“They were very polite,” she pointed out.
Tanglewood frowned. “I’m certain they were. They are very good at what they do. Just bear this firmly in mind. What they do is pry into other people’s lives in order to report the sordid details to the world. Remember that, and there’s no harm done. Now, have you seen Kit? He’s waiting to see you off.”
Margo’s irritation fled. “Oh, where?”
“Across that way, at the barricade. Go along, then, and say goodbye. I’ll take over from here.”
She fled toward her grandfather, who’d managed to secure a vantage point next to the velvet barricade ropes. “Can you believe it? Eight minutes! Just eight more minutes and then, wow! Three and a half months in London! Three and a half very hard months,” she added hastily at the beginnings of a stern glower in her world-famous grandfather’s eyes.
Kit kept scowling, but she’d learned to understand those ferocious scowls during the past several months. They concealed genuine fear for her, trying to tackle this career when there was so much to be learned and so very much that could go wrong, even on a short and relatively safe tour. Kit ruffled her hair, disarranging her stylish hat in the process. “Keep that in mind, Imp. Do you by any chance remember the first rule of surviving a dangerous encounter on the streets?”
Her face went hot, given her recent lapses in attention, but she shot back the answer promptly enough. “Sure do! Don’t get into it in the first place. Keep your eyes and ears open and avoid anything that even remotely smells like trouble. And if trouble does break, run like hel—eck.” She really was trying to watch her language. Ladies in Victorian London did not swear. Women did, all the time; ladies, never.