Page 77 of Peril in Piccadilly
“Pardon me?”
He was not changing his clothes, of course, but was sitting on the Chesterfield flipping through a gossip magazine. It had his face on the cover, and was from several months ago, back when he spent most of his time drunk and carousing with the Society for Bright Young Persons. Laetitia, or perhaps his father, seemed to have mostly cured him of that, at any rate. The few times he had been up to London lately, there had been precious little carousing going on.
“Apple, banana, or rhubarb?” I repeated. “Color-wise.”
“Has he seen them all already?”
He had.
“Does he have a favorite?”
Not as far as I knew. He usually told me I looked good no matter what I wore.
Crispin muttered something uncomplimentary when I said as much, and told me, “Wear the green.”
“You want me to look round, I suppose.” Like the apple he had likened me to.
“It doesn’t make you look round, Darling. There’s no dress in existence that would make you look round. You’re as skinny as a blade of grass”
“Lovely,” I said.
“The green brings out your eyes. Wear it.”
He turned back to the magazine. I stared at him for a moment—he looked up once, blandly, and met my eyes—before I turned on my heel with a muttered expletive, and ventured back into my bedroom to finish my toilette. Behind me, I heard a magazine page turn over.
When I came back out, Bramley frock on, face in place, hair fluffed and held back with a sparkly barrette to match the diamanté accents on the gown, he spared me a single up-and-down look before he got to his feet. “Ready?”
“You tell me,” I said sourly, as I swung my evening wrap around myself. He might have offered to help me with it, having been brought up to be a gentleman, but I supposed I wasn’t worth the trouble.
Either that, or he simply didn’t want to get too close to me. He rarely touched me, now that I thought about it. For someone who took every chance he could to get a verbal reaction, you’d think he would take the opportunity to get close to me without causing suspicion, too. But he mostly kept his hands to himself, other than the occasional support under my elbow to help me rise or an offered arm to cross the street; something he really couldn’t avoid if he wanted to keep his reputation as a gentleman. But beyond that, no gratuitous touching whatsoever.
“You know, St George,” I told him as we approached the door to the lift, a spot where we’d have to stand close together whether we wanted to or not, or at least a place where it would appear strange if we stood an inordinate distance apart, “it’s all right for you to admit that you think I’m pretty.”
The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Is that what you think I think?”
“I certainly hope so,” I said. “I didn’t go to all this trouble for people to look at me and think I’m plain.”
He looked amused. “You’re not plain, Darling. And I’m certain Wolfie will appreciate the trouble.”
I smirked. “So you do think I’m pretty.”
He gave me a quick up-and-down, there and then gone. “Of course you’re pretty, Darling. Whatever gave you the idea that I didn’t?”
“The fact that you don’t look at me much,” I said. “Or only as much as you have to, to be polite.”
“That’s because I’m engaged, Darling. It’s really not appropriate for me to admire other women, is it? Especially not in the absence of my fiancée.”
Ugh. I took a step back. “No, of course not. Forget I mentioned it.”
The lift arrived, and the door opened. Crispin slid the grille to the side and nodded to me to enter. He stood in one corner of the lift, and I kept to the other. After that salutary reminder, the last thing I wanted to do was crowd him.
“Any news, Evans?” I inquired on our way across the lobby.
The doorman shook his head. “No, Miss Darling. I would have rung upstairs if anything occurred.”
“Of course you would,” I said. “We’re going out for a bit. To the Savoy, should you have a need to get in touch.”
“Of course, Miss Darling.” He touched the brim of his cap and accepted the coin Crispin handed him on our way through the door. “Thank you, my lord.”
