“Crispin didn’t see you while he was in the flat,” I reminded Christopher. “He has no reason to know you’re doing…” I gestured up and down over his figure, “—this. And he should be gone by the time you get downstairs. Florence Schlomsky caught him going down and finagled a lift to Lady Montfort’s soiree.”
Christopher’s eyes widened. “Crispin is going to Lady Montfort’s?”
Considering that the aged Lady Montfort and her staid parties weren’t likely to appeal to Crispin and his set, this seemed like a fair first question. But then before I could respond, Christopher shook his head. “Never mind that. The dime-store heiress caught him? Does she know he’s him and not me?”
“I think she thought he was you,” I said apologetically, and Christopher’s eyes widened further. “But don’t worry. I threatened to hurt him if he did anything to put you in a bind. I got the impression he believed me.”
“I’m sure he did,” Christopher agreed, “at least if he remembers the time you convinced him he’d get rounded up for the war effort and sent to France if he went into the village, and he didn’t leave the grounds of the Hall for weeks.”
We shared a moment of amusement before Christopher added, “So was it Crispin who set off your sense of something not-good happening tonight? Has it happened now, so I can safely go to Lady Austin’s?”
I had no idea, and told him so. “I’m not a fortune teller, Christopher. I just had a bad feeling. Although I’ll admit that St George showing up unexpectedly certainly qualifies as bad.”
“He’s a bit of a prat,” Christopher agreed indulgently. “Although he’s mostly harmless, you know. Just irritating. I’ll head out, then?”
“I suppose so. He should certainly be gone by now. And Florence, too.” The Hispano-Suiza was a race car, and while he couldn’t properly race in London, I was sure Crispin wouldn’t miss the opportunity to take off in a burst of speed and make Florence squeal and clutch at him.
“Then I’ll see you in the morning, Pippa.” Christopher brushed past me and out the door to the hallway. “Toodle-oo, darling.”
“Toodle-oo,” I told him, and watched as he swept into the lift and pulled the grille shut behind him.
The flat wasquiet after he left. I prepared myself a quick supper of cucumber sandwiches and tea, and ate while I leafed through a magazine I had picked up earlier in the day. I was tidying up after the meal when there was a buzz from downstairs. Evans had clearly taken my admonition about unannounced visitors to heart.
“Gentleman to see Mr. Astley, Miss Darling,” he informed me. “Says his name is Grimsby.”
The only Grimsby I could think of was Christopher’s grandfather’s valet, who certainly wasn’t a gentleman in the usual sense of the word. But since he was the only one by that name I knew, I figured it had to be him. And while I wasn’t Mr. Astley, and while Christopher wasn’t here, maybe Grimsby had a message from the Duke. Maybe tomorrow’s excursion had been canceled and we wouldn’t have to make our way to Sutherland Hall after all.
“That’s fine, Evans. Send him up.”
“Right away, Miss Darling.”
Evans disconnected and I headed to the front door and opened it so I would be ready for Grimsby when he arrived.
The lift clanged and whirred for a minute, and then the door opened and the grille was pushed back. Grimsby stepped out, tall and severe in a dark suit. “Miss Darling.”
His eyes flickered over me and the hallway and the obvious lack of Christopher.
“Grimsby,” I said. “Fancy seeing you here. Would you like to come inside?”
Grimsby indicated that he would, and I stepped back and gestured him into the foyer. “What can I do for you? Is everything all right at the Hall?”
He didn’t answer, just looked around the foyer with hooded eyes. “I was hoping to talk to Mr. Astley.”
“Christopher isn’t here,” I said. “Does this have something to do with tomorrow?”
He didn’t answer, but he did turn to look at me. When nothing passed his lips, I added, “Crispin stopped by earlier to say that Christopher has been summoned to Sutherland Hall tomorrow for afternoon tea. His grandfather wants to see him?”
“His Grace has something on his mind,” Grimsby intoned.
Clearly. “Would you happen to know what it is? Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”
Grimsby didn’t answer. “When do you expect young Mr. Astley back?”
I pursed my lips. The way he refused to answer my questions was irritating, but I wasn’t a Sutherland and so had no sway whatsoever with Grimsby. If he didn’t want to tell me anything, there was nothing I could do about it. “Not until late, I’m afraid. He’s out for the evening. But I’d be happy to take a message.”
Grimsby looked at me. There was something slightly reptilian in the well-trained, black flatness of his eyes. “That won’t be necessary,” he said eventually. “I’ll speak to him myself tomorrow, at Sutherland Hall. Youareplanning to make the trip?”
“Crispin didn’t sound like it was optional.”
