Leavenworth grunted the affirmative. “Know a fellow, got some notes like yours after he was elected this spring.”
Peter groaned. “This election! Should have been simple—”
“Finally a coronation after all these years—”
“But the elections were a mess—”
They talked over each other, the brusque abbreviations of friendship, familiar with the same conversations and the same opinions.
“They even brought some strange fellows into my department.” Peter shook his head.
“Nothing new. Intelligence always has some seedy coves,” Leavenworth muttered, settling a hot compress onto the back of Peter’s neck.
Peter winced at the sharp herbal tang. “But after that election, management expected trouble, so they hired up some troublemakers. ‘Be fire with fire, threaten the threatener’ and all that.”
Leavenworth scoffed. “Hope they made them take a loyalty oath. Not that it will matter.”
Peter shrugged. “They probably won’t be assigned to my department. They want me to infiltrate the upper classes, not the gutters. But you were telling me about your political friend. He got threats?”
“Right. Letters mentioned a girl, then later the fellow gets asked for a favor and finds he can’t refuse. Sometimes months later.”
“I’ll keep my eye out for favors I can’t refuse.” The prospect of having this hanging over his head for months made Petersquirm. He’d better have some flashes of inspiration and get Elinor down here. “Now I can do your speech; give it over.”
Leavenworth passed over his folder and went to fetch his own chocolate. “Cut three minutes’ worth this time. Thanks.”
Peter stretched his toes, pleased. He liked editing Leavenworth’s writing, always clear and incisive. It was like a puzzle, finding the very heart of the best words. Leavenworth threw a pencil, and Peter caught it one-handed.
“And Pipperly?” Leavenworth called back. “Did sitting in the mud all night give you the key to finishing your report?”
“Nothing this time.”
“If it’s going to be a long haul, tell me what’s the worst part.” Leavenworth settled in the other chair, blowing on his chocolate. This was a game they played; identify the worst part so they didn’t make a mistake.
“Drawing rooms.” Peter sipped so he didn’t have to meet his friend’s eyes. “The worst part is that his mother is very nice.”
Leavenworth clucked sympathetically. “Terrible to think of nice families facing tragedy.”
“Hate it. Just hate it.”
Actually, the worst part was that Henrietta Thompson was best friends with Idiot Pipperly’s younger sister, and now he was in constant social intercourse with her. Every flash of her smile reminded Peter of the pleasant afternoons with Celia, and every time she glowered at him reminded Peter of how much he hated himself for pushing Celia away. Clearly Henrietta agreed with him, because she was full of glowers and petty snubs for Hughes.
Worse yet, yesterday Peter had walked in to see several girls flirting with Charles Pipperly. Peter’s assignment was for the older brother, Henry, but the scandal he could already see brewing was going to take the whole family down with it. Henrietta did not deserve one more speck of trouble, and Smuggling Idiot Pipperly was an entire boatload of mud.Enough to smear the whole family and everyone associated with them.
*
Two mornings later,Peter was in the Pipperlys’ breakfast room, passing tea and toast. As long as he had to spend his days investigating Idiot Pipperly, he might as well give the fine-draw to the matter, and learn all her secrets about raising girls in London.
Fine. He joined her at breakfast because he felt bad that she was obliged to provide for houseguests who spent the breakfast hour sleeping off their revels of the night before, and stank up her bedrooms besides. If the poor lady was about to be subsumed by scandal, at least she deserved some conversation in the breakfast room—and Mrs. Pipperly did enjoy talking about young ladies.
“Does your sister like art?” Mrs. Pipperly asked. “Pass the strawberries, if you please?”
“She has sent me landscapes in pastels. Do you have suggestions for drawing instructors?”
Over the last few mornings, they had compiled a list of the best tutors for females (“you must not neglect her mind”), dance masters who could be trusted around their students (“but you remain in the room regardless, Mr. Hughes, dear”), and dressmakers. Peter knew nothing, but nothing, about purchasing dresses, and they had spent an entire breakfast discussing the topic. It appeared that raising a girl was complicated.
“Not an instructor, no.” Mrs. Pipperly served them both strawberries. “There is a wonderful young lady, just the age to be a guiding influence, who has these lovely artistic afternoons forgirls. She is an exceptional watercolorist, and meanwhile leads discussions to improve the mind. Exactly what we have been in accord upon, Mr. Hughes. The value of the human soul and so forth.”
“Sounds promising.” Peter was getting a bad feeling about this.
