“To know—knowaheadof time.” Henrietta held up a warning finger.
“After all, it’s rather dark at dawn.” Celia shrugged.
“You point with the pointy end,” Rose explained pompously, “and pull on the part that goes boom. Now, just get me a beaver and a greatcoat, and I’m ready to go!”
They collapsed into laughter, tangled in damp hysteria in the corner of Henrietta’s bed.
It was all they could do for her, and it wasn’t enough.
Chapter Eighteen
Our Hero’s Carefully Laid Plans, or Chaos Is Come Again
Peter couldn’t goto Italy. Not with Hargreaves kicking up dust like this. Time to pivot, make other plans, work harder.
He visited Uncle Derrick, spent a whole afternoon listening to family stories. It felt like he was bathing in mineral baths, floating hot and weightless and unreal.
Tried to finish up the Pipperly case, but the idiot fell in a duck pond. Peter was the only one sober enough to pull him out, wet to his shoulders, ruined his coat. He dumped Pipperly on the grass and pounded his back, perhaps a bit harder than necessary.
It was Celia that he wanted to pull out of a duck pond. Not an actual duck pond, because Celia was not an idiot who thought a turtle was a stepping stone, but the murky water that was sloshing up to her toes. If Celia was balancing on metaphorical rocks, her brother was definitely a goose who was shitting in her duck pond.
But then Pipperly was in bed with a cough, and the whole investigation was on pause until the prime suspect was feeling less sorry for himself.
In order to bow out of Italy, he needed to get Jackdaw off his case. Peter made some trades, struck some deals. One accomplice slipped over a file on some other Italian-speakingintelligence officers, just where Jackdaw would think he found it himself.
Peter whistled as he ran up the carpeted stairs to Leavenworth’s door, letter case swinging. Just on time; he opened the door with his own key.
Leavenworth was in an upholstered chair by the fire, reading and sipping tea that perfumed the air.
“Are you bored?” asked Peter.
“My favorite question,” Leavenworth answered, swinging his feet off the ottoman.
Leavenworth’s papers were laid out on the table, and Peter dropped his pages next to them, checking out the opening argument as he went by. Voting rights.
“Where’s this from?” Leavenworth uncapped his ink. “Inquiries to several stationers’ shops…”
“I made a trade. I’m sending some letters, and Jenkins will keep an eye on Pipperly’s house for me.”
“Hm. Tea?” Leavenworth poured without waiting for an answer. “But you’ve got two stacks. What was the other trade?”
Blast. Peter had hoped he wouldn’t notice that. “Just an appointment to meet a fellow in the park.”
Leavenworth raised an eyebrow.
“Later this afternoon.”
“Well.” Leavenworth slid the tea across the table. “I’ll write letters while you read my paper, but you’ve got to take me along to this appointment.”
It was just a fellow in a park. Would it be entangling Leavenworth to bring him along?
“The longer you hesitate, the more I know you ought to have me along. Give over. What’s this jack going to do? Put that boss of yours in the nutcracker?”
There was no keeping Leavenworth out of anything.
*
For once, itwasn’t raining. Letters posted, the two of them ambled through Mayfair, eating from the street carts, debating the wares in the bow front windows, shoving each other off the pavement.
