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Flossy clicked her tongue in frustration. “Spoilsports,” she muttered.
The rest of her words were drowned out by shouts, as the host and his friends ordered the fighters to desist and leave. Mr. Hardwick was muscled out of the room between two cricketers, his teammates following in his wake, and Mr. Broadman was shown to another room to tend to his bloodied lip. A half dozen girls volunteered their handkerchiefs to clean it, while others offered to fetch him tea, punch, sandwiches, and just about everything else available from the refreshment table.
The hostess shooed them away, earning another click of the tongue from Flossy, who must have been considering how she could be of service too.
I distanced myself from her and the other disappointed young ladies and circulated amongst the men. I caught whispered explanations about the doping accusations, and comments to the effect that it was a slur on the Hardwick family’s breeding business. While all condemned Mr. Hardwick’s violent outburst, I got the feeling some secretly thought it justified, particularly if Mr. Broadman were guilty of Mr. Rigg-Lyon’s murder. It seemed not everyone was convinced of his innocence.
My information-gathering session was cut short by Uncle Ronald, who decided Flossy and I shouldn’t be exposed to any more overtly masculine behavior. The hostess apologized profusely for the way the evening had turned out, and asked us to pass on her regards to Aunt Lilian, who hadn’t attended due to her ill-health. Flossy and I both assured the hostess the evening had been a triumph, overall, and that one incident wouldn’t color our memories.
Going by Flossy’s bright eyes and the way she couldn’t stop talking about the fight in the cab on the way home, I suspected it would be the only thing she remembered in a week’s time.
“Cobbit couldn’t collect us tonight?” I asked my uncle as we passed the fountain in the center of Piccadilly Circus.
“He said the horses are unwell.”
“You don’t believe him?”
His only answer was a grunt.
Flossy put a gloved finger under her wrinkled nose. “I hope they get better soon. This taxi smells.”
I slept poorly that night.My nerves felt frayed, and not because of the fight. I couldn’t stop thinking about my upcoming meeting with Harry, replaying several scenarios until they blurred together in the small hours.
“You look terrible,” Harmony said with a frown as she settled the breakfast tray on the table in my sitting room the next morning. “You’ll need a very big hat to distract from the shadows under your eyes.”
I grasped the coffee cup between both hands and held it out to her. “Your honesty is always refreshing and sometimes bruising. But I agree with you today. I look how I feel…tired.”
She poured coffee into my cup. “Is it the investigation? Is something about it bothering you?”
If I admitted it was something else, she’d pester me until I told her, and I didn’t feel like talking about Harry and what he’d revealed to Uncle Ronald about Mr. Miller. I didn’t want her to think poorly of him.
So instead, I nodded. “There was a fight at the party last night between two of our suspects.” I told her what had happened and why.
“You should discuss it with Harry today,” she said.
“I will.”
“Good.” She peered at me over her coffee cup. “You need to talk to him.”
From the earnest way she said it, I wondered if she was referring to something other than the case. But she couldn’t possibly know what really bothered me. She was insightful and empathetic, but she wasn’t a psychic.
My arrivalat Harry’s office was met with a relieved smile. It quickly vanished, however, when I didn’t return it. “You’re still cross with me,” he said flatly.
I sat down and considered how best to broach the topic. None of the scenarios that had kept me awake all night felt right. In the end, I went with a direct approach. “Yes, I am.”
He shifted in the chair, leaning forward a little, a sign he wanted to get his point across. “Cleo, I did what I did because I don’t want anyone taking advantage of you.”
“You never gave him a chance, Harry. You’d never even met Mr. Miller when you decided to investigate him. Nor did you wait to find out my opinion of him.”
He sat back. “If I waited for you to form an opinion, it may have been too late. I thought it best to get in early, before you grew too attached.”
“I can decide for myself what’s best for me.”
He lowered his gaze. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He put up his hands, warding me away or creating a barrier between us, I wasn’t sure which. “Your life is nothing to do with me.”
“Harry,” I chided, “that’s not what I’m saying, although I do appreciate the apology.”
His gaze lifted, his brows arched. “If I promise not to overstep again, can we return to being friends?”
