Page 9 of Peril in Piccadilly
There wasn’t any reason to think that Christopher might be right about what had happened in the tube station, was there?
I couldn’t believe that there was. Why would Wolfgang want to push me down a flight of stairs? We had parted on somewhat strained terms, admittedly, but I certainly hadn’t said anything to upset him to enough of a degree that he would want to hurt me. And no one else wanted to hurt me, either, as far as I knew.
I wouldn’t put it past Laetitia, certainly, should the opportunity arise and as long as she could do it without getting herself in trouble. And the same went for Uncle Harold, really. Neither of them liked me, and both would be happy if I were out of the way. The same was probably true for Laetitia’s parents. Or her mother, at any rate. Maurice, Earl of Marsden, didn’t seem like he disliked anyone in particular, me included, and while I was certain he was pleased about his daughter snagging the future Duke of Sutherland, he didn’t seem as invested in it as the Countess Euphemia or Uncle Harold were. Not to the degree that he would hurt anyone over it.
Besides, I’m sure I would have recognized either one of them, had they come up behind me and given me a push down the stairs. As far as I could recall, the people behind me when I headed into the underground had been a middle-aged woman in a dark coat, and a young couple, a few years older than me, on their way home—or perhaps out—for the evening. None of them were people I had seen before, and they had all said the same thing after the accident: that someone had hit them in the back. No one in the pile had been anyone I had ever seen before, nor anyone I had any reason to think wished me harm.
No, it had to have been an unfortunate accident, or if it truly was deliberate, I wasn’t the intended target, just an innocent bystander who found myself caught up in someone else’s revenge. Perhaps the young lady in the cloche was the former flame of the gentleman behind me, with the other young lady in tow, and she had decided to bump into the older lady, so the older lady would bump into me, so I would bump into the girl with the cloche and bowl her over… all because the young gentleman had once admired the girl in the cloche.
It made as much sense, perhaps more, than that Wolfgang would follow me into the underground and try to shove me down the staircase.
I amused myself with coming up with similar scenarios for the other people I remembered until the pain in my knees faded to a slow thrum and I was able to fall asleep.
It feltlike two minutes later when the buzzer rang from downstairs, although when I blinked my eyes open, I could see the thin light of dawn creep in along the edges of the curtains. Elsewhere in the flat, there was the flailing of either Christopher or Crispin coming back to life at the sound of the noise, as well.
I dragged myself into a sitting position, and from there, up to standing. My knees protested, and I bit back a shrill noise before I hobbled around the Chesterfield and into the foyer, towards the front door and buzzer. “Evans?”
“Yes, Miss Darling,” Evans’s tinny voice said from downstairs. “I’m sorry to have woken you.”
“Then why did you?” was at the tip of my tongue. Crispin would have said it. I bit the words back. “What’s wrong?” I asked instead, since the commissionaire wouldn’t drag us out of bed at the crack of dawn unless something had happened. “It isn’t Uncle Harold, is it? The Duke of Sutherland?”
The last time Crispin had ended up in my bed overnight, Evans had let His Grace up to the flat the next morning with no warning. I had had no idea the Duke was even in London until I opened my front door and saw him standing there, looking like a silent movie version of a heavy father, all beetling brows and tight lips. Afterwards, I had told Evans in no uncertain terms to never do it again. If Uncle Harold wanted to come up, he could wait to be announced like anyone else. Being the Duke of Sutherland did not give him automatic access to Christopher’s and my home.
“No, Miss Darling,” Evans said. And seemed to reconsider the statement. “I don’t believe so.”
“He’s not downstairs?”
“No, Miss Darling.”
“Is someone else downstairs?”
“No, Miss Darling. Not any longer. A messenger arrived from Sutherland House with a message for Lord St George, but he has left again.”
A messenger from Sutherland House? “Who? And what kind of message?”
“One of the footmen,” Evans said, “I suppose. As for the message, Lord St George is to come to Mayfair as quickly as he can make it.”
“At this time of the morning?” Under normal circumstances, this was closer to Crispin’s bedtime than when he usually gets up. He’s much more night owl than early bird, I’m afraid. What on earth was so important that Rogers wanted to drag him out of bed at— “What time is it, Evans?”
It was half four, which at least was morning rather than the middle of the night.
“Did the messenger happen to mention what was wrong?” I inquired. Perhaps Uncle Harold truly was on his way up to Town, and Rogers was trying to avoid the scene that would ensue if the Duke arrived at Sutherland House and Crispin wasn’t there.
“A robbery,” Evans said.
“A—” I didn’t manage to get the rest of it out. The next sentence, “Thank you, Evans,” came out garbled, as well.
“Thank you, Miss Darling.”
Evans disconnected. I stared at the inside of the door for a few seconds, blinking, before I gathered myself together and plunged down the hallway as quickly as my stiff knees would allow.
ChapterThree
We madeit to Sutherland House before the sun rose. Crispin’s Hispano-Suiza racing car lived up to its reputation by taking the corners between the Essex House Mansions and Mayfair on two wheels, but we got there without being arrested for reckless motoring, and without picking up the Metropolitan Police Department’s Flying Bedstead along the way. We were still on our own when Crispin pulled to a stop under the portico outside Sutherland House with a squeal of brakes, and slammed the gear shift into park. The door to the townhouse flew open, and Laetitia streaked through and into Crispin’s arms.
“Darling!”
He caught her, but just barely. She was already hanging around his neck by the time his arms came up to encircle her. “Laetitia?” His voice was muffled in the fur collar of her coat. “What are you doing here?”
