Grimsby’s lips twitched in something that might have become a smile, or perhaps a smirk or sneer, had it been given the opportunity to grow up. It wasn’t. Grimsby is much too dignified for inappropriate displays of humor. “Thank you for your time, Miss Darling.”
He dipped his head, a very modified sort of bow, and turned to the door.
“Don’t mention it,” I said, as he crossed over the threshold and into the hallway. “Safe home, Grimsby.”
This time it was a curt—but not too curt—nod, and Grimsby was off. Once he was inside the lift and on his way down, I closed and locked the flat door again and went back to the kitchen.
The final interruptioncame late in the night, after I had gone to bed. Nobody called from downstairs, and nobody knocked on the door this time. Instead, I was woken by the sound of the key in the lock—Christopher was home—and then by the sound of a quarrel in the foyer.
“—believe you’d be so careless!” a voice I didn’t recognize snarled.
“—need your help!” Christopher hissed back.
“You certainly did tonight, you daft—”
“—not your problem!”
“I made it my problem! And you were lucky I was there at all. The only reason—”
“—don’t care!” Christopher retorted. When I eased my bedroom door open a few more inches so I could creep into the hallway, I saw he was standing in the middle of the foyer, hands on his hips, still in the evening gown and T-strap shoes from earlier, but with the wig and sparkling headband hanging from one hand. His own hair was still slicked back, gleaming like wet wheat in the light from the small lamp I’d left burning on the sideboard, and the bright red lipstick had been partly gnawed off, either by Christopher himself or someone else. He seemed to have left the evening wrap behind, because it was nowhere to be seen. I surmised he’d been removed from the premises too quickly to have had the opportunity to collect it. His color was high, flags of heat riding on both his cheekbones, and his eyes were flashing with temper.
I crept forward another few inches and tilted my head to look at his companion.
Tall, dark, and handsome qualified, I decided. An inch or two taller than Christopher, although the heels on the strap shoes mostly made up for it, and a few years older, as well. He had brown hair, a sort of nutty color, with what I thought was a slight wave. I couldn’t see much of it, since he was wearing a hat. Not the shiny evening topper Crispin had sported, but a more down-to-earth Homburg. He wore it with a brown tweed suit, which his shoulders filled out very nicely. Where Christopher—and for that matter Crispin—are slightly built and slender, still boyish at barely twenty-three (or still twenty-two, in Crispin’s case), this man was broader, more muscular. I could only see him in profile, but he had a straight nose, high cheekbones—also flushed with color—and a square jaw that looked like he might be clenching his teeth. Both men were clearly irate, leaning towards one another, and whisper-yelling so as not to wake me. I don’t think either of them had noticed my door opening or me slipping out.
“—acting like a gormless—” the man in brown said.
“I know what I’m doing!” Christopher snarled in response.
His opponent snorted. “Oh, clearly. You’re lucky you’re not languishing in a cell in the Old Bailey waiting for your father to get there to take you home. How could you be so bloody stupid?!”
It was the kind of question there’s no real answer to, not unless you want to dig yourself deeper into the hole you’re already standing in, and Christopher must have recognized it, because all he did was pout. After a few moments’ silence, he managed a mutter of, “Thank you for making sure that didn’t happen.”
His… friend?... took a slow breath, too, and let it out. “You’re welcome. In return, maybe you’d try to make sure it won’t happen again?”
Christopher didn’t say anything, but I recognized the mulish stubbornness of his expression, and so, clearly, did his companion, whose voice turned serious. “Listen to me, Kit. Next time, I’m not likely to be there. I was only there tonight because I heard about the raid beforehand. It’s not my job to haul your arse out of the fire, and if I’m caught doing it, my actual job is on the line. You owe it to me to ensure that I won’t have to do this again!”
Christopher muttered something.
“What was that?”
“I said I’ll try.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then the man in the tweed suit said, “If that’s the best you can do, then I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied with it.”
He turned on his heel and headed for the door. I waited to see whether Christopher would do anything to stop him, but he didn’t. I could see his hands bunch into fists, but he didn’t say a word, and didn’t even watch, just kept his eyes on the floor, as his friend yanked the front door open and stepped through. “Good night, Kit. Lock this behind me.”
He let the door go, and it dropped into the frame with a dull thud that I hoped hadn’t woken any of the other inhabitants on our floor. A few seconds later I heard the grille get drawn across the opening to the lift, and then the sound of the box heading down. Christopher still hadn’t made a move towards the door to lock it, so I abandoned my lurking in the hallway and brushed past him to do it myself.
“Who was that?”
He didn’t answer, and when I’d turned the key and made sure the door was secure, I turned back to him and tried again. “Who’s your friend?”
“Chap I used to know at Eton,” Christopher muttered.
I parked my hands on my hips. “Did I hear him right? Something happened and you might have ended up in the Old Bailey? Was there a raid on the ball?”
Christopher shook himself and seemed to wake up. “I guess so. That’s what he said. I was already out of there by then.” He met my eyes for a moment, his own distant, as if he were thinking about something else, before he managed a slight smile. “Go back to bed, Pippa. It’s late. We can talk about it tomorrow.”
