try to mow down Laetitia? Or who he thinks is Laetitia?” Because he certainly wouldn’t recognize his own nephew under the gown and wig.
“I wouldn’t think so,” Christopher said judiciously. “Uncle Harold is too invested in getting Crispin settled before he can lose his mind and elope with you, I think. Although I don’t think he’s happy about the loss. Or will be, once he finds out about it, if he doesn’t know already.”
Certainly not. “You don’t think he’ll take it out on St George, do you?”
Uncle Harold has a tendency to take his displeasure out on his only son and heir. Admittedly, it’s usually when Crispin has done something Uncle Harold doesn’t like—such as giving vent to his sarcasm when it would be healthier to keep his mouth shut, for instance, or simply talking back to his father when Uncle Harold would prefer blind obedience—but I wouldn’t put it past my courtesy-uncle to lose his temper over this, too.
“I don’t see how he can,” Christopher said, “when it isn’t Crispin’s fault.”
“That hasn’t stopped him in the past.”
“Hasn’t it?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so, Pippa. But it’s nice of you to worry.”
I opened my mouth to object to the terminology—I certainly wasn’tworriedabout St George—and then closed it again when I couldn’t make even myself believe it.
Christopher, kindly, didn’t comment. “I suppose we’d better turn in,” he said instead, lifting both arms up above his head and stretching. “This wasn’t how I expected to end the day, I’ll admit.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, as I scooted towards the edge of the Chesterfield preparatory to talking my abused knees into supporting me. “Tom came to see you, and when I told him that you’d gone out, he went immediately into rescue mode.”
“I didn’t need rescuing,” Christopher grumbled.
“Well, you don’t know that,” I pointed out, reasonably, “do you? There could be a raid on the Cave of the Golden Calf right now.”
“I’m grown,” Christopher said, “and I can take responsibility for myself.”
“I don’t think he thinks that you can’t. He’s not stopping you from being yourself, Christopher. He’s simply trying to stop you from ending up in the workhouse because of it.”
“I wouldn’t?—”
“You might. And what’s more, if you were arrested, the tabloids might find out. And then Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert would find out, and so would Uncle Harold. And while your father wouldn’t disown you, and your mother only wants you to be happy, His Grace, the Duke of Sutherland, would likely cut you out of the succession.”
He opened his mouth, most likely to tell me that he couldn’t care less about the succession, but I kept talking. “All Tom is doing is trying to keep you safe. You could make it a bit easier for him.”
“How am I not making it easy?” Christopher wanted to know. “I came away with you two, didn’t I?”
“You could have told him where you were going, and when. Then he could have told you whether there was a raid scheduled or not. And if there was, you could have stayed home. And he could have gotten a good night’s sleep instead of having to rush off to save you.”
Christopher made a face. “I suppose so.”
“So you’ll let us know in advance next time?”
“I’ll think about it,” Christopher said and pushed to his feet. “Come on, old girl.”
He extended a hand. I took it and let him pull me up.
ChapterEleven
“You look well,”I told Violet Cummings the next afternoon.
We had slept in, in deference to our aches and pains and the interrupted slumber from the night before, and then we had spent the time over elevenses wondering how to spend the rest of the day. It was Christopher who had suggested a visit to Lady Violet. Not only had she, or her family home, been burgled by who we assumed to be the same person as had made off with the Sutherland diamonds, but the last time I had seen her, at Marsden Manor in Dorset in September, I had been absolutely certain that she was as good as dead. It couldn’t hurt to stop by and congratulate her on coming through the ordeal alive, and while we were at it, make a few discreet inquiries into the burglary.
And if we had to throw Lady Laetitia’s business under the bus to do it, well, I wasn’t going to worry about that.
“Thank you.” She smiled graciously, although I got the impression that she didn’t one hundred percent believe me.
