Page 8 of Peril in Piccadilly
Crispin flushed. “Perhaps I did, now that you mention it.”
“Hah,” I said triumphantly.
“I’ll point out that I didn’t actually do it, however, even though you were extremely rude to me. And I didn’t lay a hand on you tonight, either. You can ask Laetitia.”
“No, thank you.” The less I had to interact with the happy fiancée, the better pleased I was. “Besides, it wasn’t you I was going to accuse. If I had to pick a likely culprit?—”
“It would be Laetitia.” He nodded. “And I don’t blame you. She would be delighted to pitch you headfirst down a flight of stairs. But she didn’t. She was sitting across from me when it happened.”
As expected. “You’d swear to that, I suppose?”
He sniffed. “On a stack of Bibles if I had to. Although unless you decide to make something of it, I expect you to simply take my word for it. Neither of us left the restaurant until supper was over. By then, you must have made it home. And I had to take Laetitia back to Marsden House before I could come over. She was displeased that I declined to spend the night, too.”
“Of course she was,” Christopher said and leaned back languidly. “Hoping to get a head start on that heir and spare, no doubt.”
Crispin shrugged, but his cheekbones darkened. “At any rate, she had no opportunity to attack you, Darling.”
“Nor did anyone else,” I said. “I’m sure it was simply an unfortunate accident. One person lost his or her footing and stumbled into another person, and so forth, until we were all in a heap.”
Crispin eyed my bandaged hands. “How bad is it?”
“Not too bad. I took off a layer of skin, and I have some bruises. But I’m sure I’ll be right as rain in a few days.”
“That’s my cue, then.” He placed his cup and saucer on the table and made to push to his feet.
“You’re not staying the night?” Christopher inquired, looking up at him.
“I don’t think I’d better, old bean. My fiancée wouldn’t approve.”
No, of course she wouldn’t. And that, more than anything, was why I told him, “Don’t be a goose, St George. It’s late, and it’s cold, and what Laetitia doesn’t know won’t hurt her. You can take my bed. I was going to spend the night on the sofa anyway. My knees hurt and I don’t feel like moving.”
“You’re more than welcome to stay,” Christopher agreed. “It makes more sense for you to remain here than make the trip to Mayfair at this time of night. We’ll get you up bright and early so you can make it over to Sutherland House before Laetitia comes looking for you.”
Crispin glanced from Christopher to me and back. “If you’re certain you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind in the least,” I said. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d spent the night in my bed—without me there, naturally—and at least this time we didn’t have to worry about Uncle Harold showing up in the morning to make sure nothing inappropriate was going on. “Run down the street to the call box and ring up Sutherland House, so Rogers knows where you are.”
He nodded. “Walk with me, Kit?”
They headed across the foyer and out the door together. I assumed they had something to discuss that they didn’t want me to overhear, which was their prerogative. Instead of worrying about it, I took the opportunity to move the teacups and saucers to the kitchenette, and then drag myself down the hallway and into the lavatory to affect my evening ablutions before the boys came back. Makeup removed and teeth brushed, I dug out a pillow and a blanket and wandered stiff-legged back to the Chesterfield by the time they made their way back inside the flat.
“Everything taken care of?”
They both nodded. “Crispin moved the motorcar out of the way of the door,” Christopher said, “and we rang up Rogers and let him know what was going on.”
“You swore him to secrecy, I suppose? Made certain he won’t ring up Sutherland Hall and inform Uncle Harold that St George is misbehaving?”
Crispin sniffed. “I’m not misbehaving. There’s no one here that I can misbehave with. If I wanted to misbehave, I would have stayed at Marsden House.”
“Of course you would have done.” I gave him a patronizing smile, the equivalent of a pat on the head. “My apologies.”
He growled. “I abhor you, Darling.”
“The feeling is mutual,” I told him. “And that’s no way to speak to the person whose bed you’ll be spending the night in. Now shoo. I want to sleep.”
He scowled, but allowed himself to be pulled across the sitting room and into the hallway by Christopher. They both visited the loo, and then shut the doors to their respective rooms—or mine, in Crispin’s case. I folded myself into the blanket and tried to ignore the stinging in my knees and hands.
It wasn’t easy. The whole experience, from the conversation in the restaurant to hobbling through my own doorway with blood trickling down my legs, had been painful as well as unsettling.
