Penelope wagged a finger. “Hush and let me finish. What I was going to say, is that you were correct.”
“Oh?” After all, this would be the first time in the whole of her life that her sister had made that concession.
“I did offer you the role of overseeing the décor in this corridor out of pity.”
She stiffened. Of course, she’d known as much. But there was something that stuck in her chest at having it confirmed. Penelope shot a leg out, and with the tip of her boot, she caught Poppy in the shins.
She grunted. “What in blazes was that for?” After all, if either of them was deserving of a good kick just then, it was her faithless sister.
“Because you didn’t let me finish. I want you to oversee the redecoration of the entire hotel.”
Poppy didn’t move for several moments. She couldn’t manage to blink or breathe. And then all at once, the blood whooshed through her ears and her heart pounded. Surely she’d misheard her. “What?” her voice came muffled to her own ears.
Penelope smiled widely and nodded.
Poppy shook her head. “You want me to redecorate your hotel?” she whispered, at last managing words.
“We do, Poppy.” Her sister gathered up her hands. “Ryker and I.”
Elation lifted her, buoyant and wonderful…and then she fell promptly back to earth. “I don’t want your pity,” she said, coming to her feet. “I appreciate that you’ve allowed me to make some minor changes—”
“They weren’t minor and it isn’t pity.” Penelope’s brow creased. “Well, before it was pity but then Ryker and I saw the rooms, Poppy…Maxwell’s”—her sister grimaced—“I mean, Tristan’s, and we spoke about your work.”
They’d spoken about the changes she’d had made to his rooms? “You did?” she asked, her work briefly forgotten. She flew back over to her sister. “He was? You spoke to him about m—” Her cheeks went hot. “M…my work,” she managed to correct. What had he thought about the final changes she’d made? And more, why did his opinion matter so much?
“Of course I saw him, Poppy.” Her sister flashed her a peculiar look. “He’s Christian’s best friend. Do you think I wouldn’t ask his opinion or speak to him simply because he is a guest here?”
“I…I…” That was what her sister believed was the reason for Poppy’s questioning. Any other time she would be offended that her sister would believe her capable of snobbery. Now, she welcomed the easy inhalation of relief. “And what did Tristan have to say?” she asked flippantly.
“He was quite complimentary.”
Her heart thudded. “He was?”
Penelope looped her arm through Poppy’s and urged her on a turn around the room. “In fact, after you’d completed your work and he found his way to his apartments, he was certain he’d entered altogether different rooms. He said they were…” Her sister paused alongside the partially completed mural.
“Yes,” Poppy urged, giving Penelope’s arm an impatient tug.
“I’m trying to recall how he said it. It was really quite poetic.”
He’d been…poetic in describing her work? “Penelope.”
Her sister’s eyebrows went up. “I have it. He said: it is an oasis in a world where he’d begun to believe there was none for him.”
Poppy fell back on her heels. An oasis. Emotion suffused her breast: pain for what Tristan had lost, and along with it…an unfettered lightness that he’d found some peace in those rooms she’d created for him. “He said that?” And she’d given him that. Annoyance that he’d avoided her—or worse—forgotten her these past days aside, he’d been correct—he would always be her friend, and she only wished for his happiness.
Penelope nodded, and glanced about the room as if she feared even now someone was listening in on their exchange about the scandal-ridden baron. “I don’t believe he intended for Ryker or I to hear that latter part,” she said in hushed tones. “It was more spoken to himself.”
Poppy’s heart tugged. There was something even more aching in that admission from her sister.
“And so, as a result, of what Max—Tristan shared, Ryker and I were forced to consider not only our recent design of the hotel but also…your role in it.”
At that abrupt shift away from mention of Tristan, Poppy worked at following. “What are you saying?”
Pointing her eyes to the ceiling, Penelope gathered Poppy’s hands in her own. “We want you to make the changes you see necessary for the aesthetic design of the hotel.”
Poppy’s lips parted. Her sister—nay, not just her sister—Ryker Black, Penelope’s intractable husband, who’d completed construction on the establishment, sought to turn that responsibility over to Poppy? It was unfathomable. “But you just completed the construction.”
Releasing Poppy’s hands, Penelope shrugged. “What is the good of having a completed project if it is less than majestic? You’ve made the rooms you’ve overseen special, Poppy. We want you to do that to all the hotel, now.”
We want you to do all that, now. Breathless, Poppy took a step away from her sister. Stopped. And then started forward again. She swept her gaze over the latest rooms she’d completed, each transformation thrilling. Each mark she made, something tangible in a world where women weren’t permitted tangible—not for themselves, anyway. Here, she’d left her mark: a hint of her artistry, and love of design that would live on. And now, her sister and brother-in-law would allow Poppy to have an imprint upon the entire establishment. There had to be more to this gift. She spun around. “But…all the money you’ve invested.”
Penelope leaned a shoulder entirely too close to Poppy’s recently completed mural. “Lah, Poppy, if you continue like this, I’d think you’re trying to haggle a higher rate from me. Of course, you’d have to reside here indefinitely until the project is completed.”
Tears formed a sheen over her eyes and she blinked back those bothersome drops. Her sister made a gentle sound of protest. “I’m not going to cry,” Poppy vowed, brushing at her cheeks.
Her sister looped an arm around her shoulder. “Good, because that will make me weepy and I do despise crying.” Penelope’s lower lip trembled. “Well, what do you say? Will you do it?”
Poppy smiled. “I would be honored.”
Chapter 10
Since he’d made the mistake of kissing Poppy, Tristan had gone out of his way to avoid her. The memory of their embrace, however, had haunted him.
As such, he welcomed the diversion presented by his man-of-affairs, particularly as the man was here with a way out of his circumstances.
Seated in the smoke room of the hotel with Sanders opposite him, Tristan drummed his fingertips on the arms of the chair.
The man was a miracle-maker. Years ago, upon learning the man could squeeze sovereigns from tea leaves, he’d hired him out from his employer. And now, more than ever, Tristan needed those skills. “I can’t go on like this, Sanders,” he said through the wizened man’s typical ritual of organizing his materials and notes. “I cannot stay here.”
“It seems a nice enough place, my lord,” Sanders murmured, his head still bent over his files.
Tristan gritted his teeth. “It isn’t about whether it is nice or not. It is about my accepting…charity.” He stumbled over the word. Every last shred of honor he possessed chafed at living as he was: off the generosity of his best friend’s in-laws, while his own family remained shuttered in the far-flung corners of England. Oh, it wasn’t that he was ungrateful. Far from it. It was, however, humbling in ways he’d never been humbled. “Get on with it,” he urged, impatient as he’d never been before with any servant.
As Sanders ordered his papers upon the table as if it were some private work station, Tristan felt something stir to life—hope. God love Sanders. The loyal man-of-affairs he’d hired on had turned Tristan’s fortune into wealth enough to last ten generations of Poplars. Granted, all those monies had since reverted to the rightful holder of the Maxwell title. That, however, was neither here, nor there. In war,
Tristan had been left with several key takeaways: one, survive at all costs. And two, the only path to focus on was a path forward.
Sanders, with his acumen and uncanny business ventures, represented that path. “Well, out with it.”
The white-haired servant briefly paused in ordering his already tidy stacks. “There is nothing.”
Tristan frowned. There was nothing. There is nothing. “I know that.” It was not a new sentiment. “Everyone knows that,” he muttered.
With that announcement, the older man returned to shuffling through the stack of papers on the table. Just as he’d been rustling for the better part of seven minutes now. “No. No. I’m afraid it is more dire than that.” At last, Sanders stopped his infernal shuffling, and settled on a single ivory page. He slid a paper across the table.
“What is this?” Tristan asked, already with the official-looking document in hand.
“You’ve made sizeable investments through the years, my lord. Wise ones.”
“Yes,” he said impatiently. Despite his mother’s lamentations, Tristan had taken pride in expanding his ventures to include speculative properties and industries. Many of which had proven lucrative. He glanced up. “According to your review of my books, those ventures are the reasons my family is not in dun territory.”
“Precisely.” There was a pause. Tristan heard it. “That is the problem.”
Tristan lowered the page. “That is the problem.”
It was a statement more than a question, and yet, Sanders nodded, anyway.
“I do not follow.”
His man-of-affairs reached within his leather folder once more and withdrew another sheet.
Tristan took the page from him. “I’m sorry. Did you say, this is a problem?” Granted the sum he’d earned from his investments was not an amount to see his family and future ancestors secure, but it was enough to at least see they were comfortable…until Tristan put his life to rights. “We’d determined that shuttering the townhouse and having my family reside in the country, foregoing the Season and expenditures, would stretch the amount.”
“We did and it will.” Directing his bespectacled gaze down, Sanders fumbled with a latch on the inside of the leather bag on his lap.
Tristan had never truly appreciated a solidly direct gaze, until his fall from society’s grace. In that time, he’d been greeted with averted eyes, downcast ones. In his mother’s case, tear-filled ones. Invariably, none of those stares met his, at least not for long. They were all avoidant.
That list of those unable to look him in the eye it would now seem extended to his man-of-affairs.
When it became apparent that his man-of-affairs intended to say nothing else, Tristan leaned forward. “Then how is that a problem?”
“The funds came from your investments made with the Maxwell title.”
Warning bells clamored at the back of his brain. And he knew. Knew before the other man had even finished that thought.
“As such, all profits earned revert to the current title holder, the new Lord Maxwell.” Sanders swallowed loudly. “Or the prior Lord Maxwell.” His man-of-affairs had the look of one ready to burst into tears. “Given that he was the original Earl of Maxwell, before you.”
“I’m well aware of the circumstances surrounding the title,” he said sardonically, that cynical bid at humor the only thing that kept him from turning himself over to the panic knocking around his chest. Those funds had represented all he had left to get his life in order. And now, even that had been snatched away. Tristan dragged a shaky hand through his hair.
“I am sorry, my lord,” Sanders whispered.
“It is fine,” he said quietly, turning to the next page, to give his fingers something to do. Still seeking that great distraction…only this time, not one because of Poppy Tidemore, but from the hell that his life had become. Tristan drew in a breath. This wouldn’t crumple him. “We’ll sort this out. There’s a way on from this.” He’d found his way with ten men out of a standoff with one hundred of Boney’s men. He could figure this out. “It just requires a bit more thinking on our part.”
Sanders’s lips quivered, and a glassy sheen formed over his man-of-affair’s eyes. “There cannot be…an ‘our part’.”
And then it registered. Tristan glanced around the smoke room, the gentlemen seated at the surrounding tables. Why… “You brought me here to break it off?” After his scandal had come to light, Tristan’s mistress had been the first to end it, followed by the proprietors of every club he’d held membership to. His sisters’ companions. But this was rich. He’d been tossed over by his loyal man-of-affairs. A laugh rumbled up from his chest at the absolute ludicrousness of it all. “Et tu, Sanders?”
“Please understand,” the older man implored, dragging his seat closer. “I’ve gone through all the calculations.” All business once more, his former man-of-affairs withdrew another handful of pages. “There are no funds for you to employ my services”—Tristan accepted the latest sheet and did a cursory search of it—“and therefore, it would be fair to neither of us to continue on this way.”
He’d paid the servant well. Greater than most men offered their solicitors and man-of-affairs combined. Funds enough to see the man and his family comfortable for the remainder of his years, and yet, he’d not beg anyone to stay on. But then, Sanders had been all too easily swayed out from Cartwright’s employ. “Who is he?”
“I don’t under…” The old servant dropped his head. “The Earl of Mph…”
Tristan cupped a hand around his ear. “I’m sorry. It sounded as though you said…”
“The Earl of Maxwell. He sought my services, my lord.”
The Earl of Maxwell. The rightful heir. Who appeared all too eager to exact his revenge, after all. In fairness, the gentleman was entitled to any hatred and rage he might carry.
Sanders cleared his throat. “I believe you’ll be fine, my lord. You’re very resourceful.”
Tristan gave him a droll look. “Thank you for your faith in my abilities. You may go.” He’d not even finished speaking and his former man-of-affairs was already on his feet, with an agility better suited a man forty years his junior. Stacking his notes into two piles, Sanders returned one to his leather bag and the other he pushed across the table.
Tristan drew the file open and scanned the pages. “What is this?” he asked incredulously, passing a questioning look between the papers and Sanders.
“That contains the items you must liquidate in order to pay the debt you incurred while…while…Lord Maxwell was missing.”
Missing. So that was the more polite explanation they would go with. “Items I must liquidate?” All his earlier attempts at drollness snapped. “Debt I incurred?” he barked. “I left the man a damned fortune. One far greater than he would have otherwise known.”
The other patrons glanced over.
Red-faced, Sanders adjusted his already immaculate cravat. “Yes. Yes. That may be true.”
“It is true.”
“But you still borrowed against ventures, and so there is interest that had to be calculated for those loans you took.”
“Loans. I. Took,” he clipped. By God, this mercenary tactic had Sanders all over it. And what had once been a source of admiration for his brilliant acumen, now marked the remainder of his demise. “Get out, Sanders,” he warned on a steely whisper.
Sanders jumped. “Yes. Yes. I-I w-will,” the man stammered, grabbing his back. He lifted a finger. “If I might suggest, before I go, that we work out a timeframe of when you’ll pay b—”
“Get out,” he thundered, and whispers went up around the staff and patrons.
“I’ll send a general timeline along then.” This time, his man-of-affairs had the wherewithal to hightail it to the exit.
After he’d gone, Tristan sat there motionless, his life falling apart yet again. There was little left to give, and yet, more the Earl of Maxwell intended to take. Tristan reached for one of those scraps of tobacco he so despised.
What in God’s name was he to do? With fingers that shook, he attempted to light the lone cheroot that had sat untouched upon his table. To no avail.
A flint-and-steel striker appeared under his nose. “You look as though you require help.”
He stiffened.
A small flame appeared, and Poppy touched it to the edge of his cheroot. Poised directly at his table with an enormous basket in hand, she put him in mind of the Belgian village girls who’d wandered the fields proffering drinks to soldiers after battle. “You shouldn’t be here, Poppy,” he said tiredly. Reasons that moments ago would have had everything to do with the fact that he’d nearly taken her in the very bed her sister had given him free use of. But now, had only to do with the fact that after Sanders’ revelation, Tristan wasn’t fit for company.
“And whyever not?”
“It’s not respectable.” He paused to glower at the three strangers watching them. The men immediately dropped their eyes. “Furthermore, people will talk.”
Poppy snorted. “When did you ever care about people talking?” Setting her basket down on the floor, she settled into the seat across from him, picked up his cheroot and smoked it with far greater ease than he’d managed these past days. Exhaling a perfectly formed round ring, Poppy puffed it toward him.
“Poppy,” he said warningly. Leaning across the table, he made to pluck the cheroot from her fingers, but she shifted it out of his reach, and he was left grappling with the air. “We aren’t in Kent. You’re not a child,” he spoke in hushed tones, mindful of the other patrons. “Things are…”
“Different?” she supplied.
He nodded. “Different.” Different when it shouldn’t be. Different when he didn’t wish it to be.
Tristan had managed the impossible—he’d silenced her.
Poppy sat there contemplatively puffing on his cheroot.
Tristan swatted at the little cloud. “I trust your family is aware of your habits.”
“Actually they’re not. But even if they were?” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I wouldn’t care, Tristan.” He’d have to be deaf to fail to hear the pointed criticism.
Courting Poppy Tidemore (Lords of Honor Book 5) Page 12
